I am watching a busload of elderly Austrians who somehow made it to the top of the Motovun hill. Most of them in their mid- to late seventies, they cannot make it to the upper square, though. The ramp is too steep, as most of them have learned after several botched attempts. The lower square is thus teeming with them. Limping hither and thither, fat and disfigured, ugly and shaky, they fall into two distinct camps: men are drinking beer, and women are after anything topped with a load of whipped cream. The more, the merrier. Working class, no doubt. Worked to near death, they are still alive. Only just, as if by some horrible miracle. Notwithstanding occasional peals of laughter, they are actually more dead than alive. Mere statistics of technological progress. Watching them from a safe distance, I am not sure whether to loathe them or to pity them. Capitalism’s refuse. And a vivid example to the Croatians earnestly serving them of what lies in store. Mere statistics at best.