“Jesus,” I felt like gasping when I stepped out of my front door this evening, “where I live!” The street was barely lit. It was empty and dead quiet. There was a glimmer of light from only a couple of distant windows. The cobblestone paving was topsy-turvy after decades without a stitch of maintenance. Lined by many gaping ruins, the street struck me like a scene from a low-budget horror movie made in, say, Transylvania. And this is where I actually live.

Addendum (November 29, 2016)

Although Christmas and New Year’s are still ahead, Motovun is dead as a doornail already. Whenever I step out of my front door, I gasp: “Jesus!” And it is the worst in the evening, for there is not even a glimmer of light from any windows I can see from my doorstep. Ljubica Handjal is no more. Ivo Vrtarić is also gone never to return. His family has moved to another house down Borgo. As for the cobblestone paving, it looks drunk after so many years of utter neglect. On the bright side, there are no more ruins anywhere in sight. All the houses in my neighborhood have been rebuilt and refurbished, but they remain uninhabited. During the tourist season, they are up for rent. In short, Transylvania is where I still live. Ghosts are my dearest friends.