The New World

The drive from Trieste, Italy to Podsabotin, Slovenia, took about 1-1/2 hours. Running Man (RM) had put on his professional guide hat and constantly pointed at buildings and monuments, mountains and rivers while rattling off an immense amount of history and facts about every single one of them as we sped along the motorway. My poor, tired brain was saturated by the time we reached the Goriska Brda region -- called by some the "Slovenia Tuscany." Here, RM had made reservations at a new bed and breakfast, "Stanfel." I really shouldn't call it a B&B because its actual designation is "tourist farm" which means they can serve meals there to people other than guests who stay in their rooms. I was already learning that "B&B" as I understood it in the States was not really applicable here.

RM introduced me to the owner who was a tall, quiet man who worked his vineyards, made wine, bread and marmalade, and ran his lodging and dining establishment. He was living my dream. Here, I could learn a few things. But I wouldn't learn them directly from the owner because he spoke no English; however, his girlfriend, who helped him run the B&B, spoke some English and, of course, RM would be with me to translate as well.

I couldn't wait to get to the room to wash my face, brush my teeth and take a shower. I was delighted that the room was bright, had two small balconies and a large armoire. My delight died when I entered the bathroom. In its entirety, the room was the size of the handicapped stall in a public restroom in the U.S. Good thing I'm a showerer and not a bather because there was no tub, just a shower the size of a large, very tall trashcan. The sink was small and shallow and you could bump your elbow on it when trying to seat yourself on the toilet. The only place to put anything in this tiny space was a little glass shelf above the sink. I couldn't even put anything on the toilet tank because it didn't have one -- just two large buttons in the wall that you pushed to flush. (Push the large one if you need a lot of water and the small one for just a little.) Fortunately, during his reconnaissance before my arrival, RM had recognized the lack of storage and purchased a tiny shelved cart on wheels that you could push between the toilet and the wall. And if you stood close enough to the opposite wall, in front of the sink, you could roll out the cart to access your items from the lower shelf. Thank goodness for RM's years of experience with American tourists!

Despite my cramped quarters, the hot water in the shower revived me. And if the water hadn't, the noise I made while showering would have. There were no shelves in the tiny shower so I had to stick all of my necessary items on the floor -- shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, shaving cream, razor. I repeatedly kicked them over, dropped them trying to put them back and banged my elbows against the glass walls so many times I lost count. I must have sounded like an elephant moving around in an empty peanut butter jar from the other side of the door. On a positive note, I dried off with a small but warm towel, hot off the wall radiator.

Now, RM had made arrangements for me to borrow a hair dryer from Stanfel during my time there so I hadn't brought one of my own. He'd also brought along a bag full of plug adapters and converters so I'd be able to use a curling iron or straightener from the States. Without going into further detail, I'll just tell you that for the duration of my two weeks in Europe, my hair was in a constant state of its natural curl....

I was learning a lot without asking any questions. In my B&B, the bathrooms would need to be large enough to accommodate some shelves, adequate space between the toilet and the sink and if not a tub-shower combination, at least a "normal-sized" shower. I would provide large towels and washcloths, the latter of which apparently aren't used in Europe. And I would offer a full range of electrical beauty utensils that don't require any converters or adapters. I started making mental notes.

I rushed to find something in my suitcase to put on. RM had already scheduled an appointment to look at a property and we were going to be late. We jumped back into the car and drove, winding our way through little villages with names I didn't even try to pronounce. Slovene is one of those languages that skimps on vowels. Well, they have all of the same vowels that English has; they just don't use them.

I was charmed by the old stone and stucco farmhouses and the narrow roadway between them in the villages. Even in February, the vineyards, pastures and woods were beautiful. When we arrived in the village of Kojsko, we drove slowly to the very end, unsure of exactly which house we were supposed to see. RM stopped the car and asked a villager walking down the street who pointed at a huge stone arch with wooden doors. We found a tiny space to park then walked through the gate. To our right were three people, an older man and a young couple. RM greeted them, we all introduced ourselves, and they continued to speak in Slovene. My inability to speak the language didn't matter because I was speechless. It wasn't caused by the fact that the huge old stone farmhouse was falling apart but by the view from the front of the house. It was incredible. I was looking at vineyards upon vineyards, rolling down hills to a valley. On one side was Slovenia and on the other, Italy. And when I looked into the distance, I could barely make out the Bay of Trieste.

My enchantment with the panorama wasn't even dampened by the state of the farmhouse. Like many I'd seen online, it had fallen into disrepair. Windows were missing, ceilings splintering and stucco crumbling. Still, I could see the potential. It was expensive potential but potential nonetheless. With the right amount of money, this could be spectacular.

As it turns out, the young couple didn't really want to sell the property they'd inherited. Like me, they dreamed of restoring it and putting in a B&B. Of course, they had no money and would be interested in some sort of partnership. That meant I wouldn't have to actually buy the property but that also meant sharing my dream and plans with complete strangers. Not exactly what I wanted to do but the property was positioned so perfectly that I would keep it on my list.

As we wound our way back out of the tiny village, my mind was racing with the possibilities and my pulse with the excitement of seeing my first property here. I pulled my passport from my wallet and paged through it, looking for the imprint the agent had stamped on it in Rome. And in the fading light of my first day in Europe, I peered closely at a barely legibly square of ink and smiled.