On our way home from our favorite restaurant in Zagreb, my beloved stops by the window of a tourist agency. I join her. She is attracted by a pretty picture of St. Stefan, a peninsula in Montenegro, which my father turned into a luxury hotel in the Fifties. Back at home, she searches for it on the World Wide Web, and we start talking about my memories of the place. Ah, the memories! I was between five and ten when I spent several blissful summers there together with my parents. And then my beloved invites me to see a new Russian hotel that overlooks the minuscule island connected to the coast by a narrow isthmus. I recoil at once. “Stupid Slavs,” I start railing. “Such a wonderful coast so quickly squandered.” My beloved rolls her eyes and switches to another subject. She has heard about the stupid Slavs a few times too many.