A strange little trend has taken root over the past few days right in my hotel lobby. It started on Saturday, when a large, sweating woman in her mid 60s trundled into the open air entry where I happened to be waiting for our fixer. I had stopped back at the hotel for a quick regroup after a morning of interviews and was just going through some notes on a couch across from the check-in desk when I looked up to see her walking towards me.

œJessica? She said my name with a French accent as if she knew who I was even though we had never met. And I wasnt expecting her.

œYes, I said, standing up to greet and shake her hand. She shook mine, then held out a torn, white piece of paper with my name written on it in black marker.

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