Shaw looked at the gentleman standing opposite him at Passport Control in Schiphol Airport fifteen kilometers southwest of Amsterdam. One of the busiest airports in the world, it rested five meters below sea level with trillions of tons of swirling water nearby. Shaw had always considered this the height of engineering daring. Yet much of the entire country was below sea level, so they didn’t really have much of a choice on where to park the planes.

“Excuse me?” Shaw said, though he well knew what the man was referring to.

The fellow stabbed the photo page of Shaw’s passport with his finger.

“There. Your given name is just the initial ‘A’. What does it stand for?”

Shaw gazed at his passport while the Dutchman looked on.

As befitted the tallest nation on earth, the passport man in his regulation uniform was six foot two, only one inch above a Dutchman’s average height, but still coming in three inches under Shaw’s imposing stature.

“It doesn’t stand for anything,” Shaw answered. “My mother never gave me a Christian name, so I named myself for what I am. A Shaw. Because that is my surname, or at least it was my mother’s.”

“And your father had no objection to his son not taking his name?”

“You don’t need a father to deliver a baby, only to make one.”

“And the hospital did not name you, then?”

“Are all babies born in hospitals?” Shaw jabbed back with a smile.

The Dutchman stiffened and then his tone became less adversarial.

“So Shaw. Irish, as in George Bernard?”

The Dutch were a wonderfully informed people, Shaw had found. Well educated and curious, loved to debate. He’d never had anyone before ask him about George Bernard Shaw.

“Could be, but I’m Scottish. The Highlands. At least my ancestors came from there,” he added quickly, since he was holding an American passport, one of a dozen he actually possessed. “I was born in Connecticut. Perhaps you’ve been there?”