In 1974, when exotic travel could be had for little cost, I found myself in Puerto Vallarta, then a sleepy town hugging the Pacific. At the time, I was working as a waitress so that I could earn enough money to return to university, which I did in 1975 at the University of California, Berkeley.
It wasn’t long before I learned that Peter O’Toole was on location shooting Man Friday (he played the role of Robinson Crusoe). Though young and impressionable, I wasn’t just any old fan. I adored the actor. How could anyone ever forget those piercing blue eyes and his flowing Lawrence of Arabia garb? Or his fabulous acting in The Ruling Class?
A bit more sleuthing uncovered his nightly visits to the popular Carlos O’Brien’s restaurant. Throughout my stay I headed there regularly on the off chance of running into him. On the beach, I’d imagine my brief encounter with the world-class actor: “Mr O’Toole,” I’d say gazing into his dreamy eyes, “I’m sure you hear this all the time, but in my case it’s absolutely true: you are my favourite actor in the world.” My imagination never moved beyond this moment because it was the stuff of fantasy.
Finally, my last night arrived without so much as a glimpse. Time to become more proactive. I ran around the restaurant begging each waiter to inform me should Peter O’Toole come around. I drank a margarita and waited. At midnight a waiter scurried over. “He’s here!”
The actor was easy to spot as he towered over everyone and walked with a graceful swagger. “Thanks,” I said and hurried towards him and delivered the line I’d rehearsed and stared into his eyes, not the startling blue I’d imagined, but still penetrating and showing a bit of amusement at my youthful boldness. He leaned over and kissed me once on each cheek, then took me by the arm to a nearby sofa. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?” he said.
My heart pounded in my chest. Whatever should I say? He rescued me by asking where I was from, so I explained my European origins – how I’d been born in Yugoslavia, that we’d emigrated to Germany, and then to the US. Yawn. I felt him slipping away. Then, to my amazement, he asked me to go dancing.
“Yes,” I said, latching on to his arm and my unbelievable good luck. I could feel people watching us as he guided me out of the restaurant and into a vehicle driven by a man who functioned as driver and bodyguard.
At the disco we danced and danced. I honestly couldn’t believe this was happening. I liked the way his lanky body moved and from time to time he smiled. It was much too loud to talk. It’s true his eye roved a bit, but I didn’t mind, because here I was dancing till 3am with Peter O’Toole – a tale to tell my grandchildren, should I ever have any.
Herta Feely is the author of Saving Phoebe Murrow, published by Twenty7, £7.99. To order a copy for £6.55 visit bookshop.theguardian.com
