BUSINESS BEFORE PLEASURE : Worker’s Compensation for a Peripatetic Editor Can Be More Trial Than Tour

Traveling for pleasure is not the same as traveling on business, but take my word for it--you’ll never convince friends. Years of my professional travel life flashed past when a New York literary agent told me, “Paige, your job makes me believe in a Supreme Being.”

John Loring of Tiffany, a longtime friend and former colleague, agreed with the agent. “As the editor of Architectural Digest,” he said, “you travel at will all over the world, see the most beautiful homes, are entertained wherever you go, stay in the best hotels, dine in restaurants with so many stars they constitute a galaxy. You fly first-class, and your natural habitat seems to be a limousine. You’re living everyone’s dream, Paige.”

Why argue? It was useless, I knew. Later I thought about my professional life, and entire scenes crept into focus--scenes the world over.

Paris : A vintage Bentley calls for me at the Plaza Athenee, and I am driven through magical, rain-wet streets to interior designer Jean-Francois Daigre’s house, where, in perhaps the most glamorous room in the world, he and his partner, designer Valerian Rybar, are entertaining a bouillabaisse of titles, wealth and assorted international nomads who speak melodiously in six languages, not one of which I understand. Candlelight illuminates faces famous in the international set. The room is filled with chic women in stunning gowns; reflected in every surface of the bronze-mirrored room, mysterious men, also bronzed, speak intensely.

“No,” I tell one, “I do not speak French. No, not Italian either.” And no, he does not speak English, he says. Still, because we are momentarily stranded on a silken banquette, I smile and speak freely in fluent Candor. “Monsieur, I am a magazine editor. California is my home. I am not rich. My blood is not mingled with that of the Hapsburgs, and my dress did not cost $20,000. I am neither married to, nor the mistress of, an heir to one of the world’s great fortunes. Monsieur, I’m here on a pass.”

An ancient hereditary instinct, perhaps genetic, or possibly an undisclosed knowledge of English, prompts him to excuse himself with unseemly haste as he plunges back into the sea of Savile Row dinner jackets.

Later, sipping black coffee on my small terrace, overlooking a few blocks of the most romantic architecture in Paris, I think over my appointments for the day. I slip the schedule into my handbag and race off to scout three apartments before joining writer Charlotte Aillaud at her usual table in The Great Restaurant.

We discuss her assignments. She accepts two with pleasure but rejects the fraises des bois offered by a waiter who seems to have been born to serve in The Great Restaurant. A mustachioed man with a proprietary air approaches our table. It is the proprietor.

“It would photograph well, the restaurant, no?” he asks.

“Oh, indeed,” I reply, “but our readers prefer to see residences, monsieur. Je regrette .”

Gripping my coffee cup, I brace for his next move. It is inevitable. It comes, and I tell him, “I’m sure your apartment is lovely, monsieur, but unfortunately I leave for London this evening.” He isn’t dissuaded. The apartment is just around the corner, he says, and I say, “Well, yes, for just a moment.”

It is around the corner. Lots of corners. Even the fear induced by his Inspector Clouseau-style driving cannot overcome my customary dread.

Several thousand residences are submitted to my magazine, in pictures, as well as those I see personally. Space allows for publication of only a few. That means I say no several thousand times every year, and always with dread. But I always hope. This time, though, it is not to be. The apartment is filled with boxes. Sheets cover the furniture.

“We close the apartment for the summer, and my family goes to Brittany,” he tells me, “but you can imagine, yes?” Well, actually, no, but I tell him I would like to see it again. Yes, I will let him know. No, please don’t bother driving me back to the hotel. I will find a taxi.

At last, I can relax. After all, I have 45 minutes in which to wash my hair and dress for the evening. An antique dealer whom I have never met is giving a dinner in my honor in the apartment he hopes I will want to photograph for the magazine. I had suggested to our mutual friend that I could simply stop by and take a look. Dinner wasn’t really necessaire. Really. But it is. He wouldn’t have it any other way. OK. So after returning two out of 10 telephone calls, I fling myself into the night.

The apartment is nice, but it looks like an antique shop. It’s not right for the magazine. Interiors are like people. Some are photogenic and some are not. This one isn’t. Dinner is three weeks long. Everyone speaks four languages, none of them mine. Finally, the moment arrives. Would I like to see the rest of the apartment? I certainly would not, but I do, because that’s why I’m there. He tells me, in suddenly quite adequate English, a little story, une petite anecdote , about each piece of antique furniture, each painting and each object--of which there seem to be thousands. Overdosed on ormolu, I limp back to the living room, wondering if Reebok makes sneakers in black satin. Most of the guests have exhibited great common sense and gone home to snuggle under their duvets . “The apartment will make beautiful pictures, no?”

