How To Meet A Celebrity

I had reached a knotty point in the article I was writing, and needed some open air and a change of scene to refresh my brain. The part of town where Mr. Los Angeles and I lived at the time had a small network of quiet secluded side streets that were set away from the bustle, so I took myself for a walk down one of them until I came to a small open spot, an oasis of calm amid the city noise. It would do nicely for me to ponder my problem, I thought, settling myself onto a handy wall: there was a lemon tree to look at, the rustle of birds in the palm trees to soothe my ear, and nobody around to distract me from my thoughts.

Photo by Haoli Chen on Unsplash

Well, nobody except for Julia Roberts, casually dressed in jeans and a white shirt, humming softly to herself as she trimmed her front hedge two doors down.

Sadly but resignedly – because one of the first rules of LA living is that celebrities’ privacy must be respected – I rose from the wall, admired Julia’s gardening and received in return the renowned megawatt grin and a pleased thank you (for the record, she was the most delightful neighbor), and took myself off in search of a spot less tainted by inadvertent stalkerism.

It is a cliché that tourists come to Los Angeles hoping to spot famous people, and yes, it is true that if you take the time to research the latest hot spots where the celebrated go to see and be seen, the chances are excellent that you might catch there a glimpse of stardust all dressed up and out on the town. But it is also true that most of us year-round Angelenos, just by virtue of living in this city, will also find ourselves rubbing elbows with a fair sample of them at more casual times. Even movie stars have to live somewhere, after all, and if they do live in a place, then all but the most rarefied-dwelling of them will partake at least somewhat in the neighborhood social round, shopping at the farmers market, sending their kids to the local school, walking their dogs in the local dog park.

There is a particular etiquette to spotting a celebrity in Los Angeles. First, and inevitably, there will be a double-take: This person seems familiar, is it someone I know? On affirmation, this will be followed by a quick mental search: Yes, I do know them, but how? The book club? The softball game? Last weekend’s yard sale? This, too, is inevitable: most celebrities spend such an inordinate amount of time in our houses these days, on TV shows, on talk shows, in endless clips on social media, that when we see them in the flesh it can be hard at first to distinguish their celluloid-familiar features from those of the people we really do know. At last, the light dawns: Oh, it’s that person.

The next part – the part about how you react to the realization – is the part that is specific to Los Angeles. If you are over, let’s say, twelve years old, you of course do not begin to vibrate with excitement and beg them for a selfie. But where the star-spotting etiquette of Los Angeles differs from that of uber-cool London or New York, is that in this more relaxed environment you do not completely ignore them either. After all, you do know who they are, they have seen you realizing that you know who they are, and most of them, under the tinsel, are pragmatic enough to be aware that if you didn’t know, their career would be in some trouble. So you nod briefly and smile: “Oh, it’s you!” and they nod briefly and smile back: “Yes, it’s me. Good of you to notice!” and you both move on with your day. It is a subtle but quintessential – and to my mind particularly charming – piece of Los Angeles courtesy.

The exchange can admittedly grow complicated when – as sometimes does happen in Los Angeles – the celebrity happens to be someone with whom you have had personal dealings. That actor who was so friendly when you sat next to him at the middle school graduation earlier in the summer – is it presumptuous to think he’d remember you or rude to pretend you don’t remember him? The singer with whom you bonded at the party by laughing about your husbands’ timekeeping habits while she was still married to the love rat – would she or would she not care to be reminded of your earlier hilarity?

When handlers are involved, the question becomes moot, because as far as handlers are concerned, Armageddon could rage, the Rockies could crumble, and all Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse break into the Texas Two-Step before they’d let you within ten feet of their personal protected species. I used to have a friend who was the son of an old-style Hollywood Big Star, an epic-hearted Italian American patriarch who welcomed any friend of Matteo’s to his house in the Hollywood hills with warm hugs, red wine served Italian-style in small tumblers, and toe-curling tales of the Wild West days of old Hollywood. I was once in a coffee shop in Beverly Hills when I saw Matteo’s Dad walk past, surrounded by his entourage. Before I knew it, I was on my feet and rapping on the shop window. “Matteo’s Dad!” I shouted happily, because I was extremely fond of both Matteo and his Dad. “Hi, Matteo’s Dad!” Because the window was sound-proofed, Matteo’s Dad was unable to hear me. But the look of lofty contempt that his handler shot me – “OK, lady, it’s a movie star, get over it” – was so immensely entertaining that to this day when I want to cheer myself up, I will take myself to the bathroom to stand in front of the mirror and recreate it.

There are even times in Los Angeles – not many, but a few – when a little bit of fame will come to you. In my (somewhat) dewier youth, I was waiting in a hotel lobby in Santa Monica for my redoubtable visiting Aunt Alicia to descend from her room when I was approached by a tall and handsome man whom I recognized as the former character Lincoln “Linc” Hayes from the popular American cop show The Mod Squad. Linc, better known off-screen as actor Clarence Williams III, was sporting a trench coat and an appreciative smile, and quickly began – in a perfectly gentlemanlike and non-intrusive manner – to flirt with me. How did I like Los Angeles? he asked. He liked London, he said, except for all the rain, but he guessed that was what made our parks so green, right? He also liked fish and chips, although he didn’t get that weird malt vinegar stuff we guys added to it, what was up with that? When his elevator arrived, he smiled, wished me a beautiful day, and went on his way.

Well, well, I thought, there would be a story for Aunt Alicia. Her very own niece flirted with by a bona fide television star! True, she would be unlikely to know The Mod Squad, which was not even then what you’d call current, and had never made it to Britain anyway, but she could always look it up, and it would provide a little touch of vicarious Hollywood glamour for her to take home to tell the folks back in London. How she would love my story, I thought, and how it would take her back to the days when she, too, had been flirted with by attractive men in hotel lobbies.

In the fullness of time, the elevator descended and Aunt Alicia stepped out. There was a gleam in her eye, and, although she was what no one would describe as either a young woman or a small one, her air was positively girlish.

“I,” she announced ringingly, “have just been chatted up by the most gorgeous man in a trench coat. He wanted to know how I liked Los Angeles. He told me he liked London, except for the rain, but he said he guessed that was what made our parks so green, right? He liked fish and chips, too, except he didn’t get that malt vinegar stuff – ‘Whaaat’s ahp with that, you guys?’ When I got into the lift, he said, ‘You have a beau-di-ful day, ya hear?’”

She stopped, reviewed the interaction and clicked her tongue approvingly.

“He was,” she concluded in satisfaction, “a perfect American gentleman.”

I guess ol’ Linc appreciated a British sort of gal.