The Price of Celebrity Minor

Four o’clock this afternoon, the home phone rings. I am adjusting to the sound now, since it seems to be in use much more these days then ever in the past. When I answer with just a hello, the questions come in rapid fire “Is this Ryan? Is this BudaBaB?”

When I confirmed they had indeed reached the right place, my nerve cells rose to the surface faster than a swimmer with a shark in pursuit when I heard “We have been up and down your street, but we cannot find you. I think we have the wrong address. Where are you exactly?” I send a summons to Vesta, the Roman goddess of hearth and home (or Hestia if you prefer the Greek version) for assistance thinking I have guests checking in, but no room for them.

In a state of tension, I hesitantly ask if they had a room booked. They did not, they had tried e-mailing numerous times via their iphone, but never received an answer. Perhaps because I never received them. They “just wanted to stop in a say hello”.

Though I have never been much for drop-in company, I gave directions so they could stop in. We convened at the kitchen table for an hour long confab discussing my chapter of the Eastern European book. What? The EE book, not whole book I slaved on? They did not know that book existed. After I made them give me a blood pledge that they would buy the next edition of the full book, I toured them through the apartment and let them on their way. Life is full of surprises.