Whenever I am in Zagreb, and I am in the Croatian capital ever more often, I am deeply touched each time I bump into youngsters from Motovun: Danijel Handjal, Filip Vrtarić, his younger siblings Jakov and Sofija, or Dean Kotiga. I squeeze them. I kiss them. I caress them like an old fool. I love them all with the same unbridled emotion with which I used to love almost everyone in the hilltown some years ago. Actually, many years ago. Residual love, it crossed my mind when I bumped into Filip and Danijel a moment ago. Or is it residual Motovun, instead?