Now that the film festival is squarely behind us, Motovun is crowded with tourists once again. There are zillions of them. There is loud chatter in untold languages everywhere around. There is much laughter, too. Screaming children complete the picture. “Tourists are for fun,” I remind myself. Many of them are amazing to behold, and no kidding, but there are way too many of them. Zillions, as I already said. Whenever I sit in one of my favorite watering holes in the hilltown, such as Marko’s on the lower square or the hotel terrace, I look for the most amusing tourists around. Here is a gargantuan bum that can barely squeeze through many a door, there is the burliest beard I have seen in years, and over yonder is a menopausal beauty dressed to kill. “Tourists are for fun,” I keep reminding myself, but to no avail. All my attempts at amusement notwithstanding, I feel most comfortable at home with not a single tourist in sight. Phew! But I can still hear them chattering and laughing just outside my front door. And the screaming of children completes the picture no matter where I go.