Not far from my table in one of my favorite cafés in central Zagreb there sits a man about my age whose company changes all the time. It was an elderly woman at first, then it was a young woman, and now it is another man roughly our age. Short and wiry, as well as endowed with a huge head, the man catches my attention because he speaks English with a strong French accent, because he is very loud, and because he gesticulates with astonishing energy. His hands are flying every which way with every word he utters. I cannot hear what he is talking about, but words pronounced with conviction bordering on fervor occasionally waft my way. “Creativity” is one of them, “democracy” is another, and “capitalism” came up a few times. Another French intellectual, no doubt. And the only thought that manages to form in my mind as I am watching the man is that I am extremely lucky that I will never have an opportunity to meet him, let alone to talk with him at any length. By and by, I am overcome by sweet feelings of contentment and even happiness.