I always loved Saturdays. When I was a college student, quite improbably, my parents decided that I would be a “technical executor” of our family’s monthly budget. My family was part of the red bourgeoisie and we had enough, and probably more than enough, for a comfortable life; the life that today’s middle classes might find constrained and limited in income but attractive because of its security. What it meant was an apartment of 67 square meters, two bedrooms, enough money to go on a modest vacation once per year, very little money to travel abroad (because prices in Western Europe were a multiple of these in Yugoslavia, and one night in a hotel would cost a half of one’s salary), and enough to go to a restaurant once in a fortnight.