My passport may be red with a white cross, but part of my DNA and heart will always be Bostonian.
Last night I was at a press conference and dinner at the Beau Rivage in Geneva, the hotel where the dying Emperess Sissi was taken in 1898 after she was shot.
Both cities are steeped in history and in my history as well.
I was introduced to a man.
"Do I detect an American accent?" he asked
"I'm Swiss, but I grew up in the States?"
"Me too. What part?"
"Wigglesworth Street, across from Harvard Medical."
The man had grown up around the corner. There were only about 30 people in the room from all over the world.
At the apèro later the same man approached me with a woman from Milton, just down the road from Boston.
When we went to dinner there were two other women, one from Arlington, MA and the other from Cambridge who had lived on Delle Avenue where I had owned a house in the late 80s.
We made up a Boston table.
Clichés about small worlds abound.
15 Wigglesworth Street, Mission Hill, Boston