Reading a magazine yesterday, I came upon a photograph of multi-billionaire Warren Buffett.
I was reminded of the time not so long ago that a woman said that I looked like Mr. Buffett.
“No,” I replied, “I don't have his looks; I have his money.”
A few years before that, I was at Carnegie Hall when I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was another woman with an idea of someone I resembled. “Are you the Russian baritone Dmitri Hvorostovsky?” she inquired.
“I'm not Russian; I'm not a baritone; and I can't carry a tune,” I replied.
It must have been the hair.
The earliest alleged resemblance that I can recall at this late date was to the actor Oskar Homolka.
It must have been the cigar.
Other places, other questions.
On streets in cities from Montreal to Buenos Aires and from Los Angeles to London, I have routinely been asked by strangers for directions. It must be the urbane cosmopolitanism of my looks and demeanor makes people believe that wherever I may be that I am native there and to the manner born (to slightly revise Hamlet).
Then again, there might not be anyone else around for them to ask.