When I was still in my teens and using Interrail to explore continental Europe, I made some interesting acquaintances, over and over again.
One of these was an impressive young former Israeli army officer called Moishe Cohen. We first exchanged words in the room we shared in the Amsterdam youth hostel. A few days later we bumped into each other on a tram in Vienna. He had acquired a very beautiful girlfriend. Then, maybe a week later, we ran into each other again in a tunnel in Paris.
I’d have started to worry that he was following me if it weren’t so obvious that the same thought was already giving him sleepless nights.
Ex-military Israelis make for intriguing travel companions as they tend to communicate with each other using an arcane sign language. It’s hard to tell whether, like newly-familiar Americans, all they are really dong is comparing notes about how much they have paid for stuff.
My wife has become convinced that certain Uber drivers are actively tracking her movements around town. As a counter-measure she only activates cellular data on her iPhone when she absolutely needs it. To be honest I’m not entirely sure that she has been beset by coincidences. She has already banished Siri to the sin bin, and for good reason.
Meanwhile, I keep running into my brother-in-law in precisely the same place in the street outside La Merced. I’m on foot and he’s passing in his car...