I just bumped into Danijel Handjal, one of several Motovun youngsters who had moved to Zagreb a few years ago. We often bump into each other in the Croatian capital. “You’re still here,” he smiled. “Yup,” I said, “I’ll go back early next month.” “Me, too,” he said, “but only for a few days.” “See you there!” I smiled in turn and waved him goodbye. As soon as he was gone, the word furešt flashed through my mind. A moment later I was writing yet another addendum to the piece on the subject I had broached a short while ago (“Furešt,” March 8, 2012). And I have been a foreigner all my life! No matter where I have found myself, I have even enjoyed my special status. Until I came to Istria, that is. For the first time in my life I find being a foreigner insulting. And only because I actually hail from Istria. Indeed, there is something deeply disturbing about being a foreigner in your own land.

Addendum (October 1, 2016)

As many of my pieces of writing testify lately, I am doing my best to accept being a foreigner in my own land. “I am a foreigner even in Istria,” I pat myself on the back, “and it is high time to stop fretting about it.” This feels soothing, but only for a while. “Even more important,” I urge myself with an exaggerated smile on my face, “it is time to celebrate my special status.” Whenever an opportunity arises, I say it in public, as well. “I’m a foreigner in Istria,” I pronounce with relish, “and that is fine with me.” On all such occasions, though, my parents come to my mind without fail. My mother is from Pazin, and her mother and father are from Hum and Buzet. My father is from Krk, and his mother and father are from Klana and Baška, but his father’s mother and father are from Plomin and Labin. “You’re not a foreigner in Istria,” I can almost hear them muttering in unison, “you’re as Istrian as they come.” Over and over again, I feel cornered by my parents and their families. Try as I may, I am not a foreigner to them.