Sitting by the blazing fireplace, we are leafing through one of the local newspapers. “Hey,” she points at an article, “here’s something about one of Diana’s lovers.” When we start talking about the pandemonium that followed the fatal accident in Paris, it turns out that my beloved was in London at the time. “C’mon,” I am quite surprised, “this is the first time I hear about it!” She tells me about the hysterical television news, crowds milling all around the mourning city, impenetrable traffic jams. My surprise soon turns into a disappointment: “We could have met almost a year before we actually met…” I feel kind of cheated, as though London is just about the size of Motovun.