I light a pipe on the kitchen terrace. My foot planted on the terrace parapet, I stare absentmindedly at the misty valley below. Then I start pacing between the kitchen door and the window of the dining area, which also gives onto the kitchen terrace. As I puff along, I cast a glance through the window at the dining table strewn with books. For a brief moment I feel mortified at the thought that I have caught myself staring through someone else’s window.

Addendum (October 22, 2016)

When this piece was written, I was living in Motovun for nearly a year and a half already. But I was still new to the hilltown and the house. In addition, I was reportedly staring at the misty valley below and pacing along the kitchen terrace rather absentmindedly. Which goes a long way toward explaining my mortification upon glancing through the window by the dining table and seeing it strewn with books. Having come across this piece purely by chance, though, I am surprised only by the pipe, which I stopped smoking many years ago. Thus I check the date several times in a row. Indeed, this was written more than a decade ago. Returning to my mortification, I cannot but wish it back. The next few days, I am sure to return to the kitchen terrace and glance occasionally through the window toward the dining table, which is still strewn with books. Someone else’s window?