Strange New World

First and foremost, this was a business trip for me. But in between seeing houses, I wanted to see more of Slovenia and Italy. Although I was staying for three weeks this trip, I knew time would fly. Despite my readiness to enter a new chapter in my life, I knew I needed to take my time and not do anything rash.

Running Man (RM) had called the owner of the historic farm to tell her that we would like to see the property if she was still willing to show it to us. She invited us to meet her there on Saturday when the tenant would be away. That gave us two days to settle in and plan our attack for this trip. 

The day after our arrival in Lokve, we unpacked, made a grocery list, then embarked on my first trip to the grocery store. We drove down the mountain with the windows open, breathing in the fresh air. We came to a spot in the road where people were filling plastic bottles with water flowing out of pipes and, if not captured, back into the earth. RM told me that people believed the mountain water was not only pure but could prevent prostate cancer. Personally, I prefer tap water to bottled water and despise mineral water, carbonated water and flavored waters; however, drinking water that has traveled down from the peaks of the Julian Alps and through a pipe alongside the road made me a little uneasy. There are reasons for water treatment plants.

Around one series of turns, I caught a glimpse of the beautiful blue-green Soca River far down in the valley. And all along the road, I saw the remnants of stone bunkers from the first World War alternately with small ancient stone shrines that marked the path of pilgrims long ago. Unlike my last visit, everything was lush and green and in full summer bloom. The views were even more breathtaking than before.

When we reached Nova Gorica, the temperature was markedly warmer than it had been up in Lokve.

"Where are we going to shop?" I asked RM. In my mind, I saw us at an open-air market, buying fruits and vegetables from one vendor, fresh fish from another, warm baked bread from a third. I could hear the sounds and smell the scents of a busy marketplace.

"To the hypermarket," RM replied matter-of-factly. 

"What's a hypermarket?" I asked, confident that it was something far different from the quaint image that had now been ripped from my mind.

"It's a big place with stores," RM said. "Like your Wal-Mart."

"Wal-Mart is just one store. Does this place have just one store or different stores?" I queried.

"More than one," RM said.

"So, it's like a mall, not like Wal-Mart," I responded.

"Well, it's nothing like your malls in America," he replied, sounding a little exasperated with my questioning. "You'll see."

We pulled into a large parking lot and entered a large building. Yep. It was a mall. Okay, it was a small mall but a mall nonetheless. 

"Hypermarket, not mall. Motorway, not highway," I thought, making mental notes about the vernacular. It was like learning a whole new language despite the fact that it was still English.

Shopping in a store where nothing is written in English is quite an interesting experience. We started our excursion in the produce section where I did very well. After all, I can recognize an apple by sight even when the sign above the bin reads, "jabolko." I spent several minutes there just looking at bins and making my best attempt to pronounce the name above them. Some were quite easy. A banana is a banana. Others were, well, not. I know what an eggplant is called in three languages -- English, of course, Spanish (berenjena) and French (aubergine). In Slovene, it's jajcevec. Difficult to spell and even more difficult to pronounce. Still, the produce section was relatively easy.

"Wow," I thought. "Shopping won't be such a difficult experience." 

My thought was slightly premature. If a can or box of something didn't have a picture on it, I wasn't sure what it was. I would look at the back of a box of cereal and see that the text was translated into several languages -- often Slovene, Serba-Croat, Russian, German, even Albanian at times. Great. At least I might stand a fighting chance with my Spanish if the text were written in Italian. And while I'm on the subject of cereal, I was amazed by the lack of selection. In the States, the cereal aisle is typically the largest in the store, stacked from floor to ceiling with countless types and flavors of cereal, cereal bars and Pop-Tarts. Even in this large grocery store, there were only about five or six types of cereal and four of them were muesli. There wasn't a Fruit Loop or Cocoa Puff to be found. I wondered what kids ate here for breakfast or what college students ate for dinner three or four nights a week. 

I was actually searching for cereal bars. First, I had to explain what they were to RM who had to try to explain what they were to a store employee. She asked him several questions in Slovene while I gestured, pointing to the cereal box while saying, "but like a candy bar," which was entirely the wrong thing to say because then she was showing me the candy bars. We followed her to three or four locations in the store and finally, she pointed to some sort of yogurt-coated bar with the candy bars at the check-out lines. I decided to buy a box of fruit and nut muesli instead. Now, I needed milk. After wandering around for a bit, I came across the refrigerated section of the store. Note that I did not say the "dairy section." That's because no matter what the product is, if it requires refrigeration, it was in the same place. I started looking for milk. And looking. And looking. RM, who had been at the meat counter, asked me what I was looking for.

"Milk," I said. "I know it has to be here but I can't find it. What's the word for it?"

"It's 'mleka' and it's probably over here," he said as he started walking away from the refrigerated units and back into a previous aisle.

