Wednesday’s Child: Letter from Brussels
“Let us not argue,” I said to the neighbor on my left, who had just boasted to me of “meeting Putin. You know it’s his birthday today?” The dinner was a seated affair – forty tables of eight – in lavishness roughly at midpoint between a royal gala and a bar mitzvah in the Hamptons. The host addressed the buzzing swarm in Flemish, as all but a handful were compatriots, but as bad luck would have it one of the English speakers was the neighbor to my left.



