A question I’ve been asking myself more and more lately. I grew up (and still am) a little Hollywood-obsessed, which is why I’m always enamored by L.A. and the buzz of “the industry” there. The thrill of it has worn off for me — but not completely. Maybe I’m a bit jaded after 32 years of celebrity sightings and having had the pleasure and fun of representing some big names in entertainment with either the purchase or sale of property in New York.
These days, I’m more interested (obsessed?) with the nature of the business — how a celebrity’s particular “deal” might get struck and how much they’re getting paid to do that 20-second Clairol commercial that probably took them two hours to shoot (including travel). Being married to someone who works in entertainment (the legal end of it), I get plenty of opportunities to ask just that! Sometimes I get answers, sometimes I don’t.
Either way, there’s an unwritten code of conduct in New York City dictating that celebrities are generally treated like everyone else — with little or no fanfare. Most New Yorkers avoid staring, gawking, or approaching celebrities, even if they recognize them. I do my best to follow the protocol, and surprise myself at how quickly comfortable I become interacting with someone famous once I’ve had a bit of time with them. They turn out to just be human beings (imagine that!), mostly wanting the same things that other people with their means want — including privacy.
Cut to the Cherry Capital Airport in Traverse City, located in rural northern Michigan, where I sat this week waiting for my delayed direct flight back to LaGuardia. (It seems some New Yorkers have chosen beautiful northern Michigan for summer homes — hence the direct flights — and I can attest to the fact that the commute was faster than driving to the Hamptons on a summer weekend.)
I was there to visit my sister, who lives nearby.
I was sitting in the “café” (which was about the size of my living room), working on my laptop, when I noticed Pete Buttigieg and his husband, Chasten (without their children), casually eating lunch. I kept circling around to see if anyone else was seeing what I was seeing — and literally no one was. I found it incredibly ironic, since the vibe wasn’t at all “we’re too cool to acknowledge Pete Buttigieg” and more “I wouldn’t know Pete Buttigieg if he threw his deli sandwich at me.”
Regardless of the locals, I was hugely impressed. I’d met him before, at a fundraiser, and was pretty much hell-bent on approaching. To me, it was as good as seeing Meryl Streep in a small French bistro in Chelsea, or having jury duty with — and sitting right next to — Sarah Jessica Parker, or literally bumping into Jill Kargman (“Odd Mom Out”) on the uptown C train. It was the location of these sightings as much as the celebrities themselves that got to me. How bizarre to see Pete Buttigieg at a tiny regional airport in rural northern Michigan? (Turns out Chasten is from Traverse City.)
So, I politely and patiently waited for them to finish their lunch, and then I made my move. I walked over and approached the table. They didn’t look up until they knew — clearly from vast experience — that they’d been recognized and that this stalker wasn’t backing off. Pete quickly jumped up and spoke in a whispered tone — as did I (at least I knew enough not to disrupt their anonymity with loud, non–New Yorker gushing).
I expressed my enthusiasm for seeing him in the most reserved New Yorker manner I could pull off. I told him we’d met a few years back at a fundraiser for him at James Murdoch’s house in Manhattan (a little name-dropping is also very New York). He mentioned that James was a huge supporter (and I thought, “Well, so am I — just with much shallower pockets. I was, after all, at the fundraiser.”)
It was very clear they wanted no fanfare — they were dressed in shorts and t-shirts, by the way — so our exchange remained a whisper, but super friendly and charming. Having just listened to 90 minutes of CNN on the way to the airport (which I mentioned), I had a few world events to reference but since I like to keep this newsletter nonpartisan I will not go into the details. But he did thank me for saying hello — with sincerity.
I waltzed away. No one in the café noticed a thing — or them. They packed up to board a flight (don’t know which one, but it wasn’t mine).