swoop

swoop

Last Wednesday I found myself in Minneapolis on a “business” trip. Business in quotes because the word cuts a far too serious image for what I do--- advertising.

There are two Minneapolis-based hotels that are preferred by my agency. One is old school and luxurious, the second is new, “hip”, and stark. I prefer the latter but got booked in the former. No big whoop, I was only there for one night.

My cohort on the trip was booked in the hip hotel and we planned to meet the next morning at the obligatory Starbucks off of its lobby. I got to Starbucks a little bit early so that I could indulge in the Home & Garden section of the Times, along with a big fat latté and defrosted raspberry crumble cake thingy, pre-departure. It’s the little things that matter most.

As I was settling into an article on Hilary Swank and Chad Lowe’s Oscar-winning NYC retreat, Graydon Carter, the Editor-in-Chief of Vanity Fair magazine, happened to amble through the door of that particular Starbucks. After recovering from my initial shock, I pulled myself together enough to give Graydon a sort of halfhearted smirk smile as he walked by my table. I then went to work putting my New York Times in a strategically visible position and even debated pulling out my New York Magazine, to add to the literary spread. This, I was sure, would telepathically communicate to him I was a fellow New Yorker and a comrade, also trapped in Minneapolis, the City of Lakes. I then began fielding texts to friends and family about my “star” citing. Judging by their responses, my texting contacts were measurably less impressed; even after I informed them of Graydon Carter’s identity.

As Graydon added the necessary accoutrements to his hot brew, I fantasized about him coming over to my table and striking up conversation, perhaps even asking if he could join me. Realizing that this wasn’t going to happen, I deliberated about whether to get up and introduce myself. Despite my penchant for a good story, I considered the fact that no one wants to be bothered by a complete stranger, especially pre-coffee. Besides, what was I going to say to him? While Vanity Fair is a sexy magazine with celebrity-meets-politics appeal, its lengthy articles don’t work well with my increasingly short attention span. And while I have always been fascinated with Graydon’s remarkable swoop of hair, as well as with his pompous persona, I didn’t see as how that gave me much to work with in terms of a conversation starter. Maybe I should have gone with, “Hi, I’m Ali. It seems like your ego’s as big as your hair, but it’s working for you--- go with it!"

As Graydon walked out the door and out of my life, I couldn’t help but wonder why I was feeling so disappointed. Did I think that if I had introduced myself to him, he would have been so taken with me that he would have swept me into his seemingly glamorous world, just like that? Would I even want to be there? Or, was it just the idea of it, the flattery of it, which turned me on? Would exchanging words with Graydon have made the situation more real? Is that why people get autographs--- for proof? Or, did I just want a better story to go on?

Thoughts that I pondered, as a baby stared at me, on my return flight back to where I belong…..