A foreigner with a familiar mug

Once upon a time I fly via Amsterdam - I like the Royal Dutch Airlines; and their capital is to my taste immediately - so, I'm back from Paris via Amsterdam ... I had time lucky: some action took place, and as a result the price of business class was on some pennies more than the economy, and I decided to treat myself once in a lifetime. So, I get in the plane, I am located. Then a neighbor approaches. If I see him in Makhachkala (my native city in Russia), I would have decided, he is probably a Laki (if somebody doesn’t know, it is one of North-Caucasian people in the south of Russia). Or a Dargin (it is the other North-Caucasian people). His face was a really typical for these nations, and, that is most important, familiar for me. Also he stares at me. God knows why: whether in response to my interest, or me also looked like appeared person for him. Finally he a little bit awkwardly says:
"Paul."
"McCartney?!" – escapes me.
"Yea, yea," - he says, and smiles warmly.
God knows why he was friendly, and why he introduced himself to the stranger at all. Most probably “stars” as usually don’t act so. But it happens. As one Russian proverb says, once a year even a stick can shoot.
The fly lasted about three hours. We met, chatted and exchanged business cards (of course, I keep his one as a precious souvenir), drunk. I can even say we’ve drunk not so small. It was a business class, so it’s O.K.
Paul was even more interesting interlocutor than it would be expected. And he has a surprise too: he flew so much to Moscow not as to Makhachkala (that's a coincidence!) And he flew almost incognito to the wedding of his friend's son. He called the friend’s name. It is impossible to say that this person is strongly known, but to say that he is exactly unknown is also not possible. So I don’t articulate his name here. But, perhaps, I say his ethnicity. Dargin. In half. And in the other half - Laki.
Some friends should meet Paul McCartney in Moscow and accompany him to Makhachkala. No official meetings, concerts, etc. were planned. Just flew to the wedding of a son of the friend who just invited him. Nothing more. God knows how and where once they had met with this guy and became to be friends, but that's not my business.
Paul seemed interesting to visit Makhachlala: Ian Gillan visited it, but he did not. And now there was a good occasion...
So, we arrive to Moscow, and indeed the groom's father's nephew (that is a cousin of the groom, but it is clearer as I said before, because the groom himself is not a matter in this invitation as his father), so, Paul’s friend's nephew - also my distant friend - meets Paul in airport. As the saying goes, the world is small, and Makhachkala is small too. Frankly speaking, it's not so small, but still a rule of six handshakes for interesting people is shrinking to two or three in fact. The guy surprised, of course, when he saw me together with Paul, then word by word, at first he invited me to pick-up to the Moscow-city, and then to the wedding of his cousin. I flew by other flight, rather in contrast to Paul I really did not fly, but took a train. Any case I should arrive just in time for this wedding and I couldn’t ignore that invitation.
So, two days later I see Paul in the wedding banquet. He was incognito, as he said before. Almost. Once in the end of banquet he was invited to tell a toast speech, however, by agreement, just as a Paul from the UK (no surname and title), but now I tell about other things. Much before his speech I went out to smoke and Paul also goes out. We sat at separate tables - a really big wedding (few hundreds guests), Paul is an interesting person, so this is clear. But we turned out at the same time. This happens. Of course, we greeted each other. It was a pleasant surprise that he had read on the Internet some my short novels that I had time to translate in English. So we had enough topics for a talk. Moreover, not all of guests from his table could speak English fluently, and Paul was clearly bored.
In one moment someone called me at cell-phone, and in the same time Paul just had a problem, you should understand what. So, our talk broke off relatively sharply. We saluted each other... And here's the most interesting. After Paul went to a toilet, at least two persons rapidly came in the same direction - the nephew that followed him literally on the heels (well, you know our hospitality and, unfortunately, the overall situation in our region since the nineties of XX century) and one, frankly, the old man (Paul's age) who smoked one cigarette after another, and attentively listened us. So that's what the nephew told me later:
"You count up the circus! Uncle Magomed catches up with Paul's and bluntly asks: “Listen, brother, I don’t remember you, but I see – you are our man. What is that foreigner, whom are you just talking? His mug is also very familiar.”"
That's how I became to be a "foreigner with a familiar mug".

***
Well, everything in this story is a solid fiction, or rather a thought experiment. Or dream. I am not familiar with Paul McCartney, and I had never flown with him via Amsterdam. Or maybe fly, but in a parallel universe. Perhaps it was really happened out with some other Paul from some other Beatles and with some other me. But the story came out fun, and I decided to tell it you. Indeed, if I would have seen Paul in Makhachkala, I thought, he is probably a Laki. Or a Dargin. But if there had been John Lennon, perhaps, I would thought, he is must probably a Lezgin. Moreove, Akhty-man . Any case I look like a more foreigner in my own town than their. Maybe with a familiar mug.