"No, all the refrigerated stuff is here," I said while following him.

"Here it is, dah-ling," he said, pointing to a pallet at the end of a wide aisle.

I looked at the pallet, stacked with boxes that looked like what brown sugar is sometimes packed in back home. My eyes grew wide, horrified as my brain caught up with my sight.

"You don't refrigerate milk here?"

I must have spoken loudly because I received a few strange looks from other shoppers in the vicinity.

"No, dah-ling," he chuckled. "We aren't primitive. It's been pasturized." 

"It doesn't matter!" I was slightly hysterical but now speaking in a very loud whisper. "It still has to be refrigerated!"

"Of course. You have to refrigerate it after you open it," he said.

"Calm down," I told myself. "Obviously, millions of Europeans don't die from bad milk. It must be safe," I reasoned silently.

After all of the time and trouble exhausted in the cereal bar/cereal search and seizure, I had to get milk. I just hoped that moving to Europe wouldn't end my healthy habit of having at least one glass of skim milk a day. On the bright side, you could always keep a cupboard full of milk on hand, avoiding the need to have to "run to the store" to pick up another quart. Think of the space you can save in the fridge. I picked up a box and checked the expiration date. It was more than three months away. Yikes.

I've always been a prepared grocery shopper with three rules. First, always have a list. Second, never go when you're hungry. Third, if you violate the second rule, stick strictly to the list. I had written our grocery list that morning, organizing it as I always do -- all of the fresh produce in one place on the list, meat and fish together, cleaning products in one group and paper products in another. Back home, I alternated shopping at two different stores so for each, I would organize the list in the order in which items were shelved at the store. That would save me from having to go from one end of a store to the other over and over again. It's all quite logical, right? Well, not when grocery stores here organize everything in an entirely different fashion. While that's to be expected, I suppose, how they organize the aisles here doesn't even make sense to me. Take the typical American baking aisle. There, you will find flour, sugar, cake and brownie mixes, chocolate chips, nuts, etc. Here, the flour and sugar are not in the same aisle. Flour shares space with packaged breadsticks, pasta and rice. The sugar might be several aisles away. I won't even describe the organization of cleaning and non-food items. Suffice it to say, I walked from one end of that store to the other repeatedly and in the end, there were many items I never found -- some because they don't exist here, like good old yellow cheddar cheese.

"They might have that in Italy," was RM's response every time I found they didn't carry an item in Slovenia. (In fact, I later found a reasonable facsimile of cheddar cheese at a store in Italy.)

RM also kept telling me, "We should buy that in Italy, not here," either because the item would be less expensive there or of a better quality. Apparently, some of Slovenia's communist past affects the products it imports. Detergents, for example, would be packaged somewhere in Europe under the same brand name but would have inferior ingredients in those boxes or bottles headed into countries like the now-former Yugoslavia. The Italians would get the good stuff so you should buy those types of items there. I guess it will take time for Slovenia's European Union status to catch up with its imports. 

Finally, we loaded the car with the items we'd purchased in Slovenia, then headed across the border shared by Nova Gorica and Gorizia, Italy, to finish. I was challenged there, trying to figure out which bottles were shampoo and which were conditioner but got by using my Spanish to translate the Italian text. By the time we headed back up the mountain, I was tired, jet lag catching up to me again. But Lokve was peaceful and lovely and RM cooked dinner for me while I checked my email and looked at more properties on the Internet. Tomorrow, we would spend the day grilling, sunning and swimming along the Soca. The day after, we would see the old farm above the vineyards of Goriska Brda. It would be the first of more than 15 properties I would see on this trip. Would it be The One?

The Second Time Around

When I boarded the plane for my second trip to Europe from Kansas City, I was just as exhausted as I was the first time but not as nervous. This time, I knew what to expect. Moreover, I would fly directly from Atlanta to Stuttgart, where Running Man (RM) would be waiting for me. The new stamp in my passport would be from Germany.

I can't say I wasn't nervous at all because my relationship with RM was new and deepening. Despite our near-daily conversations on Skype, I missed him more than I thought I would and found myself counting the days until I would see him again. The fact that I was traveling halfway around the world a second time to look for a home was also a bit disconcerting, but I couldn't wait to see more properties. I kept hoping that this time, I would find the place that just felt right.

Our base of operations on this trip would be a two-bedroom apartment instead of a B&B. Since RM and I both love to cook, and since I would be staying there for nearly a month this time, it made sense to rent an apartment. I thought that it was a good idea for me to live more like a resident this time, rather than a tourist. After all, I might be moving to this part of the world, and a dose of reality would be healthy. I would have to shop for groceries, prepare meals, do laundry and, as is typical for the self-employed, devote time every day to do some client work. This wasn't a vacation; this was business.

