As I am walking through one of the streets running along the pedestrian area in Zagreb, I see a white car breaking at a red light. “Generali,” I read a sign in large red lettering on its flank. Next to the company name I see the lion of Venice holding an open book in its paws. I cannot read what is written in the book, for the lettering is too small, but I know it by heart: “Pax tibi Marce evangelista meus.” I feel transported at once. Venice! But my enthusiasm does not last long. The insurance company in question, one of the largest in Europe, has taken the Venetian flag as its very own. And it is from Trieste, of all places. All of a sudden, I feel anger. Nay, rage. And then I remember that I will be going to Motovun in a few hours. Venice, Schmenice. Now that its venerable flag and its ample real estate are up for grabs, why should I care?! Only two centuries ago I would have smashed the car with my own hands for the abuse of the Christian saint whose remains were brought to Venice by one of my ancestors some twelve centuries ago. “Generali,” I grumble to myself dejectedly, “my ass.”