I dreamt that I was packing up in Motovun. First I packed my paintings, leaving the battens on the walls empty. Then I packed my rugs and protected them with mothballs. Before I packed my books, I made several smaller packages with important documents. One package had to do with my protracted legal battle with the mayor of Motovun, and the other with all my pensions and associated bank accounts. These two packages were to be left with friends, who would send them to me as soon as I settled down somewhere else. The keys would go to my lawyer, who would organize the shipping and sell the house. I packed my own books, but left the others on the shelves. Last I packed my parents’ paintings. The rest was of no interest to me. As I was walking around the house, I relished the cardboard boxes piled up everywhere. I relished the barren walls, as well. I remember taking a hammer and chisel to the stone plaque next to the front door, but then I decided against removing it. “Ca’ Bon,” I chuckled to myself and shook my head in awe of my own folly. When I woke up, I was still elated by my imminent departure from Croatia. Having packed up, all that remained to be done was to get to the Trieste airport. And the rest of the world was mine.