Someone had told RM about a guy in Lokve, Slovenia, who had an apartment available for short-term lease. It was available and RM negotiated a good rate. He even visited the apartment twice before committing to it, emailing me photos for my approval. The owner had added an upper floor apartment to the home where he lived with his elderly mother. Now, before you start to think that the owner was one of those mama's boys who lives off her for as long as he can, I need to set the record straight. In the States, we tend to look unfavorably upon a 40-something man living with his mother. All sorts of stereotypes come to mind. But in Slovenia, multi-generational living is the norm rather than the exception, and I have come to appreciate the complete and utter practicality of this type of living arrangement.

Our landlord, Edbin, had "retired" from the management of a telecommunications company and opened his own consulting company. He was elected mayor of his village and in that role, focused on increasing tourism in his community. Noting the lack of places where visitors could stay, he decided to get into the rental property business, adding the second-floor apartment and buying other small properties to renovate and lease. He's well educated and well traveled, a great conversationalist and, above all, a really nice person. RM had done well again. Of course, I wasn't really surprised. He is, after all, a professional tour guide.

During the course of my flight over the Atlantic, I enjoyed a few glasses of Delta's mediocre but complimentary wine served in plastic cups. There was an empty middle seat in my row of three so I had the luxury of spreading out a bit, stowing my carry-on bag beneath the seat in front of the unoccupied one so I could stretch my legs. I also put up the armrest and leaned over into the next seat in an effort to get comfortable enough to sleep but failed in the attempt. Once again, I would arrive in Europe sleep-deprived.

As the flight-map monitors showed us nearing our destination, I armed myself with a packaged facial cloth, my Colgate Wisp, eyeliner and mascara and headed to the tiny bathroom which, at this point in our journey, had been extremely well-used by hundreds of strangers. Knowing that I wouldn't have to run through the terminal to catch a connecting flight, I thought I might at least make the attempt to look a little better when I met RM this time. When the pilot announced our descent into Stuttgart, I found myself getting butterflies again.

This was a significantly smaller airport than the one in Rome, so getting my luggage and going through customs was much easier this time. I even took the time to glance at the indicia stamped into my passport before putting it away and heading out the gates. RM was there again, looking incredibly handsome and happy to see me. He hugged me, told me how beautiful I was, and handed me a cup of coffee from some Hardees he'd found. My bottle of water was in his car.

Knowing that I would want to shower and change right away, RM took me to the hotel he'd stayed at the night before. My flight had arrived around 9 a.m., and check-out time was 11, which gave me plenty of time to unpack what I needed, take a long, hot shower and get ready for our drive to Slovenia. 

And just in case you're thinking the romance was already gone from out relationship because RM hadn't greeted me with flowers at the airport, think again. When we entered the room, I saw a beautiful orchid in a pot near the window. I couldn't help but draw a parallel between the plant as opposed to the cut flowers and my attempt to put down roots in this part of the world.

We set off on a lovely day, driving from Germany and through Austria back to Slovenia. I dozed off a couple of times but didn't want to miss the scenery which was incredible, even from the autobahn. I would have to see these countries another time. But I amused myself by pronouncing funny words in German I saw along the way. I found the word for "exit" particularly hilarious and since we were on the autobahn, I saw it a hundred times. Now RM, who speaks German fluently, didn't really "get it" until I explained it to him, but laughed once he understood. The German word is "ausfahrt." I probably wouldn't have laughed so much had I not been so tired.

It was late when we arrived. The apartment was clean and cool and I stood on the balcony that ran across the front of it to look at the stars. RM had thought of everything. There was a chilled bottle of champagne and two glasses he'd bought from his friend, Herbert, in France, and chocolate-covered strawberries that Edbin's girlfriend, Tatijana, had made. Oh, and candlelight, of course. On RM's second visit to see the apartment, before returning to France, he had left the champagne, glasses and candles with Edbin and asked him to put them into the apartment before we arrived weeks later. Tatijana had arranged them beautifully.

 

"Wow," I thought. "A man who not only did this but planned it far ahead of time. Gee. What girl wouldn't love a guy like that?"

I couldn't wait to continue my journey.

Home is Where the Memories Are

Among all of the gifts God has ever given me, my family is undoubtedly the greatest gift of all. I cannot imagine what my life would be like without them, nor what kind of a person I would be had I not been lucky enough to have the two greatest parents in the world. I am one of six children with the same two parents who have been married for nearly 55 years. The older four of us were born within five years of each other. Then, there's a lapse of about a decade before another arrived, then another six before the baby made his rather surprising appearance.

