On my way home from the local store, I walk past Stanka Babić’s house on top of Borgo. She is sitting in front of her house and reading a newspaper. I greet her by waving my hand, for she is hard of hearing, but she motions me to see something in the newspaper. “You know what’s written here?” she chuckles. When I approach her and look at the page she is pointing at with her finger, I see a naked woman. “Ouch,” I jump away in mock fright and walk away. “You know what’s written here?” she repeats her question after me in a louder voice. When I turn around and raise my eyebrows, she chuckles again: “Stanka!” As it happens, that is the name of the naked woman, too. Having turned seventy earlier this year, our Stanka is over the moon.