The only time that coincided closely with Bill Clinton was the April 4, 1994 in Charlotte, North Carolina. He had just won the championship of the University of Arkansas basketball and I went to the edge of the runway to photograph the winners. A tall and freckled complexion milky beside me, waiting to embrace the coach Nolan Richardson. He was president of the United States. Fool’s face must have stuck with me the usual in such cases, because Clinton reached out to me just like that, just as another journalist who was at my side. Then he congratulated the representatives of the university where he studied, which is why he was there.
I guess with what has rained since then including the horrible terrorist massacre of Gemelasa Torres and should not be so easy to deal with the president than the U.S.. But that was before a more confident that now. What I saw for the first time twenty years earlier, when the last electoral defeat after Francois Mitterrand to achieve the French presidency. I then headquartered in the Tour Montparnasse and no one stop him until I finally blocked the way its ideologue Regis Debray, with anger rather than descriptive in perfect Castilian. Another similar incident a few months I lived with the military after the Carnation Revolution in Portugal. Being newcomers to Costa and Gomes, Goncalves Basque and company, the reporters could gain access to official agencies Belem Palace without credentials and no track record of our rucksacks.