Branko and Vera Kolarević visited me yesterday together with their son Marko. They live in Canada, but they are vacationing in Istria this summer. I know Branko for twenty-six years already, and I know Vera for only a year less. We were very close just before I left the States for Britain twenty-four years ago, but we met a good number of times in the meanwhile. Marko is thirteen now, but I saw him in Reading eleven years ago and in Motovun six years ago. All in all, we are pretty close. One surprising thing about our friendship is that it is hard to find any trace of it in my writings. Kolarevićs pop up here and there, but not nearly as often as they pop up in my mind. The same is true of so many others among my close friends. They are nearly invisible in my writings, though. Why is that so? I asked myself the same question when Branko, Vera, and Marko left yesterday evening, but I could not come up with a single answer worth jotting down. The same holds this morning. For some strange reason, I tend to be quiet about friends. Come to think of it, I seem to be loud only about enemies.