Soon after I got up this morning, I heard the church bells. “Gosh,” I mumbled to myself, “who died this time?” Ever since my arrival in Motovun, the bells toll only when someone dies and when someone is buried, but burials take place only in the afternoon. The tolling stopped soon afterwards, though, which was quite unusual. Only then I remembered that it was Saint Stephen’s, the church holiday in the hilltown. On top of that, this year is the four-hundredth anniversary of the church. There was another church in its place, but it was rebuilt and consecrated in 1614. Its Palladian façade locates it in time pretty exactly. Realizing that the town would be teeming with people who have long departed from Motovun, Istria, and Croatia, I hurried with my morning ablutions. Sitting at Marko’s on the lower square, I would witness the holiday from my favorite vantage point, that of a staunch spectator. Pace Saint Stephen, but I like to keep a safe distance from the crowds.