The hotel terrace is the place to be this afternoon. Unusually for this place, a large group of Spaniards—two dozen of them, to be exact—has taken four tables in a row. Apparently related, they span between three and four generations. Of rural origin, which is obvious enough from the way they brandish their forks and knives, they behave as though the terrace is theirs and only theirs in perpetuity. Italians would be a joke for them. What with grownups yelling across tables and with youngsters yelping unhindered all the time, the racket is formidable. Singing breaks out regularly. Now and then, there is an applause followed by raucous laughter. On occasion, there is a riot following the appearance of a single wasp. The whole lot participates in the havoc with gusto: everyone jumps, chairs fly, children screech with abandon. At their most quiet, the two-dozen Spaniards jabber in unison. Not one of them can keep quiet for more than a second. All told, it is like having a troupe of monkeys right at the top of the Motovun hill. As I said, the hotel terrace is definitely the place to be this afternoon.