It is almost three o’clock in the morning. Loud music is booming from the lower square on top of my street. The stench of burnt oil envelops the entire Motovun hill. The last movie of the festival long over, young people are crawling all over the place. All the streets and squares are so jammed by now that it is difficult to squeeze through the crowd. There must be at least five-thousand people in town at the moment, but there may well be as many as ten-thousand. As I write, several youngsters are sitting on the threshold of my house. There are dozens of youths in the alleys to the north and the south of the house. They are chatting. Guffawing. Shrieking. And peeing all over the place, as witnessed by the reek of urine that is one of the festival’s hallmarks. Most of them are guzzling cheep local wine, which is widely available around town, but not a few of them are taking drugs of all kinds. Last night a team of plain-clothes police officers arrested several young people next to my house because they were smoking something illegal. Anyhow, the hubbub will not subside until well past dawn. It will be difficult to fall asleep through it all, but I can only hope that everything will be all right when I wake up. As I am jotting this down, I am wondering once again about the mysterious connection between the film festival and the horror that surrounds me at this early hour. Try as I may, the connection escapes me. Mind you, this is my seventh festival in Motovun, and there have been no more than ten to date.