I'm roughly in the middle and bear some of those characteristics attributed to the "middle child," including independence and self-sufficiency. My parents love all of us the same, recognizing that each of us possesses different talents and strengths but none more important than another. My Mom, in particular, has always tried to make sure every child was treated equally. But I used to chide her a little about suffering from the "middle-child syndrome" of getting less attention than my siblings. My older sister was the firstborn followed 15 months later by my older brother. I was born nearly three years later and my sister, a mere 11 months after me. The sister born 10 years later kind of bridged the gap between the first four of us and the baby, born 21 years after my sister. It was almost like having two different families and yet, we're remarkably close.

Mom tells me that my independent, carefree nature was a blessing for her. She says I never minded playing alone and when my older brother and sister decided to take away some toy I was playing with, I just picked up something else. No tears. No fits. No trantrums. My younger sister was just the opposite. While Mom was pregnant with her, my grandmother was fighting a losing battle with cancer. Just two days after my sister was born, my grandmother died. Mom, the baby of her family, had been exceptionally close to her mother and her pregnancy and post-partum hormones made a devastating loss even greater. Mom attributed my sister's frequent crying and fussiness to the sadness and stress she had passed into her womb. Although she says I accepted getting less attention in stride, I did assert myself from time to time, reminding her that I was there. To make life a little easier, Mom had weaned me off the bottle early and I had complied with few complaints. One day, she laid me down for a nap and laid my sister in the crib with her bottle. My sister soon started crying. Mom believed in letting babies cry for a bit, but when my sister wouldn't stop after a few minutes she went into the bedroom to check. She found me sitting behind the door, gleefully consuming the bottle of milk I had taken from my helpless sister. She could tell I hadn't done it out of spite or jealousy and felt a little bad for having taken the bottle away from me so soon. My older sister has always been the bossy one in our family, befitting a firstborn, but I have always been the bossy one of my younger sister.

Since my sister and I were only 11 months apart, Mom treated us a bit like twins. We wore the same dresses but in different colors (and sizes, of course, since I was nearly a year older). Most of the gifts we received at Christmas were the same but different colors. Mine were usually yellow, which was my favorite color, or blue. Despite our closeness in age, she and I were never as close as Mom had always thought we would be. One day, a few years ago, Mom asked me why. I knew the answer from my perspective. It wasn't because she'd dressed us alike or bought us the same gifts. It was because Mom made me include her in everything I did and made me wait to do things until my sister was old enough to do them too. For example, I wanted to go to 4-H summer camp with my best friend when I was nine which is the minimum age. Mom made me wait until the next year when my sister was old enough to go as well. (Unfortunately for my friend, her mom also made her wait. Sorry, Karla.) When I had a birthday party with a few of my friends, I had to include my sister in everything as well. You get the idea.  Mom apologized for probably handling those things wrong. I told her that if that's the worst thing she did, she should forget about it. I love my little sister as I do all of my sibs. And maybe having to wait for someone else taught me life lessons I might not have otherwise learned.

Most of the time, we were a one-income family. Not surprisingly, Mom spent most of her time at home with kids rather than working elsewhere. As I've gotten older, I've certainly come to appreciate how fortunate we were to have a parent to come home to after school, and I recognize what a tough job parenting is, although I've never been one. In our case, I know having a stay-at-home Mom and a Dad who was an active part of our lives every single day made us kids better adults. Dad worked for the telephone company and was a member of a union. He made a good wage and, thank goodness for us, had good healthcare benefits. But with four young kids at home, his paychecks didn't go far.  

I like to say that the older four of us kids didn't have much growing up and yet we had everything we ever needed. We always had food to eat although Pepsi and Pop-Tarts were once-a-week treats and we rarely ate out. The two youngest siblings have grown tired of the older four of us telling them that the only restaurant we ever went to was McDonald's a couple of times a year. There, Dad would get a cheeseburger, small fries and a drink. Mom would have a hamburger and a drink. Between the four of us kids, we'd have two hamburgers, one drink and maybe a french fry or two if Dad let us. It was all we could afford but to us, it was the ultimate treat. Frankly, the story's gotten old for all of us but not the lessons learned.

I wore a lot of clothing handed down to me by my older sister and even my brother, but we always got new shoes and a few new clothes at the beginning of the school year and again at Easter. On our birthday, we received one gift which we usually were allowed to open in the morning so we weren't distracted all day by the anticipation. After dinner that night, we always made a wish and blew out the candles on our favorite cake to the chorus of "Happy Birthday," then gobbled it down with the ice cream of the celebrant's choice.

Christmas held the most magic of all. For me, it smelled of cedar trees, plastic toys and candied orange slices. Dad would cut the best-looking cedar tree he could find on our farm and we would cover its sad appearance with strings of big colored lights, shiny glass balls, sparkling gold garland, glittering silver tinsel and tons of homemade ornaments created from styrofoam, Mason jar lids, cotton balls, sequins, ribbon, old Christmas cards, wooden ice cream sticks, pipe cleaners, paper clips and construction paper. We kids took turns every year placing the plastic, lighted angel on top. She still adorns my parents' Christmas tree, although she now sits comfortably atop an artificial tree instead of a prickly cedar. 

