As I am reading in my house in the middle of the afternoon, I hear the sound of a motorcycle roaring up Borgo. I frown, put my book down, get up from the dining table strewn with books, and head for the front door at a clip. “Marauders,” I growl through my clenched teeth. But I recognize the sound of the motor before I reach the front door. “It’s Mario Sviličić,” I break into a sweet smile, turn around, and head back toward the dining table at a leisurely pace. Just short of nine, he is “our” kid. And it is a joy to see him on his tiny if loud motorcycle, which his brother Laren used to ride around Motovun several years ago. It was a joy to see him riding it, too. Before I pick up my book again, I shake my head in awe of the sudden switch in my sentiments. “My tribal mind,” I sigh. “And little Mario is definitely from my tribe!” As I am looking for the last paragraph I have read before the interruption, I cannot suppress another sweet smile.