Madrid: The Way It Was

I have never met the idol of my younger self, the star of movies I love most, like The Way We Were and Out of Africa. But recently our paths intersected. For a total of no more than three and a half minutes, he and I occupied effectively the same geographic space, first in the lobby of the Hotel Ritz Madrid, and then, a day later, just outside the entrance. We inhaled the same Spanish air, tread on the same carpet and cobblestone, and, most significantly, made eye contact, albeit fleeting. There within a few steps of me was the owner of that exceptionally gorgeous face and impressive canon of ground-breaking movies. 

Serendipity had brought my family to this jewel of a hotel that sits adjacent to the Prado and three blocks from the magnificent Parque del Retiro. Now, some incredible good fortune. Not an hour into our stay, I stopped with my girls at the concierge desk to make dinner plans when he entered through a revolving door. At first I was only conscious that here came another American. Europeans don’t typically (read: never) enter fancy hotels in t-shirts and baseball caps. I looked again. 

“Hubbell Gardiner"

Robert Redford.

I remembered to breathe only when my oldest elbowed me gently in the ribcage.

So, did I have the wherewithal to ask for an autograph or photo? I did not. 

I could have enlisted the help of a go-between. There was, moving alongside Redford, a pretty, in-charge blonde, smart phone in hand, who appeared to be managing the minute details of his comings and goings (e.g. “The elevators are over there, Bob.”). When I saw the woman the next day, she struck me as friendly and approachable in her sneakers and long linen skirt. Redford was nowhere in sight, but I could tell she was waiting for him to exit an elevator or emerge from the lounge. I guessed he was on an important call or enjoying a café con leche. As I see it now, my exchange with the woman would have gone one of two ways. Either she would have absorbed my fawning overture and granted me a (very brief) audience with himself, or she’d have deflected it, sparing me the embarrassment of dismissal by my hero, saying something like, “Oh, dear. Wow. You’re so nice to ask, but unfortunately Bob is running behind schedule already. So very sorry. Safe travels. Bye-bye.” But I was afraid to ask, didn’t want to hear myself babble away at Redford’s assistant as I had at the concierge the afternoon before, grabbing the poor man’s arm, pressing for his understanding of the magnitude of the moment. It was enough that I knew Redford was nearby. I would wait and watch him from a short distance. Two sightings, I assured myself, would be ample souvenirs.

That chilly morning in Madrid, I stood on the sidewalk outside the Ritz and watched Robert Redford leave in a large, black Mercedes, evidently for the airport as the trunk was packed with expensive luggage. He wore jeans, a leather jacket and aviator sunglasses—Ray-Bans, I decided. So 1970s Redford of him.

It didn’t take long for regret to sink in. For days I hated that I’d lacked the courage to request a picture of the two of us standing, say, side by side in front of an elaborate Christmas display in the Ritz lobby. He was in Madrid to announce the launch of Spain’s version of The Sundance Channel. A press trip, for goodness’ sake. He wouldn’t have denied me. It’s not as though the paparazzi were lined up seven deep pestering him as they’d have done decades ago. No one recognized him—or if they did, like me they kept a polite (or frozen) distance. Both times I saw him, I sensed, or thought I sensed as he glanced around, faint surprise that no one pestered him for anything. But, while we’re on the subject, don’t ask me how well he’s held up or whether he’s as short as they say. As far as I’m concerned it was Hubbell Gardiner striding across that well-appointed foyer. 

I’ve visited and revisited those three and a half minutes many times. That span is approximate of course. It didn’t occur to me to clock the encounters. Very little occurred to me. I do remember thumbing around in my consciousness for something to approach him with, but nothing coherent came together, nothing but hyper-charged feelings I would have to parse later, first for myself and then for the friends and family who excoriated me—How could I deny them this vicarious thrill?—for not exchanging a few superficial words or appealing for a photograph to post on Facebook or shaking his hand and thereby linking in a physical if cursory way, once and for all, my life to Robert Redford’s. 

Nothing but this one concrete thought crystalized as the big black car pulled away: The Ritz is not so unlike The Plaza.