I was down at Zuccotti Park the other day, minding my own business as much as I can with my Canon camera when, turning to take a shot I came face to face, lens to lens, with a camera-man filming me. We laughed, he had a smile to die for, we made crowd small talk then he asked me if I minded being filmed and asked a few questions. This stopped me in my tracks. I am Miss Invisible, I am “what did you say your name was again . . . ?” I faffed around, made polite Greta Garbo excuses when he came up with the clincher that I could hardly object if I were so happy to be taking photographs of other people. Fair point, I thought, go ahead, confident that they will have the good enough taste to later press delete.
His partner, the interviewer, an elfin young girl who could have passed for a far prettier Justin Bieber look-a-like asked me what I was doing own there. I glibbed and cobbled together an answer of sorts with so much gibberish that I am mercifully unable to recall the messy few words that did fall from my mouth. I could see in her eyes that it was a wrap already but she was kind enough to smile and nod her head appropriately. It was over in no time. I made sure of that with my waffy talk of freedom and the democratic process.