Barely back in Motovun, I am reeling from all the heart-rendering stories coming my way. This family is about to be ousted from its property. It is only a question of days or maybe months. The other family is breaking up after the death of the matriarch. Police is already involved in the turmoil. And yet another is destitute on account of serious illness of several among its key members. Death is in the air. The best I can do is only listen to so many harrowing stories, for there is nothing I can do about any of them. Once again, my sentimentality is dead against me. Perplexed, I am considering spending more time at home. By myself, I can at least deal with so many problems all my own. Petty as they are, they still demand my unflagging attention. The attic needs vacuuming. There is a pile of laundry to wash. The icebox needs defrosting. To my amazement, I still find myself going out for another drink. And yet another flood of heart-rendering stories. A hopeless sentimentalist, as ever. Motovun above all, as it were.