Navigating the concrete jungle of New York City, I found myself crossing the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge, a marvel that’s been standing since 1939. Interestingly, this bridge was once known to sway in the wind, earning the nickname “The Trembling Lady of the Bronx.” Today, it’s as sturdy as the unshakable resolve of New Yorkers, but back then, crossing it must have felt like a tipsy dance with fate – speaking of tipsy...

The real adventure began with a business meeting that would put any Hollywood script to shame. Picture this: a group of Russians, straight out of central casting, decked out in bright tracksuits that screamed ‘I’ve arrived, and I don’t care if you know it!’ After what must have been a wild night in the city, they were nursing hangovers that could rival the aftermath of a vodka revolution. As they argued animatedly about sales targets, their thick accents rolling over each other, one of them kept confusing Connecticut with Kentucky. It was like watching a live comedy show, but with PowerPoint slides and pie charts. The journey back to Boston through Connecticut was a quiet one, with everyone silently agreeing never to discuss the tracksuit diplomacy of New York again.