Another victorious day in my life! I just got another ton of heating oil, which will last me through the end of the winter. It is in my tank, and my hands are already clean. Hooray! It was a bit easier than the last time, but it was still horrendous. The cistern was two hours late. When it came to the cemetery parking lot, the oil first went into a large plastic container mounted on a trailer of a tractor. With the cistern’s powerful pump, that took only ten minutes. The tractor ride up Gradiziol and down Borgo took another ten to fifteen minutes. And then the container had to be drained into my tank via a long and thin plastic tube, which took a bit less than an hour. I was waiting at the cemetery from before eleven, the agreed delivery time, and it is almost three o’clock already. But it was a joy telling everyone involved in this cumbersome operation how I used to get heating oil in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Having decided on a supplier, all I had to do was pay by check occasional bills attached to my door. The supplier kept track of how much oil was in the tank. When it got cold, a cistern would come around a bit more often than usual. And that was all. About thirty years ago. “Ah,” everyone laughs off my impassioned story, “this is only Balkans!”

Addendum (January 21, 2007)

In response to this piece, sent around as an electronic postcard to friends far and wide, Will Hughes came up with a single question: “How will they ever get close?” “Frankly,” I surprised myself with my gut reaction, “I hope they never will!” And then I stuck in a conclusion reeking with demented pride: “Which is perhaps the main charm of this region!” Two sentences only, but ones that would not surprise me from almost anyone among my neighbors in Motovun and beyond. Only Balkans, but proud Balkans! Otherwise, I would still be living in Cambridge, Massachusetts, I guess.