“Monsieur, I must think . . . you understand . . . so much to see . . . you’ll hear from me. . . . “ He walks with me to the waiting car. Monsieur Antique Dealer’s English is increasingly crisp, even unaccented, but his comprehension level is low.

“When will come the photographer?”

“Je regrette, monsieur. Merci. Bon soir.”

London : When I arrive at Heathrow the next morning, the Famous Hotel has sent a representative to meet me. “It will be your first stay with us? We think it is the most beautiful hotel in London. Everyone says so.” (Oh, oh. Nerve endings to red alert.)

“I am really not here to scout the hotel,” I say. “In fact, it is not a business trip at all.” I dodge once again. (Artful dodging has become a way of life.) “We show private residences, as you know. We rarely show hotels.” Dumb move.

“We liked your feature on the New York Ritz-Carlton very much. A lovely hotel. Much like ours, we are told.”

“Indeed. But I don’t really seek hotels. Our readers much prefer to see the interiors of houses and apartments.”

“We also immensely enjoyed your feature on the Hay-Adams Hotel in Washington, D.C. We understand that you are not here on business, but if you could take just a moment to see the hotel . . . .”

“I will see it because I will be staying in it.”

“Yes, but we would like to show you a few rooms and suites other than the one you will be occupying.”

“This is really not a business trip, but if I have time . . . . “

The managing director is waiting to welcome me. Our conversation is an instant replay. For three harrowing days and nights he is stationed in the lobby whenever I try to slip through. On the third evening, I pause for an announcement: “I have seen the rooms and suites on my floor while the maids were making them up, and naturally I’ve now seen the restaurant and all the public rooms.”

“Ah, but you have not seen the hotel at all. Our most beautiful rooms are on the top three floors with glorious views of London. It will take just a moment.” My own law of physics has taught me that there are no moments, only hours.

“Of course, I will be delighted, if there is time. But as I have said, I am not here on business.” At that moment, my next appointment, an interior designer bearing a large portfolio brimming with photographs, interrupts.

“I’m a bit early but I thought you wouldn’t mind--since you are here on business.” Mr. Managing Director clenches his jaw and spits, “Pleasure,” as he turns on his heel.

Later: Settled comfortably in seat 3A, TWA Flight 761 bound for LAX, I sigh with delight. Hours of bliss ahead. Time for leisurely notes. A movie I haven’t seen. A new Dick Francis novel in my shoulder bag. No one can get to me for hours.

“Hi, there,” a passenger says. “I guess we’ll be flying together so I might as well introduce myself. I live in Los Angeles.” He stuffs a shopping bag under the seat in front and notices my startled glance as swatches of fabric spill out. “Oh, those are my selections from Colefax & Fowler. Aren’t they gorgeous? I’m a decorator. What do you do?”

“Ummmmm . . . well . . . ah . . . “ The stewardess chooses that moment to introduce herself. “I’m Susan, your flight attendant. And you are . . . . “ She consults her clipboard. “Paige Rense?”

My seat mate turns into the Cheshire Cat. He smiles. He vibrates. He purrs. “You’re the magazine editor! I can show you pictures of all my important jobs. I mean, we do have hours, and I’ve seen the movie. Michael Caine is the killer.”

Manhattan : In the SoHo loft, the conversation has turned to travel, while I’ve been reviewing my own remembrances of travels past. Someone is talking about driving through the English countryside for two weeks, stopping at this and that charming inn and every antiques shop visible from the road. Another tells of visiting Westminster Abbey and her feeling of awe and reverence as she stood before the tomb of Queen Elizabeth I. The next day she wandered through the Victoria and Albert Museum for five hours.

An artist speaks of seeing Paris from the Eiffel Tower and then afterward just walking the streets of Paris for three days, stopping for coffee and lunch in whatever little bistro he happened to be near.

An art gallery owner had scooped up treasures in the Paris flea market by arriving at 6 in the morning with a friend and a flashlight. A writer had browsed in every bookstore on the Left Bank and enjoyed a three-hour lunch in a different three-star restaurant every day. “Of course, that would all be boring for you, Paige. You don’t have to travel like a tourist.”

A strange emotion surfaces, then introduces itself. Jealousy. Absolute. Complete. A frenzied tango of jealousy. These people have done everything I have always wanted to do. They travel without schedules, without appointments. They travel to have a good time. Theirs is the Pleasure Principle. Pleasure is the purpose. I wish it were mine. Next time I travel, please Lord, make me a believer. Make me a tourist.