I met her at a rest stop in Blandford, Mass. this past Sunday. I was standing in front of a wall of snack food at the gift shop when I saw her slowly pacing through the adjoining Sbarro’s, squinting through her glasses at the grease-soaked pizzas on display.

I went numb.

I’d caught just a glimpse of her, out of the corner of my eye no less, but I knew it was her instantly. It was a sub-conscious recognition, as if I’d already memorized her every dimension, as if hours of television exposure allowed me to keep a mental blueprint of each of her distinguishing traits.

Setting my Frito’s back on the rack I looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. There were a dozen or so people there: a truck driver pouring milk into his coffee, a mom corralling her three antsy toddlers, an elderly man painstakingly drizzling ketchup onto his French fries. Yet none of them seemed to notice her. A middle-aged bald guy even appeared to nudge her on his way to the bathroom.

Didn’t they know? Couldn’t they recognize those highlights? Those glasses? That glow of American royalty? I approached the former-governor to see if she was real.

She was sitting in a booth by the window, watching as people pumped gas at the Gulf station outside. The way she folded her pizza in half intimidated me in its normalcy — it’s like something my parents would do. Grease even dripped out of the crease in the folded pizza and stained her IDAHO sweatshirt. She seemed genuinely disappointed as she tried to wipe it with a napkin.

This should have softened me up, it should have exposed her as human and flawed but it only made me fear her more. I waited until she finished her pizza and then walked over to her booth. “Sarah Palin?” I asked. What the hell kind of greeting was that? What is she, some chick I went to high school with, who I just happened to run into?

She smiled and actually extended her hand to shake mine. “Yes, sit down,” she replied.

How do you begin a conversation with a woman you hate, but have never met? I wanted to ask her about her daughter. I wanted to quiz her on geography. I wanted to stump her, make her look stupid. I wanted to tell her to fuck off. But I just sat there worrying about my posture, trying not to breathe too heavily.

“Whoopsie, wrong side there buddy,” she said finally. I looked out the window where a man got out of his car, took a few steps toward the gas pump, then threw his hands into the air, got back into his car and made a U-turn so that the gas pump and the car’s fuel door matched up. “Don’t you just love watching people pump gas,” she said, wiping the corner of her mouth with her napkin. I didn’t respond, but I guess I would have answered yes. “Ya know there’s a moment. It’s a magical moment. Right when the gas tank is full and the pump clicks off. And there’s that little jolt. It’s so reassuring.”

I told her I knew what she meant. We sat and watched in silence as people drove up to the pump, anxious and hurried, then left with their tanks full.

I asked her what she was doing here.

“I-90 has immaculate rest stops. They’re always clean and offer such a good variety of foods. The people are lovely, too. It’s so inspiring to watch them take pride in such work.”

She told me she does this every few weeks. She’ll be staying in the presidential suite of some downtown hotel and she’ll rent a car and drive out into the country. But instead of going into small towns, she’ll go from rest stop to rest stop to rest stop. The real Real America. She’ll eat McDonalds or Sbarros or Auntie Anne’s and sit by a window and watch people pump their cars full of gas.

“Ya gotta understand, it’s the most alone I get to be.” Something about the way she said it made me take pity on her. I knew my rage should be swelling — here is this media whore complaining that she can’t have some time to herself — yet I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. She’d stroked some vein of humanity in me, and now I couldn’t criticize her no matter how badly I wanted to. I now knew the nature and depth of her communicative power.

She rested her chin on her fist and stared out into the Massachusetts night. Her face was smooth, but paler than I’d expected. Tears pooled in her eyes, ready to spill over at the slightest disappointment.

I asked her what was wrong.

“The family has suffered. Bristol, Tripp, even Todd, we aren’t so connected anymore. We used to sleep in on Saturday mornings and make pancakes for lunch. Todd would make a few shaped like Mickey Mouse and the kids would fight over them. I don’t think we’ve all even been in the same place on a Saturday since the election started.” She paused to wipe her eyes. “And now the book, and the book tour, uh. It’s been such a rollercoaster ride. I just worry we’ll never be able to come together again.”

“How does that make you feel?” I asked.

She looked out the window. A car sped past and its taillights disappeared over a hill. She looked me in the eye and said, “Rich.”

After saying goodbye she gathered her trash and left. I watched as she walked past the gas pumps and out of view.

Everyone I’ve told about the encounter asks me what she’s really like. And I usually say I don’t really know, but that she’s a very powerful woman, that’s for sure.

Tony Manfred is a junior in the College of Arts and Sciences. He may be reached at tmanfred@cornellsun.com. The Absurdity Exhibition appears alternate Tuesdays this semester.