Mehmedalija Šljivić, known to most as Meho, spends a good part of his time on the street. During the tourist season, he sells lavender oil and woolen socks out of a plastic bag, but he still walks up and down Gradiziol even out of season. Habit, I guess. As soon as he spots you, he approaches you with wisecracks of all kinds. Today he surprised me, though. “You think you have an emotional attachment to this place,” he started out of the blue. “Only consider my own attachment,” he continued, looking almost hurt on account of my heartlessness, “and you will see that I am much more attached to Motovun than you will ever be!” On my way to the store, I stopped to hear what he had to say. “Look,” he said and pointed at many houses around us on top of Gradiziol, “there is hardly any house around here where I did not make love to a woman!” And then he started listing all of his amorous conquests, pointing now at one house, now at another. More, he pointed at specific windows, too. He used to be quite a guy in his youth, I reckon. “That’s emotional attachment for you,” he laughed and lifted his grizzled chin high. I kept nodding in agreement all the way. “Meho,” I waved him goodbye at last, “there is no doubt any longer—your emotional attachment to this place is way ahead of mine!”