Thus a fat American woman sitting with her even fatter husband at a neighboring table on the hotel terrace each and every time she spots a paraglider through the crowns of chestnut trees. She seems to be elated by the expression. As well as convinced in its veracity. Nay, its absolute truth. Annoyed by the repetition, I consider its meaning. The third dimension gives birds some freedom of movement, to be sure, but little else. Birds are far from free in any other sense of the word. In addition, I happen to know one of the paragliders circling Motovun this afternoon, and I know that he can only dream of freedom. The third dimension that paragliding gives him is fun enough, but that is about all. Only then I remember John Lennon’s song by that name, which came out in the late Seventies. I do not remember anything else about it, but the fat woman must be a fan of the Beatles. And the phrase must have stuck with her for all these years. Yet another example of freedom in name only. But when the couple gets up to leave the terrace, I am over the moon. Free as a bird, I am elated by the expression at long last.