When I arrived at the cavernous place where Vjeran Piršić was to give a talk at a conference about the Adriatic, I first thought I missed the century. The suits and ties. The mustaches and beards. The chests and bellies. The nods and whispers. Not to be too damning, late Nineteenth or early Twentieth Century at the latest. When I asked one of the organizers what was the English translation of the venerable institution’s name, I was told that it was known abroad simply as Matrix Croatica. “Matrix,” I asked, “as in the mother of bees.” I got a solemn nod in return. Anyhow, Vjeran’s talk went well. Just like me, he wore a T-shirt, but his had a collar.