Fear and loafing in the United Nations’ Delegates Lounge.
Michael Ruffino
March 02, 2008
At 7 p.m. we were virtually sailing though a watery but grandpa-perfect $6 Stolichnaya and soda, securely situated in the United Nations’ Delegates Lounge. It’s down the hall from the General Assembly, just off the aptly named Hall of Flags. The place is a remnant, a temple of jet-age treachery and cigarettes. Unsurprisingly, it isn’t accessible to the unescorted civilian. But guests of members are welcome to don a fez, a monocle, a set of official-looking epaulets, and come.
“Most people never get to see the Great Wall of China bath towel,” says the U.S. Mission’s rakish Deputy Spokesman to the United Nations, Ben Chang, a.k.a. DJ Hong Kong Hefner. He gestures absently toward the most gargantuan needlepoint we’ve ever seen (which may not be saying much, we realize), running the expanse of the south wall. In fact, such things hang all over the U.N.’s interiors.
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