By E.C. Gladstone, Photographs: Naomi Kaltman

here are the paparazzi when you need them?

It's a crisp winter day in L.A., and Olivia Wilde, who just flew in from New York, is dying for sushi. So when the actress calls from the lobby of the W hotel as I'm pulling up, I tell her to skip the formalities and just meet me at the curb.

Would it be too much to ask that at least one photographer be there to capture the former O.C. co-star getting into my car? Just a grainy shot to get people wondering about her "mystery man"? I mean, this is the kind of publicity a guy can't buy.

But nobody is on the sidewalk, not even a college kid stringing for TMZ with a cellphone camera.

Wilde, dressed in denim with a cloth cap over her long, brown hair, is apologetic—not for that, but for her sleep-deprived and makeup-free looks, which, truth be told, make her merely stop-you-on-the-street beautiful instead of the usual coronary-inducing gorgeousness when she's actually trying.

She also smells fantastic.

When we park on the street and she leaps out and feeds the meter without even mentioning it, I'm already won over. That small act is almost the Hollywood-actor equivalent to an ordinary person stopping traffic for an old woman. Very classy.

But if looks and manners were all Olivia had to offer, I could stop here and save space for more photos. Five minutes later, though, after she has told me about her hilarious plane flight sitting next to effusive fitness guru Richard Simmons, the joys of ensemble acting, the best Mexican restaurant in New York, the cultural renaissance of Ireland, and political author Chinua Achebe (not necessarily in that order), it's clear that Olivia is the type of person whose intellectual curiosity and engagement with the world extend far beyond the realm of entertainment ...

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