As I lay in hospital, as coincidence would have it, the patient who joined me in the small, immaculately clean and tidy Swiss hospital ward, was from Mexico.
An Olympic standard beach volleyball player, poor girl, she’d broken her wrist. Not skiing, either, but falling off a bar stool or something.
So, out of all the Mexicans in the valley, we ended up in adjacent hospital beds. Klutzes or what?
We started to chat. The young woman’s mind was, not surprisingly, turning to thoughts of a post-volleyball career. I asked her what she’d studied and where. Personnel administration, at the UNAM. Well then, I offered, maybe you’ve read my grandfather’s book. He’s Agustin Reyes Ponce.
And that was the strangest part of all. That two crumbly-boned Mexicans should meet at the base of a wintry ski slope, I buy. That one should be in awe of the other for being an Olympic athlete…okay. That the other should be silenced in respectful memory of a deceased guru of the Mexican business schools, was taking it all too far.
How big is this world, anyway?
