As I started climbing the wooded hill under the upper town in Zagreb, I realized that it was almost noon. The cannon was about to fire. I hurried up and stood under the tower where the cannon points out of a window on top. I fixed my gaze on the muzzle. The loud burst came in about a minute. There was much smoke projected from the cannon, but there were also pieces of cardboard fluttering about. The powder must be held by it. One of the pieces landed right next to me, and I picked it up at once. A perfect circle, it still smelled of powder. It was exactly the cannon’s caliber, too. After a quick walk around the upper town, I returned to the lower town in its foothills, and I headed for the nearest store with school paraphernalia. Once I found it, I looked for a ruler. Eight centimeters, as it turned out. And I felt no less than privileged. I knew the cannon’s caliber. Delighted, I decided the souvenir would be a fitting present for my beloved. Without her, I would never return to the city of my birth. Even more, I would never even think of it.