At the hotel check-in counter in Lucerne,
a travel weary American family of four,
on summer break,
had just walked across the
on the world’s oldest surviving truss bridge.
They’d also viewed the incredible
Dying Lion stone carving,
a tribute to immense bravery.
“Your passports, please,”
the natty clerk said in impeccable English.
Tobi Anne, eleven then,
a blond braid engineered
by her mother’s nimble fingers
hanging mid-way down her back,
innocent as pie,
“Why do you need our passports?”
“Because,” he replied,
“Some people pretend to be someone they’re not.”
“Oh,” daughter mine said,
a coy grin tugging at her lips,
“Who are we going to be tonight, Dad?