Sitting at the hotel terrace all alone, I am still subjected to the music piped my way by so many loudspeakers hanging off branches of chestnut trees whose shade brings me here many a sizzling afternoon. Every now and then I pick up a few stray words from a song. They are all inane. Whenever I try to commit to memory something that strikes me as inane past compare, I am surprised by the speed with which the words evaporate from my mind. It is like listening to the gibberish of toddlers—you lose it if you do not write it down at once. More often than not, it is the inanity of the next song that obliterates the inanity of the previous one. Even though I occasionally find myself annoyed by the loss of the most inane words on offer, I am much more annoyed by the fact that I can understand so many words in Croatian, Italian, or English—apparently the languages of choice at the hotel terrace. Better deaf and dumb, I am fully convinced.