Old Hands, part 20

I had formed the habit of buying El País, the liberal national newspaper, every day. As I did at home, I only read certain sections—a little politics, a little foreign relations, most of the arts coverage. And I had become a regular reader of the back-page columnists—a group of five or six writers who rotated according to a schedule.

One of these was Vicente Verdú. I had read him enough to recognize his name, though I hadn’t really paid enough attention to figure out what his position was—until he published El planeta americano. This was a book he wrote about the U.S. and its worldwide influence after having lived in Philadelphia for a few years. Some of his views leaked into his column, and I became intrigued. He wasn’t exactly anti-American. Rather, he suggested that the rest of the world was entirely too eager to adopt elements of American culture—Hollywood films, fast food—and that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to do so.

I found this notion thought provoking, especially after a year and a half of life in Spain, so I bought the book. It was reasonably readable by me—I kept my Spanish-English dictionary handy—and I became more entranced the more I read. Verdú talked about Americans’ quest for money above all and cited a contrary Spanish example—the bar owner who closed his doors every night when the neighboring theater let out its audience. “Too many people,” he grumbled. This was one of the many fundamental differences I had noticed between Americans and Spaniards. The book cited many more.

I read the book’s back cover, too, and found that Verdú had been in Philadelphia because his wife, a psychology professor, had been working in the psychology department at the University of Pennsylvania. Well, I had worked in that department, too—as a part-time secretary for my psych prof, Marty Seligman, while I was a student at Penn. I knew Seligman was still there—he had become a well-known author—and that meant that maybe Verdú and I had someone in common. I thought Verdú and his ideas were just brilliant, and I wanted to be connected to him.

I knew how to get this done. Every year, at Retiro Park in Madrid, there was a book fair. Each publisher had a booth, and many authors made personal appearances. My friend Lorraine, who was a successful writer, had appeared there. “How would I find out when a certain author is going to be there?” I asked her.

“The best way is to go there in the first days of the fair,” she said. “Go to his publisher’s booth. They’ll have a schedule there, and you can come back when he’s appearing.”

I followed her advice and made my first trip to the fair. As Lorraine had said, there was a printed schedule, and I saw that my guy would be there two days later, in the afternoon. So I made my plan to return.

I was so excited to meet him, I got there early. I asked about him at the booth, but he hadn’t arrived yet. My heart was pounding as I walked around the fair killing time. I was going to meet him! I was going to ask him about Seligman! This would be so cool!

When I returned, there he was. Just a guy, a few years older than I was, chatting with people and signing books. I got in the short line. I was sweating and practicing my Spanish in my head. I felt like a stalker.

“Me llamo Susie Haubenstock,” I said, introducing myself, and I went on to explain in my overexcited Spanish that I loved his book and wanted an autograph. He seemed a little puzzled that an American would like it, but he signed my book.

“Tengo una pregunta,” I went on—I have a question. While at Penn, had he met Marty Seligman?

“Si, lo conozco bien,” he said—I know him well. And I explained that I’d known him years before, and then I ran out of things to say. So I said thanks and goodbye.

It took hours for me to calm down, and days for me to stop looking at that signature in my book, but I was incredibly proud of myself for getting it.