My beloved and I are sitting at Miško’s with Ivan Šćulac when a woman in her late forties or early fifties walks up to our table. “May I ask you a question?” she says in a strong American accent. “My name’s John,” says Ivan in his Croatian-Australian accent, grins from ear to ear, and invites her to sit down. “My name’s D,” she grins back in a confident sort of way and pulls up a chair, “just D.” My beloved and I turn quiet as the conversation develops at a clip. “Where are you from?” asks Ivan. “I’m from Buffalo, New York, but I am working in Germany now,” she says in a manly sort of voice. “What do you do?” presses Ivan. “Well,” she hesitates for a moment, “guess what I’m doing!” My beloved and I barge in without any hesitation: “The military!” “How did you guess?” she guffaws and slaps her thighs. Now we are lost for words. How do you explain to a woman that you have guessed at first sight that she works for the military? “I deal in used trucks,” Ivan helps us out of our discomfiture, and the conversation continues unabated.