I walk down to Livade, where I am catching a bus to Zagreb, early enough for a leisurely morning coffee. The first café on my way is closed. I walk into a grocery store next door to find something to eat and drink on my trip, which takes four hours. The store is empty except for two men who work there. The older one is sitting behind the cash register and the younger one is standing behind a counter with all sorts of meat products. “This café is closed,” I say to the older man, “but how about the other one?” He looks up from some paper work he is doing. “This one is closed only on Mondays,” he smiles almost apologetically, “and the other one will open in two hours.” There is not much in the store, but I get a small can of peanuts and the smallest bottle of water. When I return to the cash register, the man sighs. “I’m an old man,” he says, “but it has never been as bad as it is right now.” Later on ne mentions that he is sixty-eight, only two years my senior. “People are penniless,” he shakes his head. Then he adds that cafés do not make enough money even to pay the waiters. “If there were no truffles,” he points at the Motovun forest surrounding the village, “people would be destitute.” I nod. “Mind you,” he raises his index finger, “I built my house on truffles!” I nod again. “However, my children cannot even maintain the house on the tubers any longer.” He looks at me pointedly. “Truffles are bringing ever less money because there are ever more people who live on them.” I keep nodding. “Sorry to say,” I wave at the two men as I head for the door, “but the outlook is not very bright, either.” They both nod and wave me goodbye.