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
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.
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