Andri is a regular at our neighborhood bar. He claims to be from a country I’ll call “X.” (I won’t attempt to pronounce it.) But we haven’t been able to identify X, or where it is. He insists that X is a real place: has its own coinage (look!), prints colorful stamps showing native birds and fish. He shows us maps of the capital, books in a strange typography of awkward forms. But we can’t find a flight that goes there, or a ship, nor does X have a Wikipedia entry or UN membership.
Andri looks around the bar hopefully, but none of us is convinced. There is no X, we say; Andri is putting us on, some elaborate drunken hoax.
Hearing us say these things, Andri despairs. He orders another drink, says it bears no comparison to the dark, smoky liquor made in X. He drinks it anyway, sobs convincingly as sad homesick expats are expected to.
Memorable Fancies 
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