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.
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