I am sitting in the Dubrovnik Café and sipping my drink when I suddenly start talking to my children: “Read not what I write at your peril, for you are half me.” My message surprises me, for it smacks of genetic determinism of some kind. In addition, my threatening tone makes me uncomfortable. Where could it be coming from? It strikes me that my message is not mine at all. Only at that point I remember that my parents used to come to this particular café. My father’s parents must have come to it on occasion, as well. Feeling trapped in a time warp of sorts, I finish my drink and head from the door. “Sorry,” I continue talking to my children half in jest, “read not what I write at your will, for I am half you.” The day is superb, and I plunge into the throng milling about the main square of the Croatian capital. Soon enough, talking to my children becomes a distant memory.