Abstract
On January 18, 1998, I walked off a plane in São Paulo, Brazil. As I cleared customs and weaved through the hot, steamy airport, the cafes and newsstands, I noticed one young woman's face on the front pages of all the newspapers and journals I passed. She was wearing a beret and hugging Bill Clinton in the photo, and her name was Monica Lewinsky. Never having heard of her before, I assumed the interest in her was specific to Brazil. Surely I would know her name if she actually mattered to anyone, I thought, and went on.
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