So Marianne and I were in a B&B on Clontarf Road in Dublin some years back, when our landlady asked where we were from.
"Philadelphia," one of us said.
"Oh, the governor of Philadelphia stayed here once!"
"Um... I really don't think so."
"Yes, and she gave me a book as a present -- here it is." Our landlady took a picture book of Pennsylvania from the shelf and showed it to us. It was inscribed to her by Happy Fernandez.
Who was not only a one-time candidate for Mayor of Philadelphia, but a member of Marianne's then-church.
The other day, a friend commented on a historical article I posted on Facebook, that it was weird because she knew the people involved -- they were friends of her parents. Well, these two incidents -- and a hundred more combined -- have convinced me that there are at most 40,000 people in the world. Any more and such coincidences wouldn't be happening all the time.
I don't know who's arranged the fiction that there are billions of people on this planet, or why. I only know that my version makes much more sense.
After all, have you ever met anyone from Ulan Bator?
Above: Our large and sparsely-populated planet.