I once met Margaret Atwood. She was speaking at a writers conference in St. Petersburg, Florida. When we broke for lunch, by sheer chance, I ended up in the line in front of her.
She turned to me and said, "Are these the turkey sandwiches?"
"Yes. I think so," I said.
In the crowded cafeteria, it was clear that the organizers had made no special arrangements for their very special guest. As I wound my way through the room to an empty table, Margaret Atwood followed me. To my stunned disbelief, she took up the seat next to mine.
Did I tell her how much I admired her work? No. Did we speak at all? Not that I remember. I am an introvert, and I suspect she is, too. Perhaps we made a few minutes small talk about the weather or the turkey sandwiches, but I don't remember.
The organizers soon realized their oversight and sent in a crack team of more important writers to buffer her from the hoi polloi.
She gave a great talk later.