"Hello, Miss Monroe."

"My name is Paul Weeks. I'm a reporter, and. . ."

"I see you know me. And here we are, all alone. . ."

"I mean, I'm. . ."

"Well, Mr. Reporter, I guess we've arrived ahead of the others. . ."

OK. OK. I'm just teasing you along into one of the most fascinating pre-lunch converations I ever had, I suppose.

Marilyn Monroe, the movie sexpot of the day, was sitting down with me, a Los Angeles Mirror reporter, in a dining room as we expected a host of other Hollywood actors, politicians, reporters galore to await the arrival of a visitor to the United States.

His name was Nikita Khrushchev, premier of the Soviet Union in a rather warm season of the infamous Cold War.

How in the dickens did I find myself in THIS situation? Well, the city desk knew I lived a short distance from the 20th Century Fox studios where a luncheon was to be spread for the Premier as a substute or his request to visit Disneyland. I guess Miss Monroe didn't have far to go either.

Everyone was talking about Los Angeles Mayor Norris Poulson's having decided the security risks would be too high to take the City's guest to The Magic Kingdom.

Khruschy was damn mad about that

Ms. Monroe, believe it or not, talked politics -- not about Hollywood, not about her, and certainly not about me..

I don't remember the seating arrangement after the affair bagan, but my attention began to be upon Nikita and his wife as Shirley MacClain whirled and spun and kicked up her heels, dancing, the "Can-Can."

Khruschev later spoke solemnly about the kind of entertainment America provided him. But during the dance, I couldn't help but note his tapping his feet to the rhythm with a sexy beat. His wife? She just glared at him.

I saw Khruschev several times after that -- riding on the train that took him to San Francisco after the fiasco in L.A., again when his ship landed in New York City for the 1960 meeting of world leaders at the United Nations, and several times after that when he chatted with the press at night where he was staying.