The uglier the day, the nastier the weather, the closer we “winter folks” get in deserted Motovun, and the more we pat and hug each other whenever and wherever we happen to meet—the street, the post office, the store, one of the two squares, the church, the bank, the municipal office, one of the two cafés. More, our chance meetings are graced with a sense of elation, and maybe even love, that makes our smiles broader and our eyes softer and more luminous on the bleakest of winter days. For the “summer folks” are but a memory now. But a fading dream. But a dash of lingering desire. And only the winter folks are real. As real as folks ever get.