So, last night, I noticed that Brigitte Bardot died, aged 91.

As she is now dead, it seems a bit unfair to focus on her worst bits, the far-right politics, the insults of gay men and, most frequently, extremely negative classification of Islam.

But it was this last bit that led to our meeting. The meeting was entirely accidental. It came on the heels of Bardot complaining in a book and in some quotes I would later see about the “Islamization of France.”

I did not intend to see her, or speak with her, on that day in 2004.

I was in Paris, working on an article I was preparing for a three-part series on the demographic shift in Europe, and how that was feeding the growth of a new far-right movement.

My reporting came just before suburban Parisian rage spilled over, thousands of cars were burnt in protest and anger, but there were signs that something like that was coming.

In any case, on this day I was meeting with the Imam of the Grand Mosque of Paris. It was a difficult interview. Not because of the topic. I was a reporter and was used to unpleasant and uncomfortable chats, but because it was conducted in a maddeningly poor version of what I will call Franglais.

I had vastly overestimated my ability to discuss politics and culture in French (I mean, six years in school should have helped, a bit). And, as our backup, the Imam had vastly overestimated his ability to do the same in English. We had planned to talk for 40 minutes, but ended up spending three hours together, often going back and forth over questions or answers to make sure we actually had some idea of what the other was meaning. As an aside, it was the last time I tried this sort of thing without a translator to help out. Actually, it should have been, but I think I did it again a time or two.

Back to the story: because we ran over our allotted time so spectacularly, it turned out that I had run into his secret afternoon meeting. There was a knock on the door, and the at that time 69- or 70-year-old Bardot poked her head into the room.

Her rather famous head was quickly followed by the rest of her famous self. She was showing up for this meeting, the Imam later explained, because the judge in a court proceeding in which she was not doing well, had suggested it might be a good idea.

The former international sex-symbol was walking slowly, assisted by her cane.

As she entered, the Imam and I stood and he, also slowly and assisted by his cane, stepped over to shake her hand in greeting.

She laughed, and, in (as mentioned above) my probably quite poor translation of her French, said “Look at the two of us, we are truly old and barely able to walk!” (I mean, she starred in movies, she didn’t necessarily write them).

He laughed back, and she sat next to me, clearly wondering who the hell was butting in on her court-suggested mea cupla. She turned to me and asked why I was sitting there.

The Imam explained I was a reporter. She was a bit outraged.

“So you’re here because you want to see me be humiliated? Is this what you call news?”

The Imam explained that our own meeting had simply run late. “He had no idea you would be here, and he is not here to speak to you.”

At which point her angry glare whisked me out of the room.

However, and I do feel this should be noted, I left without the aid of a cane. I mean, I use one now…