Fame

When my Dutch friends were here, they were shocked I had never seen anyone famous. In the two weeks they spent in St. Tropez, they spotted three or four celebrities. In the countless summers visiting and two months I’ve lived here, I’d seen no one. But that’s all changed since I started work at L’Hotel Sube.

The very first day I showed up for work I saw my first famous person. I was standing on the balcony overlooking the port when I noticed a huge group of people surrounding one yacht. I could hear Marloes’s voice in my head (she was one of my Dutch friends): “If you see a crowd, poke your way to the front! Chances are they’re staring around someone important!” I had bird’s eye view. Unfortunately, I don’t read nearly enough trashy magazines to know anyone’s face so when this beautiful blond bombshell appeared to the applause of the crowd, I had no idea who she was. I tried to snap a photo and compare it later to pictures on the Internet, but all I could capture was a blurry woman in a gorgeous aquamarine dress, hidden under a cowboy hat and big, dark sunglasses. She rushed into the backseat of a town car with tinted windows and drove off with her chauffeur. No idea who it was, but she was famous. Of that, I’m sure.

Today, while working behind the bar, I had a close encounter with someone who probably has his own merchandise line.

He was handsome, shaggy brown hair hidden under a navy Detroit --- hat. He marched up to the mahogany bar and spoke loudly, “Je voodraize duze avions et UN coke.”

I could recognize that accent anywhere. “Where ya from?” It’s always nice to meet a fellow American.

“Oh, uh, New York!” he smiled, startled. I grunted and passed him his order and the bill. New York. Figures. “And where are you from?”

“Boston.” I watched as he took a refreshing sip of his soda. “I suppose you like the Yankees?” First things first.

“Hell no. I’m a Met’s fan. Yankees suck!”

“Thatta boy!” and we laughed. I took another order, in French, and returned to him. “So, how long are you here for?”

“Until training starts.”

“Oh,” be ambiguous, I thought. “And what do you do?”

“I play hockey.”

“Really? I didn’t know we still had hockey.”

He smiled tightly. “Well, we do again…”

“Huh. I used to love the Bruins.” What can I say? I’m a fan of Boston.

He ran his fingers up the glass coke bottle, collecting the drops condensation that had formed in the thick humidity of August in the Côte d’Azure. “I play for the New York Rangers.”

“Oh yea?” This was my first meeting with a real life professional athlete. “You famous or something?” He responded with another tight smile and a forced laugh. I stood across from him, resting my wait on the palms of my hands, leaning slightly over the freshly polished bar. “Well, what’s your name?”

“Troy Shaw.*”

“Should I know you?”

He found comfort by playing with the cubes of ice in the glass I had given him. “Depends how well you follow hockey.”

“My brother loves it.” And all other sports.

“He’ll know me.” I cocked my head and smiled. He smiled back.

”Should I get your autograph or something?” But before he could answer, I walked off to serve another client. I could hear him mumbling something about it wouldn’t make sense to give it in Europe, but it wasn’t important. When I returned we chatted a bit more and I found out that he’s been staying at the Hotel Sube but will be moving to somewhere else for the rest of his stay “on spec” (whatever that means). He left when his buddy arrived, after exchanging several “It was really nice to meet you”s and I promptly finished my shift. I was barely out the door when I called Alex.

Of course he didn’t answer and I quickly forgot my famous friend’s name. Jom’ll know. And at least I have a story.



*Since work yesterday I’ve been trying to find this man online and you know what – cant. Anywhere. So either I have his name wrong or he was full of shit! Hahaha