Last Saturday morning, Sam and I drove an hour outside of Chennai to tour a motorcycle factory. Before the tour began me, Sam and about 20 other people going on the tour had to introduce themselves and say why they had come to go on the tour. Responses ranged from, "I'm really passionate about motorcycles," to "I am an Royal Enfield enthusiast." None of which were true of me.
When it came to our tour, I said, "My name is Paul and this is my son, Sam. We're from the U.S. And Sam got really good grades at school so his reward was to go on this tour." He may have blushed.
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I hope this is the closest he ever gets to a motorcycle, but the same part of me that can imagine Sam and Peter has two tan, long-legged boys loping into the surf on Ipanema Beach as teenagers can see Peter's skinny arms wrapped tight around Sam's waist as they dart through Bangkok or Bucharest traffic on a scooter.
When it came to our tour, I said, "My name is Paul and this is my son, Sam. We're from the U.S. And Sam got really good grades at school so his reward was to go on this tour." He may have blushed.
I hope this is the closest he ever gets to a motorcycle, but the same part of me that can imagine Sam and Peter has two tan, long-legged boys loping into the surf on Ipanema Beach as teenagers can see Peter's skinny arms wrapped tight around Sam's waist as they dart through Bangkok or Bucharest traffic on a scooter.
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