My Brush With Fame

When I was a kid, I was reminded that famous people were, in fact, people as well, and should be treated as such.  As a result, when I’ve encountered “stars”, I’ve tended to not make a big deal out of it.
Though, there have been a few exceptions to this rule...

The perfect example of this was on a flight to London in August of 1996.  

A little background:  When I first moved to Syria in 1995, I flew there on Royal Jordanian out of Newark Airport to Amman, and then onto Damascus.  My return flight in December wasn’t a great reflection on the airline (and worthy of a story another time), so I needed to pick another airline.

Enter British Airways.

There were a few reasons why I picked BA – first, they flew in and out of Philadelphia, which was closer to my home.  They also flew to a lot more destinations, so joining the BA airmiles club for perks seemed like an option…but the MAIN reason why I chose BA was for their employees.

I don’t know how other airlines assigned flights in the mid-90s, but British Airways allowed their pilots and flight attendants to choose which flights they would work. Most BA employees did NOT want to fly the Middle East routes, so the flight to Damascus was generally ignored, but there was an advantage to that particular flight which two flight crews took advantage of regularly. The flight route went from London to Damascus, then onto Tehran late at night.  The crew would stay in Iran overnight, then return on the flight back to Damascus the next morning where the replacement crew flew the plane back to London. Once in Damascus, the crew would be paid to wait for the next flight to Syria…five days later.

BA put them up in the Damascus Sheraton on Beirut Rd, on the way from Old City towards Mezzeh, and one of the social centers for the English. Not surprisingly, the two flight crews became known for their ability to party with the Damascene expatriate community. Quickly we got to know the staff, so whenever we flew BA from Damascus, the staff offered my friends and I some perks: champagne bottles, wine bottles, or sometimes a better seat…

Fast forward to August of 1996.  I arrived at PHL to check in for my flight, and the ticket agent at the counter was distracted.  I waived my hand over her glazed and eyes…”Hellloooooo…”
“Oh!  You’re not going to believe who’s on your flight!” 
“Who?” 
“I can’t tell you.”

I called foul. It’s a simple rule: if you CAN’T say something, don’t give an opening clue. I pried a little further. Finally, she caved, not that it took much effort.

“Okay, but you can’t tell anyone.” 
I promised. 

“Jimmy Page.”

Jimmy Page?  Guitarist from Led Zeppelin?  What was he doing in Philly?  The Page & Plant tour had just played the night before.  “Where is he?”  “He’ll be at the Members Lounge, but if you’re at the gate when they announce first class you should see him.”

So wait I did, and he arrived as you’d expect of a rock star: sneakers, sweatpants, tie-dye shirt, and guitar case in hand.  

I boarded the plane eons later, ushered back to row 847, Seat B. It was like I was on a different plane, except…I knew the flight attendant from the Damascus-London flights. We chatted for a bit, then she took care of her duties while the plane took off.  

About thirty minutes later, she came up to me: “Thegue, your seat in first class is ready.”  

I was next to Jimmy Page.

Mind you, “next to” wasn’t like I was sitting next to him – we had pods, so there was almost no chance at any interaction. The nerves in my stomach grew – this may have been the most famous person I’d ever been near, so if I were to talk to him, I’d have to play it cool. I quickly made some rules.

1. No mention of Led Zeppelin. I didn’t know their music well enough to go into any discussion of it, and lyrically I was lost.  “Hey Jimmy I really love the song that goes AYYYEEE AYYYYY!!!!”  I’d look stupid.
2. Can’t pretend I DON’T know him…I mean, it’ll be written all over my face.

The flight was overnight, and for most of it I slept, but on two occasions, we made eye contact, and I may have done the “up nod” gesture for “Yo, what’s up?”

The flight disembarked, and we made our way down to the luggage carousel. There, Jimmy Page stood by himself, waiting with a guitar case.  I approached him, introduced myself, and asked where he was going after his concert. He told me he was off to his sheep farm in northern England, and then he asked me where I was going. I had a few weeks to jump around Europe, but I wasn’t going to go into an explanation. “I’m heading to Damascus, Syria where I live.” As the bags arrived, I realized I had little time to get proof of my brush with greatness. I was going to cross that line of treating a star like a regular person – after all, I wouldn’t ask anyone for an autograph.

“Mr Page, I’m sorry to bother you, but would you sign my boarding pass?” Mr. Page was friendly.  “No problem.” I handed him a pen.

He wrote me a message, collected his belongings, and said goodbye.  I looked down at my proof:
MARC – HAVE A SAFE TRIP TO SYRIA.  BEST OF LUCK.  JIMMY PAGE.

I was ecstatic. I was shaken out of my star-crossed eyes by an “Excuse me…” from nearby. An older man in a suit, whose musical tastes must’ve stopped sometime before 1968, asked for my attention. “Right…I give up. Who was that?” I told him, but no light went on in his eyes. “Guitarist for Led Zeppelin?” He’d heard the band name, but nothing more.

I grabbed my backpack and ran to the nearest payphone, where I called everyone I knew who was a Zeppelin fan. Neal. Rob. Bob. Matt. It was sometime in the middle of the night in the States, but I didn’t care. I left them all the same message. “IT’S GUE! I JUST SAT NEXT TO JIMMY PAGE ON THE FLIGHT OVER AND GOT HIS AUTOGRAPH!!!“

Things change. In early 1997, British Airways sublet their Damascus route to British Mediterranean Airways, which meant new flight crews.  BMA changed the schedules around, and flight crews no longer got to party in town with us as they’d done previously.  I returned to the States that summer, and I’ve moved over 10 times since then. 

In writing this, I thought it would be great to take a picture of that boarding pass, but I don’t know where it is.  My collectibles from the last thirty years are scattered among boxes and boxes, and sadly I think I may have lost it.

But Jimmy and I will always have that moment at the luggage carousel.

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