We didn't have a fireplace in our old house so for years, Dad assembled a cardboard fireplace, complete with cardboard logs behind which he would place lights. We proudly hung our six stockings with thumbtacks knowing that on Christmas morning, they'd be filled with nuts, orange slices, hard candy, chocolate Santas, and this year's new toothbrush in the toe. Because the weight of them would topple our fireplace, on Christmas morning they'd be lined up against the back of the sofa in the same order as they were hung the night before. We'd sing Christmas carols and get to have a glass of Pepsi or hot chocolate topped with stacks of marshmallows as we decorated. The house glowed with warmth and laughter and a few minor skirmishes. Finally, we took turns reading "Twas The Night Before Christmas" from a big red book. Then, we would wait with great anticipation for Santa.

It is still a rule in my parents' house that no one can go look under the tree on Christmas morning until everyone is ready to go. There were three bedrooms in our old house, all connected with doors in between. There were two kids in each of the end rooms and Mom and Dad in the middle. When the first kid awoke, he/she would awaken the roommate, then go tip-toeing through the middle bedroom to the other kids' room where the four of us would marshal our forces and prepare for attack. We'd watch the alarm clock, all huddled together on the bed, whispering with wide eyes, anxiously awaiting the hour we'd been given before waking up my parents. Of course, they'd been awake since the first footfall but would pretend to be asleep when our foursome jumped into their room. We'd wait there while they went out to get the camera and plug in the tree lights. Upon their signal, we would race out to see what wonderful surprises awaited us.

We'd each get a couple of toys we'd asked for and at least one item of clothing and a pair of socks or mittens or something else practical. We'd usually each get a book, which we'd all later read, and a board game or two for all of us to share. Sometimes, Santa left something for the entire family like a badminton set or the electric toothbrush with one brush for each of us. There were those "big" years when Mom and Dad must have put every dime they could into the Christmas Club Account. Those were the years we each got new bikes or ice skates or sleds. Santa didn't wrap anything back then. He just placed everything into four stacks emerging from under the tree like spokes in a wheel with the shared gifts at the hub. Things weren't tagged. We always just knew what belonged to whom. Mom and Dad waited patiently, snapping pictures, sipping coffee and feigning surprise at our treasures, until the chaos slowed to the point where we all four had dumped the contents of our stockings and were starting to gorge ourselves on candy. Then, they would see what Santa had left them and open the homemade gifts we'd wrapped, expressing the obligatory ooohs and aaahs over painted clay ashtrays (neither one a smoker) and little handprints smooshed into plaster of paris. It was the most wonderful day of the year.

My Dad was raised on a farm and always wanted to make a living at it. But having a big family meant he had to be a part-time farmer while having a full-time paycheck-earning job. So, we lived on acreage in the country where we off and on had cattle, pigs and chickens, a Shetland pony we rarely rode, a few wonderful dogs and several I can't even remember, and a never-ending stream of cats. The timber, yard and pastures were our wonderland and we spent hours exploring it. We didn't have neighborhood kids to play with every day, just each other. We put doll clothes on cats and hats on dogs and held pet circuses. We hung sheets on the clotheslines and performed plays or waged imaginary war. We played softball in one square yard and climbed an old box elder tree in another. We made mud pies, played hide-and-seek and tended a huge farm in the dirt at the base of three big old trees. We built the farm together, each of us contributing our metal tractors and implements, plastic livestock, fences and barns, and sticks, stones, rusty nails and whatever else we could find.

We had a three-storey barn with stalls in the bottom, Dad's workshop in the middle and our playhouse in what we called, with complete and utter utility, "The Top of the Barn." We climbed up a tall, heavy, wooden extension ladder to enter. Inside, we had old chairs and couches, tables, bookshelves, dishes, even an ancient wooden ironing board, nestled under the slanted eaves of the roof. Parents didn't come there. It was all ours.

Outside, our favorite place was our campsite. Atop a plateau above a little creek we had carried large rocks to build a circle for campfires. On summer evenings, we would haul our sleeping bags, hot dogs and marshmallows to the site, then eat, sing, tell ghost stories, and sleep under the stars. In the morning, we'd fry bacon and eggs in an aluminum skillet and toast bread. Our camp toast was always a bit limp, but we ate like kings.

The last two kids in our family never had the privilege of knowing this magic place. Before my youngest sister was born, we had to move. A new highway was scheduled to run through the house. But we didn't go far. We built a new house on the other side of town on acreage with land Dad could row-crop. When I say that "we built" the house, I mean just that. We built it with our own hands, very slowly but with abundant pride. 

