As I am walking through the center of Zagreb, a young man approaches me with a big smile and a leaflet in his hand. “Good afternoon,” he says in English with a strong American accent. “Thanks,” I reply in Croatian and wave him goodbye as I am walking past him. God knows what it is that he is helping sell, but I am surely not interested in it. His smile vanishes in a jiffy, but I keep thinking about his mistake. Or is it a mistake? For I am wearing a North Face fleece and a pair of North Face pants. The label on the fleece is unmistakable. The North Face man, in short. My Timberland walking shoes are a bit off the mark, but the young man could not have figured out their make on such a short notice. They are still American, at any rate. Had I not lived in the States for so many years, I would probably be wearing different clothes this time of year. Chances are that I would be walking rather differently, as well. “Good afternoon,” I keep mimicking the young man as I am walking through the streets and squares of the Croatian capital. The big smile I am sporting goes well with the American accent. The North Face man for true.