As happens quite often during the peak of the tourist season, this evening a huge crowd gathered at Miško’s. Many of those who live abroad but own houses in Motovun congregated around several packed tables. A lively discussion across and between tables followed. At some point someone asked me about my legal troubles with the mayor, and I explained the situation I faced to the best of my ability. As I went along, I was quite frank about my growing anxiety and my seething anger. Several people joined in with questions and suggestions about the best way forward. Zdravko Košutić was among them. He has practiced psychiatry in Holland since he left Croatia almost forty years ago. My next-door neighbor for several years, he is quite frank with me, as well. “You know,” he started, “it would help if you would talk to someone about all this.” I explained that I had a few friends with whom I could share my thoughts and feelings, but that I was also an expert at talking with myself. “My writing helps a great deal,” I added with some pride. “But you need someone else from time to time,” he continued in a confidential voice. When I repeated what I had already said, he shook his head. “Friends are great,” he smiled politely, “but you may also need professional help.” At long last I understood him. Although I defended myself as adroitly as I could, I quickly left the merry company. As soon as returned home, I went to one of my computers and started writing ever more feverishly. To myself, it goes without saying.