To begin with, I am not complaining. I am only writing about my continuing heating-oil problems in Motovun. Ever since the only cistern in the whole of Istria that was small enough to wind its way down my medieval street went out of commission, which was less than two years ago, I am forced to fill my tank with the help of intrepid local people. A larger cistern comes to the cemetery parking lot, and then the oil is decanted into a plastic container. At first, it reached my house in a van; now it reaches it on a trailer pulled by a small tractor because the van, too, went out of commission. Once the tractor pulls up to my house, the oil is decanted by means of a long hose into my own tank, which holds two tons of oil. But the largest container I could find for the transfer of oil holds one ton. So, when the gauge on my tank tells me that it is half empty, I order another ton of oil. I must do it before the tourist season, though, because the parking lot in front of the cemetery gets crammed with busses during the summer months. Anyhow, a few days ago I ordered a new delivery, and it came today. This took many a phone call, but everything went smoothly until the very last step. As it turned out, the plastic hose has developed a few crinkles that slow down the decanting. The hose has become brittle after many uses, and it is thus impossible to straighten it again. I could not find a new hose in the local store, either. What used to take about half an hour, takes more than two hours now. However, the gauge on my tank is not to be trusted, and the last bit of oil spilled on the floor of my cellar. The oil was everywhere. It took me an hour or so to collect it into a bucket with a sponge and toss it into the garden. The whole house now stinks of oil. And so does the garden. But, as I said, I am not complaining. I am only writing about the idiocy of village life. And Motovun has definitely become a village.