I dreamt that I was going from one watering hole to another, in each of which I knew a lot of people. But I realized after coming to one café that I did not recognize a fellow who was looking at me rather pointedly. He obviously knew me. I did my best to remember who he was, as well as how we knew each other, but all my efforts were in vain. What was worse, it was clear that he was a bit upset that I could not place him. Not long afterwards I went to another café, where a fellow called my name soon after my arrival. “Hey,” he chuckled when he saw the blank expression on my face, “you don’t recognize me!” Indeed, I had no idea who he was. Once again, I was racking my brain to no avail. “Ha,” he grinned somewhat sourly, “you’re getting old!” The teasing did not help, either. I remember feeling ever more uneasy about my tour of watering holes. It was time to go home, I reckoned. Before I fell asleep again, the dream struck me as very close to life. Often enough I cannot place people I bump into, let alone remember their names. They come to Motovun every once in a while, and their numbers are swelling from year to year. Recognizing them all is becoming a chore.