They’ve been expecting you. It’s kind of what they do at The St. Regis. Chop chop. Your schedule awaits.
2 p.m. Time to check in. Ponder Titanic-era Astor family glamour — sparkly chandeliers, sweetheart staircases, and all.
2:45 p.m. Arrive at room. Hello, room. Hello, buttons that control everything from room service to room temperature. Hello, posh loo with TV-within-a-mirror. Hello, daily fresh flowers. Goodbye, cruel world.
3:15 p.m. Consider clinkage options. Scotch in the woodsy St. Regis bar? Tea on the wraparound mezzanine? Oh, right. Both.
4:30 p.m. Remede Spa treatment downstairs, across from the billiards parlor. Pretreatment truffles and fruit ain’t bad, either.
6 p.m. Lounge under a private piazza cabana and putt around on the sunny grand terrace green, a few steps from the outdoor bar and fireplace.
8 p.m. Dinner is served at Paces 88. Tuck into a cream-colored, curved-leather booth. Take in romanticized Piedmont Park murals — and plenty o’ beef short ribs with shallot marmalade. Smoked salmon panini and skillet-crisp Georgian trout (served with shirred eggs, pork belly cracklings, and roasted pear compote) will have to wait.
You’d check your watch. But that would mean lifting a finger.