It is Sunday, and Motovun is outright depressing. I went to the hotel for my morning coffee, but it felt deserted. I was the only one in the café all the while I was there. Even the hotel crew seemed dejected. They had some guests the last few days, but they were all gone by yesterday evening. Then I went to the grocery store, and I met a few old women who could barely speak. The silence in the store was almost unbearable. On my way home, I met a couple of permanent residents of the hilltown, but they were on the quiet side, as well. “Silence is fine,” I said to one of them when we shook hands, “but this is the silence of a cemetery.” He just chuckled, and we both shrugged our shoulders as we parted our ways. For all its crowds during the tourist season, this is yet another Istrian ghost town. Although none of this is new to me, it is still hard to bear. Living in a cemetery is a challenge ever anew. Becoming a ghost takes some learning and a good deal of will.