My friend thought it would be lovely. And, she explained, Christo pays everyone that works on his projects. After six years in the making, that's a lot of people. Yeah, well, that's something good, I thought. But when I found out it cost $26 million I was appalled. I couldn't believe my friend, who refused to see Terminator II because of its $90 million budget, supported this. Why do something conceptual - and temporary - for $26 million dollars when thousands of homeless could be fed and housed for years?

"Go see Terminator II," I told her. "It's a thrill you can sink your teeth into." "I'd rather see the umbrellas," she replied wiping her mouth, "It's a more sophisticated thrill."
 

Christo shakes my hand firmly and looks at me intensely from behind his thick square black-rimmed glasses. His grey bushy hair sticks out in all directions. He's wearing faded blue jeans and a casual untucked shirt. He's thin, appearing almost frail, but his movements are quick and electric.

"You sit there," he points to a worn, two person couch, then assembles a fold-out chair and sits in it like a hummingbird momentarily at rest. He folds his aims, then crosses his legs, then leans his neck out to me awaiting my first question. I smile. He smiles back and with a tilt of his head, he could win a Woody Allen look-alike contest.
 

It was still dark when I rode with one of Christo's photographers to the top of a large, wide, steep hill. The air was cold and a frenetic wind stirred my hair. The photographer was already gone, walking east, camera bags banging at his hips. On all sides I was surrounded by tall, stiff, lifeless pods. As the first orange light of day appeared on the horizon, the wind cast an eerie loneliness at my throat These still-life embryos looked more like a platoon of science fiction cacti about to invade Interstate 5 than a mega-million dollar brainchild all set for its birthday. I laughed, but tripped over something and the wind laughed back.