For my two youngest siblings, it's the only home they've known. But for all six of us, it's the place from which we ventured out from under our parents' protective wings and into the world on our own. And no matter where in the world I end up, and no matter how spread out the six of us are, those memories will always be home.

 

It's a Small World

The weeks leading up to my return to Europe were incredibly busy. I was working madly on a new website and the corporate retreat for my major client when they asked me to contribute to another project which required far more time than I had anticipated. My calendar was filled with meals with friends, club meetings and conference calls. Sleep evaded me most nights as I tried to figure out how I would ever be able to handle work, my social calendar and packing for not one but two trips. My retreat would require four days, including travel. Three days later, I would leave to spend the weekend at my parents' house to celebrate Father's Day and my Mom's birthday before flying back to Europe.

I was also spending time daily on Skype with Running Man (RM), partly for business but mostly because we missed each other. Skype is a wonderful invention. It made the world seem much smaller and helped bridge the thousands of miles between us.

Negotiations on the Trebusa house were stalled but RM was doing reconnaissance on other properties for me. I can't imagine how much more difficult or, perhaps, even impossible the search would have been without having RM doing all of the legwork half a world away. During the three months between my first and second visits, RM had been back to France, returned to Slovenia for a tour, then back to France where he awaited my arrival. I would fly in and out of Stuttgart, Germany, this time around.

I certainly hadn't marked Trebusa off my list but I was excited about seeing some of the other properties I had found online or RM had found just by asking around. People in Slovenia and Italy don't stick a "For Sale" sign in the front yard. In fact, I've seen only a few such signs attached to the side of buildings during my visits there. But Slovenia is a small place where everyone seems to know everyone else, and that proved to be very beneficial in my search.

While RM was back in Slovenia for a few weeks, he called me on Skype to tell me he'd seen an incredible old property not far from the B&B we'd stayed in before. He was there for a few days before guiding a 10-day tour and had gone hunting for wild asparagus with the owner in the surrounding countryside. Rarely without his camera, RM had taken a few snapshots from a distance and would email them to me. He was right. The old farm comprised several stone buildings, all connected in a u-shape with a small courtyard in the middle that you entered through a stone archway. Most of the buildings had been barns with a small house at one end. There was another small detached house as well. The grounds were lush and green and dotted with red and yellow flowers. He would ask around to find out more.

The B&B owners knew the property owner and where she lived. RM contacted her and she agreed to meet to talk about the property. It wasn't officially for sale. It wasn't listed with any agents. She wasn't really even planning to sell it. Nonetheless, they met for coffee and she told him about the property.

Ms. M. had inherited the property from her grandparents, and the parcel included nearly 50 acres of meadow, orchard and timber. The small detached building had been used by an Italian general as his headquarters during the first World War. Most of the property's buildings were nearly ruins but three rooms in the house were habitable and were, in fact, occupied by a woman. The woman and her husband, both doctors, had fled Rijeka, Croatia, in the early 1990s during the war that dissolved what had been the Republic of Yugoslavia. They had nothing when they left their home and found shelter in Slovenia as did many other war refugees. Ms. M. had invited them to live in this place until they could get back on their feet. But the husband left his wife and Ms. M. didn't have the heart to ask her to leave. That would be an issue for any potential sale. 

I was intrigued by the beauty of this place, the history behind it, and the potential it might hold for a B&B. Unlike Trebusa, this property was in the wine country of Goriska Brda which was a far better location. But Ms. M. was reluctant because the place was sentimental to her. Still, she might consider selling to someone who would restore the property properly and would love it as she did.

At RM's suggestion, I wrote Ms. M. a letter to introduce myself and to tell her about my dream and what I would want to do with her beloved family property. I also told her that I would not kick out a war refugee who had then been abandoned by her husband. We could cross that proverbial bridge if and when we came to it. After all, I was looking for a refuge in my own, far less dramatic way. Ms. M. told RM that during my next visit, she would show it to us but made no promises about selling. That was good enough for me.

RM had also gone to look at a couple of other properties, including one I'd found online. It looked like a beautiful old Italian villa in a small village near the border. It needed less work than some others I'd seen and even featured a small elevator. But when he called me after seeing it, he was evasive, hesitant to tell me what he was thinking. RM didn't want to spoil it for me, he said, but he had a bad feeling about it when he visited. It felt cold and dead to him.

One thing I had learned about RM was that he did, indeed, seem to have what he calls his "sixth sense." He'd demonstrated it to me more than once. And one thing I'd learned about my brief experience looking at properties in Slovenia was that they all did seem to have a "feel" about them. For all of its charms, Trebusa didn't have the right feel. I would need to continue searching until I found the house that did. And if I didn't find it, perhaps I was searching in the wrong place.
 

What's in a Name?

