I lurve you guys for falling for a whopper, but I am nowhere near awesome enough to have taught a Sanskrit class in college or any other time. (A few of you guessed that right.) I never even took a Sanksrit class until I was long out of college.
I own a piece of Stonehenge. When a friend traveled to England, I asked him to bring me a pebble from someplace. He was afforded a private visit to Stonehenge by night, within the fence. While he was there, a pebble fell to his feet, and he looked up and saw a matching chink in one of the lintels. Quick-quick, he scooped up the pebble (I know he shouldn’t have—I’m sorry!) and brought it home and broke it into 3 pieces, one for himself, one for his daughter, and one for me.
I kissed Rudolf Nureyev on the lips. I used to volunteer in a small theatre company in Boston, and for a while I hung out with the cast and crew after the shows in one of the downtown haunts of theatre folk. One night when the Royal Ballet was in town, I spotted Rudolf Nureyev in the same restaurant, alone, all hunkered down at the far end of the bar. I was 23 and brave after a glass of wine. When he left, on impulse I shot out of my seat, accosted him on the street, and asked if I could give him my best kiss. Gay or not, he accepted it and returned it with some gusto.