ALMOST CARRIE ~ AC & SJP, Part 1

One of the first things that people ask when they take my tour is if I’ve met Sarah Jessica Parker.  Actually, what they really ask is “Have you met her?”—that breathy her the only indication necessary to let me know just who they mean.  SJP.  Her.

Celebrity sightings in New York are fairly common.  Just last week I saw Peter Sarsgaard in Downtown Brooklyn, Kim Kardashian on 5th Avenue, and Helena Christensen and Julianne Moore in the West Village.  All of them were simply out and about, traipsing along to their next destination in virtual obscurity (except for Kim, who had a camera crew filming her as she traipsed along in virtual obscurity).  Let’s be clear: I am not the type of New Yorker who is nonplussed in the presence of fame.  I am, in fact, delighted and intrigued, and I try very hard to get a good look while pretending that I’m furiously scanning the restaurant/sidewalk/park for my absentminded husband.

SJP out and about in NYC

I have also had my fair share of Sarah Jessica Parker sightings, especially since my tour bus drives right through her neighborhood and she is a notorious walker.  I’ve seen her strolling with her twin girls in the rain; I’ve seen her dressed to the nines on Seventh Avenue with Matthew Broderick; I’ve seen her holding James Wilke’s hand and carrying his backpack.  I’ve probably seen her, all told, ten times or so in the ten years I have lived in New York.  Seeing her, however, is quite different than meeting her.  I don’t mind telling my tourists that I’ve spotted SJP around town.  I don’t, however, often relay the story of the day we met.

I use “met” loosely here, as no names were ever exchanged, but conversation did ensue.  It was in 2006, about a year into my job as a SATC guide.  I was pursuing acting at the time and taking a scene study class at a midtown studio.  The studio gave an annual achievement award to two members of the theatrical community, and in 2006 one award went posthumously to Wendy Wasserstein and the other went to Cynthia Nixon.  Sarah Jessica Parker was invited to present Ms. Nixon’s award.

I could never afford a ticket to the event, so I put my name on the volunteer list, which was already full by the time I got to it.  Two days before, however, someone canceled, and I was called for backup.  I was told to dress for the occasion, which would be held at the 21 Club on East 52nd Street.

My job was to place gift bags on chairs and straighten the silverware, but once the guests began to arrive I was reassigned to the role of “elevator escort.”  This meant that I was in charge of taking important people up to the penthouse level where the press would meet with them before they joined the regular guests for lunch.  I was sure that Sarah Jessica Parker wouldn’t be coming my way, sure there must be an even more important elevator somewhere else, some sneaky roof access I didn’t know about or a ripple in the universe that would transport her into place, but I was wrong.  SJP did get into my elevator that day, and while I was frantically trying to decide whether or not to open my mouth, she took care of everything by opening hers.

“I love your outfit,” she said.  To me.

The outfit in question?  A long, yellow chiffon skirt from H&M; my $89.99 Steven by Steve Madden paisley satin d’Orsay pumps (see My Blue Manolos or My Manolo Blues, 10.13.11), and a sheer black tank top with—I shit you not—an oversized yellow flower pin attached to the shoulder.

Tune in next week for Part 2!

Emily Sproch is a writer and a “Sex and the City” tour guide.  Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”