Just who is my mysterious, famous, and well guarded neighbor?

Vitality Stories

Just who IS my mysterious, famous, and well guarded neighbor?

So we moved to Seattle…

Only five months into living in Seattle and my boyfriend and I have quickly learned that despite popular belief, No, it doesn’t rain everyday. It’s just gray most every day. There should be a paint color named, “Every-Day-Gray” or “Seattle.”

Turns out Benjamin Moore does have Seattle Gray 2130-70.

Ah, they nailed it!

Anyway, desperate for vitamin D and a circadian-rhythm-adjustment that we can only get from that elusive, but bright, hot, and distant globe in the sky, we did what any sun stalker would do—we hightailed it to the desert for a week.

For two days in Sedona, Arizona, we hiked for several hours and gloried in its beauty.

A few days later, we drove five hours to Las Vegas, Nevada. We were disappointed to arrive at our hotel and learn we wouldn’t be able to access our suite despite arriving after the 3:00 p.m. guaranteed check-in time. We were tired after our drive, and we didn’t take the news well–mostly because this had happened once before and the manager had promised it would never happen again.

Well new manager, same situation—no room, ETA, or explanation. The manager was extremely nice, but we couldn’t peg him down on a time the room would be ready.

A side note to anyone whose room isn’t ready as promised when they arrive at a resort:

If management starts offering free show tickets, drinks, or dinner, you might first think, Oh, how nice of them, and accept the offer, and that’s great if you want to, but often this can be what I call a permissive negotiation because it is an exchange that translates to, “If we give you something free, you forfeit the right to complain about the delay in your room regardless if it takes one minute or three hours.”

We declined, upholding our guaranteed check-in. In the end there was not much time to worry.

About ten minutes later, the apologetic manager handed us our keys, mentioning we’d be on the 39^th floor, the top floor.

So up, up, up we went with our dignity and roller bags in tow, but we froze when we stepped into the hallway. What the…?

There was a group of secret service agents outside our door.

As we neared, it was clear they were actually standing outside the door across from ours. We excused ourselves quietly as if in a library. We were greeted by stoic silence as we used our cards to enter our suite. Once the door closed, I looked out the peephole. I could swear the guard was looking directly at me, and then Ted said,

“You know…they can tell you’re looking. You’re blocking the light.”

I jumped back. “Who do you think it is?”

We unpacked and wondered. Super Bowl was in two days and over 300,000 tourists were expected to bombard Sin City and the sports books and bars. Could it be a football player doing some promotion?

We also found out there was a large conference for trophy hunters. We began to wonder if our neighbor might be Cecil the Lion’s killer and if so, I could tweet Ricky Gervais and animal activists with his location. (No, I wouldn’t really do that, but an animal lover can dream.) Then we heard Matt Damon was in town filming a new Bourne, so he was a candidate, too.

Just who could be cloistered in the room five feet from our own? Why did I care?

Not one to usually be star-struck, I found myself totally energized and having fun not knowing, and in a very un-Teri manner and despite my boyfriend’s rolling-but-adoring-eyes, I started peeking intermittently out the peephole (shadows be damned)—especially if I heard a door open—but I only saw bodyguards and minions. I have to tell you, there was a tangible buzz or vibe in the air, and it felt positive and exciting.

After a while I deserted my stakeout-peephole-post and we went to the gym. With sweat rings proving my commitment to exericse, or demonstrating I’m out of shape, we returned an hour later, and just as we opened our door, the agents opened the neighbor’s door and out walked…

Bill Clinton, photo from parade.com

For the next 24 hours between gambling and eating, I imagined a chance encounter, but in truth, I’m shy and wasn’t about to approach the secret service or ask Bill Clinton for a picture. I comfortably and proudly reduced my world to a second chance glance via the peephole and exchanging silly group texts with four close friends. They went something like this:

Friend 1:
Please tell me you aren’t standing at your peephole and drinking a cup of coffee.

Me:
It’s a chai.

Friend 2:
Ha Ha Ha.They probably did background checks on you two before letting you have the room. Did you say, “Hey Bill! Top of the morning to ya!”

Me:
So true. Our room wasn’t ready after check-in, and we were so annoyed. The poor manager. He couldn’t explain.

Friend 1:
They probably bugged the room just to be sure.

Me:
They probably are reading our texts. Ha Ha Ha Ha

Friend 2:
You know they do. Now we will all be bugged and watched for the rest of our days.

Friend 3:
Um, I really, really, really hope they don’t see the text I sent yesterday.

Me:
ha ha ha ha…ha ha…ha ha ha…I hope they do!

Friend 1:
If they did, now the secret service has really seen it all!

Friend 2:
By the way, anyone know how to get iTunes to sync between the computer and my iPad? I can’t get mine to work.

Me:
Hey, Secret Service IT, please advise on ^^^.

I’ll spare you the rest, but I giggled all morning.

And then the air shifted, some thing had changed. As if we had never been neighbors, Bill left without a fare the well, and for a little while, the neon flashing lights of Las Vegas seemed an Every-Day-Gray.