The weather keeps being lousy, and tourists keep clambering up the Motovun hill in droves. By and by, it is becoming pretty hard to stay in this godforsaken tourist attraction. I feel like running far, far away and never coming back. If there is anything that makes tourists especially abhorrent, it is their children. Tenderfoot children, to be a bit more precise. They yell and scream. They cannot sit still. They want this and that. And they know how to get whatever comes to their minds in a jiffy. They yell and scream at the top of their voices, that is. Tenderfoot parents are completely lost with their children, it goes without saying. Bereft of viable rules of childrearing, they are at sea. Encumbered with untold laws prohibiting every conceivable form of punishment, they cannot move a finger. And their children know it very well. They abuse their parents with a vengeance. Which is why the very notion of tenderfoot children sounds contradictory. Nay, paradoxical. For they will be eating their parents alive any day soon. And with relish.