Perhaps because the town is perched on top of a steep hill that juts out of a deep and narrow river valley, storms often sweep over Motovun at lightning speed. As there is little time between the first disconcerting gust of wind and a full-blown storm, one must bolt everything down at the greatest possible speed. But freak storms sometimes bypass the town, and one feels foolish on account of one’s misgauged effort. One thus tends to be a bit too slow the next time around, when one ends up struggling with the last lounge-chair on the terrace or the last shutter on the second floor. By and by, one learns not to feel foolish about one’s speed no matter how the storm turns out. What the storm actually does is the storm’s business.