As I usually do in the middle of each month whenever I am in Zagreb for the winter, yesterday I called the post office in Motovun, and I asked them to send me all the mail that had accumulated in my absence. The package arrived this morning. I called the post office once again, thanked them for it with feeling, and congratulated them on their superb service. Then I went to a post office not far from my beloved’s apartment and paid all my bills at once. On my way to a café in the neighborhood, I sent a mobile-phone text-message to my beloved. “Got the mail and paid the bills,” I reported. “An ideal Croat!” I boasted half in jest. Why only half in jest? Well, I am a Croat come what may, for there is no way for me to escape the blunders of my ancestors. But I am convinced that I am all alone in my agility and attention to detail when it comes to paying bills, including taxes. A mighty monument should be erected in my memory. All the plaque on the plinth should say would be that I had paid all my bills on time. A saint, or what?