Ljiljana Samokovlić is in town since a few days ago. She has come to a wedding of a relative from Belgrade, a young woman who now lives in New York. The wedding is scheduled for tomorrow. Ljiljana is staying with Katica Ferluga, an old friend, but we keep bumping into each other all over Motovun. Each and every time we meet, we end up by gabbing for a long while. And about everything under the sun. I am delighted to see her, and she apparently enjoys seeing me, as well. We talk like old friends, and I keep learning about Motovun as it used to be in the early Seventies, when both Ljiljana and Katica came to town with their husbands, both of whom are long dead. Anyhow, I was with Ljiljana when she met with the bride’s mother, who just arrived for the wedding. “Living in the same house makes you a relative of sorts,” she quipped when Ljiljana introduced me to her. “Exactly,” I agreed enthusiastically, “exactly!” Indeed, there is no better explanation for the close relationship that both of us are experiencing. And we became relatives almost exactly nine years ago, when she sold me her house.