I am pretty sure that I shall never forget the day I ran into Angelina Jolie and Johnny Lee Miller in a Starbucks across the street from my New York City apartment. In those pre-Pitt, pre-UN ambassador days, Angelina and her blond, British, boyish dreamboat of a husband were the perfect specimens of humanity - gorgeous, talented, cool and sexy as hell. I clutched my double tall skim latte in trembling hands and looked determinedly uninterested, in a desperate attempt to keep my New Yorker cool. Then I was out the door and they were out of my life, at least until the next time I ran into a now-single Angelina. She did not remember me.
That''s the thing with New York: in that city, the stars walk amongst us and we, the mere mortals, pretend not to care, only to return home and call all of our friends with the Earth-shattering news that we "shared" a coffee break with Leo DiCaprio. Showing excitement at the sight of a celebrity may be a mark of a tourist from Milwaukee, but even the hippest of New Yorkers feel it just the same.
And then there was the time in Bucharest I had dinner with Heather Graham. It should have been a big deal: the international movie star and one of People magazine''s World''s Most Beautiful People was in town shooting a movie and following a kind invitation from my friends I was going to spend a stimulating evening basking in the reflected glow of Hollywood celebrity.
Somehow, though, things did not quite work out like that. Granted, I was brutally hung over, but all I really remember from the dinner was profound boredom. Ms. Graham was lovely (and looked about 18), but the dinner itself was tense and un-stimulating. Maybe it was the inherent oddness of the situation, maybe it was the tequila fumes clogging my poor brain, but I think the real reason the dinner was such a letdown was because it was too easy.
There was no stalker-like thrill one gets from spying on a celebrity over a strategically positioned cup of coffee, no childish exhilaration of sneaking up close enough to overhear a cell phone conversation. During my time in Bucharest I have had other celebrity encounters of the close kind and they were all marked with the same indifferent disappointment I have felt after the dinner with the lovely Ms. Graham.
That''s a problem with expat life in this town: it''s all too, too easy. We have forgotten the thrill of having to make a choice between paying the phone bill and getting that pair of shoes or the delight inherent in having to save all month for that one big night out. We have social calendars busier than Paris Hilton and we travel as much as any Saint Tropez jet setter. We have maids, for chrissakes!
As for the men, don''t get me started! This is a place where balding, paunchy, middle aged boys get to date stunning, intelligent twenty four-year-old women without having to worry about such mundane concerns as faithfulness or commitment. Anywhere else in the world this is nearly impossible - even Donald Trump has to worry about prenups and bad publicity - but in Romania dating, at least for men, is an all-you-can-eat buffet that serves lobster for 50 cents.
Still, though our lives may be unreal and privileged, we are, most of us, good people. We are all productive members of society. We work hard, we care for our friends, we give to charity and we are hearty contributors to the local economy. Our bad habits are easily broken and the damage we may do is far outweighed by the good. Though we may feel a twinge of guilt over using domestic help, for our housekeepers and chauffeurs we are not just a primary means of survival, but oftentimes friends. For every heartless, commitment phobic expat jerk there are the men who have found true love with wonderful women, both local and expat, and they are amongst the best husbands and boyfriends I have ever met.
And yet, and yet... We have all heard the old adage about the corrupting effects of absolute power. I fear that absolute comfort is no less corrupting. We grow soft and fat (both metaphorically and literally) on our Pleasure Island like so many unwitting Pinocchio''s. We indulge ourselves in ways that we never could or would in our own countries and pretty soon the moral lapses, both our own and those of others seem far less egregious or even downright normal.
I am no less guilty of succumbing to the siren song of creature comforts than anyone around me and I am not likely to change my spoiled ways. Indeed, I am not sure there is a real need to do so. But we must fight against becoming jaded and self-involved. Unless we remain aware and critical of ourselves and of our surroundings we may share the fate of Pinocchio''s friends on the Pleasure Island and turn into mindless donkeys. For some of us, I hope it is not too late.
* Lola Gusman is an U.S. attorney working for the Marco Group in Bucharest. She has lived in Romania for three years.
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