ABSTRACT
1 was on my way to the Algonquin Hotel to have a drink with my friend Luis whom I hadn’t seen in several years. It was 4 p.m. in mid-June, and looking up the vertical canyons of midtown Manhattan, I saw a lead-colored, spooky mist engulfing the tops of the skyscrapers, threatening rain. As I passed Sardis, my eyes snapped a group composition made of three men, TV cameras, and a woman. Living as I do in Times Square, I’ve become used to TV crews filming in the neighborhood around the clock. But the reason I slowed down my pace was that there were no curious people hanging around this particular TV crew. The four people were not students, either—they were people my age. I noticed, too, they spoke in Spanish, from Spain. Then, to my utter astonishment, I saw her: la divina Carmen Maura, as my friends and I called her. Almodovar’s superstar diva was taping a program with these men outside Sardi’s. It’s not like I’m not used to seeing movie stars in the flesh. O’Donnell’s Bar, downstairs from where I live, rents frequently as a movie set. Just last week, coming home, I ran into A1 Pacino filming in the cavernous watering hole. You could say I’m starstruck, though; and I’m the first to admit it was my love of the movies that lured me to America. But after ten years on Eighth Avenue and 43rd Street, I’m a jaded dude.