Now that I had settled into the spare bedroom at my friend's house, it was time to focus on the corporate retreat I had to facilitate in June, the search for more properties in Europe, and planning my next trip.

I had outlined the agenda for my client's retreat when the executive director of the organization asked if I could incorporate Jim Collins' book, Good to Great. I had heard of the book but hadn't read it, and I couldn't tell the client, "no." So, I ordered a copy from Amazon, along with the companion monograph for the social sectors, and went to work. Instead of reading more about Slovenia and northern Italy, I was reading about Hedgehog Concepts and the Stockdale Paradox. It hadn't been in my plans but, then again, what in my life had been for years?

Another thing I hadn't planned on was the massive amount of time it would take me to change my name and address on every legal document and piece of identification I possessed. My divorce decree included the provision that my maiden name be restored. Since the ex and I had no children, there was no reason to keep his surname, although it was an easier name for people to understand and spell than my own. Still, I wanted my name back and the judge granted my request.

I strongly recommend that any woman who takes back her maiden name in a divorce put into the divorce agreement a sum of money to pay for the privilege. I started the process by having to order several certified copies of the divorce decree. That cost me $13. Then, I changed my name on the document from which all else comes -- my Social Security card. Fortunately, our tax dollars pay for that so I didn't have to shell out any cash but I did have to spend some quality time at my local Social Security Administration Office. Next, I changed my name, address and beneficiary on my life insurance policy and on my small state retirement account. One sleepless night, I remembered I needed to change my name and address on the limited-liability company I had registered with the state. I handled that the next day to the tune of $8.

By this time, I had started keeping a list of documents and fees. More than once during the process, I thought how men, who aren't compelled by law, tradition or anything else to change their surnames, have it easier than women.

I held off on two very important items -- my passport and driver's license. I had to fly to New York in the middle of June, followed quickly by a flight back to Europe. I needed to get those flights booked which requires that your name and numbers on your tickets and photo I.D. all jive in a post-9/11 world. I couldn't risk having a problem so I decided to handle this as soon as I returned in July. To obtain a new passport, I would have to send in my current one, new photos ($), the divorce decree, a postage-paid return envelope ($) and, of course, a hefty fee ($). The turnaround time could be as long as six weeks. I could expedite the process to two weeks, but that required an additional fee and I could barely afford the regular cost. It would just have to wait because I was running out of time.
 
Since my return to the States, I'd been getting used to hearing people call me by my birth name again and asking me how to spell it. In this transitional state, I would hesitate, pen above paper, each time I had to sign something since I still signed a few things under my now-former surname. I don't mean to make it sound like this was a major ordeal. It's comparable to the time it takes to start dating things correctly in January every year. You just stop having to think about it without ever really noticing.

Having my name back wasn't just a legal technicality. It was like putting on a comfortable old pair of shoes I hadn't worn for awhile, and they felt good. It was all worth the time, trouble and legal tender because I found myself starting to feel like my old self again.

One Door Closes...

I had to admit that it was great to be home. Great to sleep in my own bed. Great to spend time cooking every evening with the fire I built crackling in the hearth room fireplace. Familiarity, indeed, might breed contempt, but there is often something warm and comforting about it as well. How ironic that I was soon to leave it behind forever.

My two farm dogs, Ophelia and Othello, who were half black lab, half German shepherd and sisters, were so excited to see me. Ophelia is one of those dogs that smiles and she was all smiles when I returned. Othello (yes, male name for a female dog) has the habit of laying her head against your thigh, pressing against you like she's attached, expressing periodic moans of pleasure as you pet her head and scratch her ear.


The six cats seemed less glad to see me at first but that's the way cats are. They're only warm and cuddly when they want to be, and after leaving them for two weeks, I was going to have to earn their undying attention again. I call it "cattidude." But within a few hours, they were all over me, fighting for attention.

More than my house, I was going to miss the hell out of those animals. I loved them like kids. That's why I wasn't going to take them away from the only home they'd ever known. Doing so would be purely selfish on my part. Instead, I would come out and visit them and spoil them with treats. But I still cry from time to time when I think about them. They're growing older and I know that each time I see them might be the last. Those four-legged friends were my salvation through the darkest moments of my life. Unlike some of the two-legged species in my life, their love for me has always been unconditional.

Before I had left for my trip, I had packed four or five boxes of my possessions. Being back now, I was overwhelmed by the amount of work I would have to complete in a very short time. I had so many things to sort, pack, sell, pitch, and so little time to do it in. If I had a new home to move them to, the process might not have been so emotionally taxing. I might have packed with a lighter hand and more smiles than the tears that often came to my eyes. When I had unpacked these things in this house, I had done so believing I would never have to move again.

