A clear sky stretched over Boston Harbor like a taut, blue canvas, the sea air warming under the midday sun. The water was a smooth highway through which our water taxi skimmed toward moored sailboats. A white schooner sailed in fine trim off our port bow. "That's what I want next," said George Morton as he pointed out the schooner. Gray-haired and convivial, Captain George, as he prefers to be known, had picked me up from the dock at the end of the No. 66 bus _ a free shuttle from Logan Airport _ and was taking me to my hotel, the Battery Wharf, a concierge for which had suggested this very agreeable way to arrive. "In a few more years, I hope to have the money," said Captain George, pointing to more sailboats moored in the harbor. "That's sailing as I know it." He dropped off a couple at the waterfront Marriott and next pulled up to the dock at the Battery Wharf and I rolled my suitcases to the front desk.
I had come again for the international legal conference I attend annually with 11,000 of my dearest colleagues. Boston was the location this year, and as with meetings past, I avoided the large hotels near the convention venue as diligently as I would miss an opportunity to contract influenza. The Battery Wharf meets my standards, which is to say, it would carry five stars as they are granted to hotels in Europe. Spread over four low buildings connected by tunnels, it is as quiet as the convention is raucous; guests have access to a large fitness room, and the business center is conveniently at hand.
As she does each year, my secretary, known to me as Ms. Moneypenny, had chosen a Starbucks on which Axel, my friend from Potsdam and fellow conferencegoer, could converge with me in a caffeine-seeking pincer movement. I placed our simple order, first for Axel and then for me: "And I'll have a plain bagel and a grande skim cappuccino," I said.
The young woman at the register looked at me as if she suspected a trick question. "Do you want whipped cream on your cappuccino?" she asked.
"You don't put whipped cream on a cappuccino," I replied. Surprised by the news, she rang up my order. "You forgot the bagel," I said.
Her eyes fixed on me in a final attempt at comprehension, she asked, "Do you want whipped cream on your bagel?"
