I forgot to mention yesterday that I took a phone call from a guy named Don. I was looking up his airline reservations for him. He was going all over the country, mostly to small college towns like Madison, WI. He lived in Maine. I asked for his last name so I could find his requested record.
"McLean," he said.
"M-C-L-A-I-N?" I asked.
He spelled it for me. I found the reservations. We had a pleasant conversation. We hung up, and I turned to my boss and said I'd just talked to a very nice person on the phone. (I don't know why I said that except sometimes I get so frazzled from dealing with our corporate clients. Give me a vacation call anytime.) Betsie asked who it was and started laughing when I told her.
"You just talked to Don McLean," she said. "Groovy." She laughed even harder as the realization of who I'd just spoken with dawned on me.
"AMERICAN PIE?" I screeched. "That Don McLean?" Holy cow. I had no idea. I'm so out of it. And I didn't even get a chance to tell him his song is a putrid piece of unforgettable doo-doo. But I suppose I wouldn't have been allowed to say that, anyway. Oh, well. Travel agent to the stars. I told you.
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