As I am reading at home in mid-afternoon, I hear a thundering noise coming up Borgo. Cross-country motorcycles, I realize a moment later. A whole horde of them thunder past my house toward the lower square. First, they are going the wrong way, for Borgo is a one-way street going the other way. Second, they should never be allowed to come to the top of the Motovun hill even up Gradiziol, where the traffic is going both ways. Indeed, the hilltown is left open to marauders. There is no authority left in it. The municipality is nothing but fiction. Standing by the open door of my house, I look toward the murky sky. “I hereby declare Motovun dead,” I pronounce in a solemn voice and raise my arms high. “Amen!”