The mayor of my little town is not famous for garrulousness. He is appreciated for his ways with administration and finance, but he is quite stiff and reserved with people. He rarely smiles, let alone laughs. I introduced myself to him a year ago, as soon as I bought my house in Motovun, and I told him that I would move here for good. As there are few people who live here permanently, that was supposed to be good news. Ever since our first meeting we have been exchanging greetings, but only on my own initiative. He behaves as though he has forgotten who I am. Or so I have felt. A few days ago I approached him again at a small ceremony at the town piazza. “You know,” he started without greetings, “I have received a number of complaints about the color of your house.” I agreed it was a bit strong, but I explained that my builders had instructions to find a color the house was painted a couple of decades ago, when it was rebuilt. It had always been rather strong, but it had faded over the years. More to the point, it will fade a bit after a year or two once again. “Anyhow,” the mayor concluded flatly, “you may have problems with historical preservation people in Poreč.” Welcome to Motovun!

Addendum (February 19, 2004)

The color of my house is a frequent subject of conversation in and around Motovun. One way or another, many people here find it a bit grating. Expecting to hear from the good people in Poreč, I have had many opportunities to practice my arguments in favor of my choice of color. Well, my builders’ choice of color, to be precise. First, I explain to everyone that Venetians would be appalled to see Motovun today. It used to be alive with color, as can still be gleaned if one looks under the eaves of old houses. Abandoned by its original inhabitants in the late 1940s, the town has been populated by people from Slavonia and Međimurje, who painted their houses white, as was their custom. In addition, the paint has fallen off many of the now derelict houses, exposing the yellowish stone underneath. People living in and around town have become used to this unusual condition, but that does not mean that color should not return to Motovun. And in earnest. Second, I explain to everyone that the few colors officially allowed by the authorities in Poreč have little to do with the variety that can be seen in Venice itself. After all, that is the only relevant model. Again, Venetians themselves would be stunned by such restrictions. If circumstances permit, I add that the Venetian pink is a color of renown, and that my builders may have missed it by a slight margin only. Third, I explain to everyone that I am of Venetian origin myself, and that I am the relevant authority when it comes to Venetian colors. If circumstances permit once again, I mention that I probably have more education in architecture, urban design, and urban planning than the entire Poreč establishment put together. By this stage in the argument, my poor interlocutors are usually exhausted. Their eyes glassy, they just nod at me wearily. God only knows whether the preservation people will be an equally easy prey if and when it comes to blows between us. Which I can hardly wait to happen, I must add with some pleasure.