I am waiting for my lunch in the town loggia, which serves as the terrace of Benjamin’s restaurant during the busiest summer months, when I hear a funny sound coming from the top of Borgo right behind my back. At first I think someone is mixing thick mortar in a large pot. Then it seems to me the mortar is being applied to a smooth stone slab, whence the faint scraping. The sound is too regular, though. I cannot imagine anyone working with the sticky substance so regularly, so methodically. Besides, who would be fooling around with mortar so close to the loggia around noon? My curiosity sufficiently aroused, I turn around at last. By the stairs leading up to the gate of the walled part of town I see the crumpled body of an emaciated creature gazing skywards. A woman of about forty, I would guess. She is stretched out on a large pushchair or a tiny bed on hefty wheels. The sound that has attracted my attention is that of her tortured breathing. Judging by the facial features, the woman pushing the contraption over cobblestones could be her sister. Whoever she is, she must think of Motovun as worth the crumpled woman’s bumpy ride. The twain must be in search of miracles. And major miracles, no less.