This story was not supposed to begin in Zagreb, but then a talkative five-year-old named Oliver showed up at my lunch table. Two weeks earlier, in mid-May, my family and I had buried my mother, and she adored children. In my state of mind, which was jet-lagged and grief-stricken, I saw Oliver as her messenger, a tender reminder to carry on, to keep traveling, to “find the joy,” as she often said.