Whenever an opportunity presents itself, I mention my parents in conversation. Much of the time, this helps people around me understand my decision to move to Istria, and perhaps even justify my presence. When an Istrian town comes up, I mention in passing that my father’s mother was born there. Or that my mother’s parents were buried in a neighboring town just before the onset of World War II. I rarely miss a chance to let people know about my roots. But I bring up my parents in any other context, as well. I explain that the leather pouch I use for change, which enchants many people here by its old-fashioned design, was used by my father for pipe tobacco. Or I mention that one of the Istrian candidates in the upcoming national elections was my mother’s favorite for years, and I add by way of explanation that she used to follow political developments here with avid attention. Any excuse is fine with me, no matter how trivial the connection. Sooner or later, people are bound to notice this peculiar proclivity of mine. The fellow who never stops talking about his late parents… The mystery is not difficult to fathom, though. Deep down, this is but a clumsy exercise in sympathetic magic. If only my parents could see me ensconced in the land of their youth! Better still, here they are by my side to witness this prodigy!