You might have thought a lady bug landed on her shoulder or something equally mundane had just happened. That's how my mother reacted when Imelda Marcos walked through the restaurant door one night in Manila.

"Oh look," she said, in-between bites of fried rice. "There's Imelda Marcos."

I slurped my green mango shake and turned my head to look. "Yeah, that woman does look a lot like her."

"That's because it is her," said dad, after stuffing a tempura shrimp into his mouth.

I chuckled. "Yeah, right."

I didn't believe them -- until I saw the entourage behind her. Then I realized they weren't teasing me. It was the Philippine's former First Lady and forever reigning Shoe Queen.

My parents didn't even flinch a chopstick at the thought of being in the same restaurant as her, but I immediately felt heart palpitations, sweaty palms and a somersaulting stomach, all the symptoms of some star-struck syndrome.

Then something flipped on my quick!-get-the-story news reporter switch, and I had an urge to follow her into the specially reserved dining room, crack open the door, steal a few snapshots and then walk as quickly and nonchalantly as I could back to our dining table.

My parents looked at me and sweetly reminded me that I was not paparazzi. I should just walk right up to her and introduce myself, they said. She loves that sort of thing.

So I did.

After dinner I took a gulp of water, straightened my shirt and scurried up to Imelda Marcos. I handed her my business card and stammered my introduction.

"I'm a reporter from Los Angeles, and I was wondering if I could take a picture with you."

I don't even remember her saying "yes," but next thing I knew, she handed my camera to her companion and put her arm around me. I tried to smile, but it took enough concentration just to stay standing.

He clicked. Once. Then my uncle scurried up to us with his camera and snapped a shot of his own, just in case.

Then it was over.

"My reporter friends will be so impressed when I show them this picture with you," I rambled, as she got ready to leave.

She asked me where I was from and what I did for a living, if I was there for the holidays and when I was going back to LA She even wished me a safe flight home. The woman was so gracious and so charming. I dumbfoundedly thanked her and stumbled away.

I didn't even look down at her shoes.

Here I was, working journalist in Southern California, constantly caught in a swirl of celebrities and media, but when I had a brush with fame, I went numb. Granted, Imelda Marcos is not just any ol' celebrity. I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a woman who once helped run a country of 7,000 islands and 70 million people, managed a bank account of billions of dollars and filled rooms with 3,000 pairs of shoes. I am surprised I didn't collapse into the ground in shock.

Now, a year later, I look at the photograph and see the two of us standing there: Imelda, clothed in a brilliant, turquoise Thai silk suit and breathtaking, pearly blue, satin, beaded heels. Me, wearing my rinsed Gap jeans; Mervyns 3/4-sleeve, white, cotton tee; and a $9.99 pair of black, synthetic leather mary janes from Payless Shoe Source.

I play the scene over and over again in my head, but this time, I am just as gracious and charming as she.

"What lovely shoes you have on, Mrs. Marcos," I say, flashing a dazzling grin. "You know, we have something in common. I have such a thing for shoes myself."

She smiles back, and we talk about Bally and Ferragamo, Paris and Milan and all the hip and latest shoe styles.