Why attending literature events in the city is so darn good

It's official. My life is charmed.

On Saturday night I sat down at a pub in the Mission district. I sipped my beer, turned to the person on my left and after a couple of minutes of random chat realised I was sat next to Jose Antonio Vargas. Yes THE Jose Anotnio Vargas. I try not to idolise people. I know it is detrimental to raise people up onto lofty pedestals. I know it creates unrealistic expectations. I am aware - somewhere in the back of my mind - that it makes it difficult to treat heroes like normal people if you hold them in too high esteem. But sometimes, well sometimes, I think I just cannot help myself.

Jose (because yes I got to call him that) writes for the New Yorker. He was part of a Pulitzer price winning team at age 23-years-old. He is now just 29 years old.

I know that pulitzer price winners go to the bathroom and sneeze and occasionally don't feel all that brilliant. I know they have bad hair days and I think logically there might also be times when they doubt their genius. But, somehow, it is the most comforting thing in the world to sit with said hero and see genuine happiness and gratitude pass across their face when you say that you liked the recent profile they wrote.