There was a big party at Klaudio’s last night. Most of us were newcomers to the town, but there was a bunch of locals, as well. Exactly at midnight we had fireworks. Arnold Trampe released all sorts of huffing and puffing projectiles from the lower square as everyone from the party huddled by the café door to watch the spectacle. I am not a great fan of fireworks, but I was happy that Motovun would be noticed from far and wide. I did not give the whole thing much more thought in the hubbub. But it returned to me as soon as I woke up this morning. “Motovun, Schmotovun,” I could almost hear myself whisper in the dark.