A few days ago, on the very day of British elections, I found a tiny Union Jack on a toothpick on the cobblestones by my front door. It must have fallen off a cake or a cup of icecream eaten by a child. I picked it up, and it turned out to be in perfect shape. And so I took it into my house and stuck it in the middle of a dish filled with lavender pods on my dining table. It looks so incongruous on top of its little aromatic mound that it entices a smile whenever I spot it in passing. Three candles burning right next to it this evening give it a special sheen, which enticed a veritable grin a moment ago. In a few short months, I will have to renew my British passport. The Union Jack on a toothpick was an omen to remind me of getting in touch with the British embassy in Zagreb, no doubt. It is the only passport I go by at this juncture, too. As it happens, it is among the few that can get you into the greatest number of countries around the world.