To begin, I am lying in a lavish sleeper bed in first class on a wonderful British Airways Boeing 777, heading from Heathrow to Dulles. I am the only person in first class who isn’t asleep. Even my night owl wife-for-life is fast asleep on the bed next to me.
I am happy because I just finished a pleasant two-week stay in Frankfurt, Berlin and London, working on a movie, staying in great hotels and eating amazing filet of sole. And I hardly had to pay for a penny of it. That was a big part of why I enjoyed it so much.
I can’t sleep, though, so I close my eyes and think about something soothing and reassuring — namely, my late father, Herbert Stein. I think about him for a long time, and what comes to me is this: Almost everything I have I can trace back to my father and mother. To their efforts, to who they were, to their character.
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