Doppelganger

It’s an odd word—clearly German, but also used in the United States. Its literal meaning is “double walker,” but as spoken in English it means a person who looks nearly identical to someone else. 

Recently I encountered two minor instances, and once my wife Yvonne came across an example so astonishing that, rather than a doppelganger, it might more accurately be called a twin.   

My daughter Maggie and I, on a free day of travel in Vienna, got tickets to see (and hear!) the Vienna Philharmonic. On the orchestra level of the balcony was the first example. Maggie poked me and said, “Dad, it’s you!” Sure enough, an audience member below us could have been me—or rather, the back of his head could have been me, because the minute he turned toward us, the resemblance disappeared. 

The second example was actually a friend, one I was so used to seeing that, until recently, I hadn’t realized he was a doppelganger. Our friend was Tom Starbird. Watching him one evening, I exclaimed, “Andy Warhol!” Sure enough, Tom’s face seemed almost identical to Warhol’s before the artist had died.

The most baffling example, spotted by Yvonne early in our marriage, occurred when she had traveled from California to Florida for a conference. Across the room she saw a man who looked just like my father, and not just from the back. 

Approaching the man, she saw his nametag: “Kenton Kidd.” Stunned, she hurried up to him and tried to find out what his relationship was to my father. He stared at her blankly. He told her there was no relationship.   

More than a doppelganger, this surely was a relative who was unknown to our side, a rogue branch of the family tree.   

The next time we saw Pop, my grandfather, we asked about the man. Pop clammed up. We never did find out. The relative, or branch, or doppelganger was gone. We never saw him again.