As I was lounging in the Bulldog Pub earlier today, a fellow about five years my junior sat a few tables away from me. He reminded me of an old friend at once. His name popped up without any effort on my part. We met in Ljubljana in the late Seventies. He, too, was involved in the sort of social planning I was doing at the time. Perhaps we even met in Cambridge, Massachusetts, after my departure from Ljubljana. To the best of my recollection, he spent some time studying in the States around that time. About five years younger than me, he could have done just that. I could not be sure about any of that, though. As far as I could remember, the last time we saw each other was in Belgrade in the late Eighties. Twenty-five years or so! How does one look after such a long time? To my surprise, the fellow did not look at me at all. But I have changed a great deal in the intervening years. My old friend must have changed a lot, as well. And then he got two calls on his mobile phone. He spoke in Croatian, but I could not place the accent. However, my old friend was Montenegrin. But only listen to me now! Any old friend of mine would have hard time detecting my old Belgrade accent. Although I hesitated all the while, I almost got up on a couple of occasions to introduce myself to the fellow a few tables away from mine. For better or for worse, he finished his drink rather fast, paid for it, and got up to go. “Bye,” he said to the waiter in English. “Shit,” it flashed through my mind. He could well have been my old friend. The clothing he wore smacked of the States, too. It was too late, anyway.