There are two postmen in Motovun. They switch from time to time, but I am still at a loss as to when and why. The one who is on duty at the moment goes around on a yellow moped, which seems to be the property of the post office, as its color is the same as that of the several mailboxes one can find around town. Every working day around noon I can hear the whine of the moped coming up Borgo. The street is steep, and the moped is straining under the postman’s weight. He stops by my door almost every day. While he is fumbling through his bag with the remaining envelopes and parcels, as the post office is on top of the hill not far from my house, I come down from my study, open the door, give him a big smile, extend my hand, and collect my mail. He always smiles back. Sometimes the postman is a bit quicker than me, and he pushes the mail under my door while I am walking down the steps, but today I got up from my desk earlier than usual. I reached for the doorknob just as the moped whined past my house and continued up the cobbled street. There was nothing for me today. “At least I did not open the door like a fool,” it crossed my mind as I pulled my hand back in haste.