After a long morning at Klaudio’s, I walk out of the café together with Ljubica Handjal and Eni Nurkollari. We are all going home in the same direction. Ljubica is in her early eighties, and so we are taking our time. “Can you imagine,” Ljubica asks when we reach the town loggia on the lower square and pulls at our sleeves, “these damned foreigners are thinking about twenty-two golf courses in Istria!” Eni and I nod in agreement. “No sooner than they get all their golf courses,” she continues, “they will kick out the poor Croatians and hire Romanians and Moroccans, instead!” We nod in agreement once again. “The way things are going,” she says as we reach the door of her house on top of Borgo, “the damned foreigners will soon shy away even from Croatian pussy!” At this point we all stop in front of Ljubica’s door and laugh our heads off.