I met Marko Sošič, a Slovene author of some renown, in the summer of 2004, when he was finishing his second novel in Motovun, and we became quite close (”Marko Sošič’s Eyes,” December 14, 2004). We met a few times in the meanwhile, but only fleetingly. Today we had another chance to talk at some length. And in Motovun, of all places. As it turns out, he has many more novels to his name. “I love Istria,” he told me at some point. “Well…,” I started hesitatingly. He knew about my struggle with crooked golf, but I told him a bit more about it. As well as about my decision not to get involved with anything Istrian any more. “I’m as Istrian as they come,” I concluded, “but I would be glad never to see this peninsula ever again.” He was sympathetic with my heartbreaking story, but he was still lost for words. We promised each other to talk more on another occasion, but he was tired after a long walk from Pula to Motovun. Having taken two days, it was a pilgrimage of sorts for him. Looking back, it would be wonderful if I could repeat after him: “I love Istria.” My mother would surely be so happy to hear these words. Alas, I would be lying through my teeth.