As I was walking up Gradiziol at a clip because of the rain, an ambulance rumbled past me this morning. “Who is it?” I asked the first Motovun inhabitant I met on my way to the store. “Only a tourist,” I was told. I smiled and kept walking. It was not one of us, and that was all that counted at first blush. The second inhabitant told me the same. There were smiles all around. This was good news, as it were. But in the store, where I was heading, I learned that the tourist had died. An elderly man, he collapsed close to the top of Gradiziol. The ambulance arrived quickly enough, and they tried to revive him, but without success. “Only a tourist,” I heard over and over again on my way across the lower square and down Borgo toward my house. The news spread fast. Everybody was smiling, and for two reasons. The second reason was that everyone had had enough of tourists this season. “Tourists, go home!” one could see written across everyone’s lips. Including mine, I hasten to add. The rain that has been falling since last night only added to the cheer.

Addendum (September 12, 2014)

The tourist who died yesterday was ninety-two years old. He came from Sweden. He was a part of a group that visited the hilltown by bus, but there were no relatives with him. Having almost reached the lower square, he fell to the ground. A chair and a glass of water were brought for him at once. He explained that something was wrong with his heart. Then he slumped down and was carried into a nearby store. The ambulance could not take him away because he was dead already, but a mortician came soon afterwards to take his body away. All told, a perfect death. It took only a few minutes. In retrospect, it is amazing that he felt like climbing the Motovun hill at his age. A day later, my heart goes to him.