IT ALL STARTED with an invitation to a dinner at the home of the Cypriot ambassador. It’s not everyday one gets to go to an ambassador’s house, so how could I refuse? Of course, I’m not one to pass up on fine dining no matter where or for what reason. In fact, I supped at the Iraqi mission last week. Kidding.

The home of the ambassador to Cyprus is in the upper-crust D.C. neighborhood of Kalorama–a towering brownstone once owned by Frank Sinatra. A sharply dressed woman in her forties with dark olive features graciously welcomed me. She was the ambassador, which, to my embarrassment, I did not know. The invitation said “Ambassador Dr. Erato Kozakou-Marcoullis”–but since Erato, the Greek muse of lyric and poetry, was not the most popular name where I grew up in New Jersey (there were more Ginas), I didn’t feel totally at fault.