Sitting on the lower square in the early afternoon, I am watching tourists milling around. After a while, I spot a father in his mid-sixties, a mother in her mid-fifties, and a daughter in her late teens. The daughter is dressed to kill and plastered with makeup. Her lipstick is as red as red can be. She is ridiculous, to say the least. They are looking for a place to eat, but the daughter is getting annoyed with her parents. And fast. She behaves as though she is on stage: there are pitiful grimaces, flailing arms, and drooping shoulders galore. Apparently, she does not want to eat anything on offer in the hilltown. It does not take long for the father to start getting annoyed with his daughter, and for the mother to begin intervening as a peacemaker. Which starts me calculating. The mother was in her late thirties when she gave birth to her daughter. At the time, the father was in his late forties or early fifties. The two got together so that she could have a child, her greatest dream. In the nick of time, too. He concurred somewhat hesitantly, but he must be regretting it now. Actually, both of the parents must be regretting it now. But the crafty daughter is getting her best out of the historic deal between her parents. “It’s all your fault,” I can imagine her telling them over and over again. In full agreement with her, they are doing their best to appease her time after time. “Okay, okay,” I can almost hear them telling their daughter, “we’ll eat someplace you like!” And they left the lower square and Motovun in a hurry.