I just walked past a jogger in his mid- to late fifties. Dressed the part from head to toe, as is only appropriate in central Zagreb, he was breathing so loudly that it was impossible to miss him for about a city block each way. His breathing was no less than theatrical, too. He was jogging, and he wanted everyone to know it. Even more, he wanted everyone to be deeply impressed by what he was doing. Jogging! Wait a minute, though. His breathing was a dash too theatrical even for the Croatian capital, a petty-bourgeois theater in all but name. Perhaps it was a sign of distress? Indeed, perhaps he was dying? Dying! And all I did was walk past him in deep disgust on account of his obnoxious jogging. Chances are that I will never learn, to be sure. But jogging and dying will remain inextricably bound in my mind, and especially if accompanied by heavy breathing. Theatrical breathing, to be a bit more exact.