A good part of the hotel terrace, which is ample enough, is occupied by an extended Istrian family celebrating something or another around a bunch of tables thrown together and laden with food and drink. As far as I can tell, at least four generations are present. The patriarch and the matriarch are taking the key seats. Both of them in their eighties, they are quiet most of the time. Except when the family gets up to leave after the feast, and it transpires that the patriarch cannot button his pants again. How the matriarch giggles! How she teases him to everyone’s barely concealed delight!