I just spent an hour or so in my garden. Most of my time was dedicated to the weeds, which grow like crazy between my visits. I never cease to be amazed by their vitality. Even an ogre like myself is only a minor distraction in their growth and spread. This time around, I am amazed by yet another sort of weed that infests my garden: all sorts of garbage thrown there by the tourists that visit Motovun. They come in numbers to the empty lot between Irina Kosanović’s and my house, where they are sure to stop for a few pictures, while some of them even stop there for a snack. The view of the Mirna valley is most enticing, no doubt. But the garbage they leave behind or toss down the hill is staggering: plastic bottles, beer cans, packaging made of cardboard, plastic and paper bags, sheets of paper of various sizes, and bits and pieces of used up clothing. A garbage bin should be put into the empty lot for the nincompoops, I guess. As the tourist numbers are increasing, a growing number of them could not care less about the mess they leave behind. Why should they care? They will go somewhere else next year, anyway. Year by year, hordes of barbarian tourists are spreading around the world like wildfire. And so is the garbage they leave in their wake.

Addendum (September 30, 2014)

To my surprise, I discovered calluses on my hands only this morning. In spite of the protective gloves, the shears I was using in my garden left their marks. And now I am showing them to everyone with quite a bit of pride. “Look how hard I’ve been working!” I exclaim with gusto. As witnessed by the calluses, much emotion goes into the unending battle with weeds. Although I know they will be the winners in the end, I attack them with zeal bordering on fanaticism. Which is why I do not go to the garden all that often. Once there, I go berserk. Slash, slash, slash…