But excitement at the prospect of my new adventure tempered my grief. I was trying to figure out how I could buy Trebusa and how I could afford to make the renovations it would need to serve as a B&B. I researched every possible way of financing it. A traditional home loan was out. First of all, as a self-employed marketing consultant, my annual earnings were not at all reliable. Second, no bank, particularly after the national mortgage scandal, would lend me money to buy a home in another country. And no bank in Europe would lend me money unless I had employment there. All I knew for sure was that I would receive a monthly property settlement payment from my ex. My goal was to have that amount go directly toward paying off the loan for the house plus enough to pay off the massive unsecured debt I'd accumulated during the past few years while my not-yet-ex wasn't living with me. I researched angel investors. I weighed every possession I could sell. I wondered if I might have a wealthy elderly relative who had never married or had kids, but didn't spend time researching that improbability. I wondered if friends of mine, who probably had the wherewithal to lend me the money and make a better interest rate than other investments, might be willing and able to help. But let's face it, I'm not a really low-risk borrower. I'm nothing more than a middle-aged, self-employed woman with a dream and debt, albeit one with a sound credit rating.

Still, I worked on my business plan. I had done an extremely detailed business plan for renovating my home for a B&B. But this one was considerably more challenging since I didn't know what toilets or light fixtures, insulation or labor costs were in Slovenia. 

Good friends of mine, who own a home in the Bahamas, gave me some sound advice and warned me about the possibility that costs in Europe were much higher than in the rural Midwest. Rather than panic, I decided to employ a rather unscientific way of finding out with Running Man's assistance. I emailed him a list of common grocery items and asked him to find out what those items cost there. I found out that prices in Slovenia for staples weren't much different than here. I also surmised that was probably due to the fact that unlike the Bahamas, Slovenia was part of the European continent that actually produces things rather than an island that has to have everything shipped in. I was relieved that I hadn't found a house I really wanted on a beautiful island chain somewhere.

I started negotiating the purchase price for Trebusa, knowing it was higher than its value and that I would need to still put a lot of money into completing the work in progress and on additional renovations. The real estate agent couldn't speak English so RM agreed to be the go-between. The owner, a British guy who bought old properties in Slovenia, renovated then resold them, wasn't interested in budging. I wasn't surprised because I could tell by looking at the house that he'd put more money into it than it was worth. He had to recoup his investment. Still, I was planning a return trip to Europe at the end of June. This time, I would stay for four weeks which would tax me financially but would give me  time to look at more properties. If Trebusa was still on the market by then, the seller might be far more motivated to unload it.

In the interim, I faced the inimitable challenge of vacating my home and temporarily moving in with a friend. Had I been planning an eventual move within the U.S., I probably would have packed virtually everything that was mine and stuck it into storage. But since I was planning to move to Europe somewhere, I packed with more discretion, keeping those things that had sentimental value or that I thought I could use no matter where I ended up. You don't realize how much "stuff" you've accumulated during your lifetime until you have to sort it all. My large house with littered with piles of this and that, boxes, bubble wrap and packing tape. I called in all of my siblings to take whatever items they wanted, followed by close friends. The remainder, I either left behind or took to sell in the inevitable yard sale. I needed cash far more than possessions right now.

Besides packing, I had client work to accomplish, including a strategic planning retreat in upstate New York for a non-profit board of directors the weekend before I was scheduled to fly back to Europe. My stress was mounting.

I found a storage unit to rent and started loading boxes into my car and making trip after trip after trip to the unit. Time was running out. I was exhausted. Friends kept offering to help me but sometimes, it's just easier to do things yourself. When I was down to nothing but the large items that wouldn't fit into my car and the heavy items I couldn't lift on my own, I called friends with a pick-up to help. When we finished, I made a few more trips back and forth to the house I was moving into with the boxes of items I would need there. Finally, nothing of mine was left but the things I planned to sell. I had told the ex I would be out of the house by Saturday night and I was scrambling. I knew he'd let me stay longer if I needed more time but for my sake, I had to close that door behind me at last. I had to stop for an hour between trips to see my niece before she left for her junior prom. I didn't really have time to do it but, again, I didn't have time not to. It had become a tradition for us and I knew that I would quite likely miss her senior prom. I treasured the interlude. 

Finally, at nearly 1 a.m., Sunday morning, I stuffed the car with one final load. I had to leave behind a few things that simply wouldn't fit; I wasn't going to make another trip. I petted my dogs and cats again, kissing them before I left. I didn't have to search for them, even at this hour. They knew something was happening. I refused to cry about leaving them; I'd return next week for a visit. I took one last walk through the entire house, more to see it one last time than to see if I'd forgotten anything. Exhausted and tearful, I locked behind me the carefully selected back door, hearing the sound of its closing echoing in the breezeway for the last time. I put my lone key under a brick as agreed. And in the starry darkness of that May morning, I drove away from what was supposed to have been my home forever toward absolute uncertainty.