The next week and a half was a blur of properties located in the western region of Slovenia. Zvonka showed me several of them. Another agent, whom Running Man (RM) had heard about, had some different homes so we spent time with him as well. The houses ranged from the updated and renovated to the crumbling and decrepit, and the condition of them wasn't necessarily relevant to the asking price.
The newest agent showed me one property that was huge but had no land and no view from its location in the middle of a village called "Pri Peci" which means, "near the stove." The home in Pri Peci (pronounced pree-peh-chee) was owned by a hermit and the agent warned me that he could talk to him but no one else really could. He had been known to become slightly violent around unannounced strangers. But since he had no phone, the agent would have to just go in first to find out whether or not he was willing to let us see the place.
When we arrived at the house, the courtyard was overgrown and the house filthy and littered with junk strewn everywhere. I couldn't believe someone actually lived there. The owner, a Slovene who had reportedly gone AWOL from the French Foreign Legion, was huddled down in a lower room of the huge house where he had some relief from the hot summer temperatures. I caught a glimpse of a man in a tattered bathrobe holding a cup of something. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness of his cave-like surroundings, I noticed his hair was sticking up in all directions and his dark eyes had the haunted look of a caged wild animal. I was most surprised at how much younger he was than I had thought he would be. The agent was trying to sell the man's home so he could help him buy an apartment in town where he could be cared for. Thank goodness someone was trying to look out for this poor soul; however, I wouldn't be the one to make the purchase. Although the size of the house and attached barns was enormous, I knew that just the cleaning of them would be a Herculean task. I could attempt to describe the filth but won't, lest anyone be trying to eat lunch while reading my blog. All I'll say is that to this day, when I see filth and excrement, I refer to it as "pri peci."
Part of my trip involved visiting some of the more popular tourist sites in western Slovenia and northeastern Italy. This quite enjoyable exercise was helping me orient myself with what the country had to offer visitors, relative to where my B&B might be located. RM and I took day trips to the Adriatric ports of Piran and Trieste. We toured the magnificent Postojna Cave and the Renaissance Predjama Castle, built into the mouth of a cave. We saw memorials to soldiers and partisans. We explored rivers, vineyards and pastures. We hiked to the source of the Soca River. Slovenia is truly an undiscovered gem, rich in natural beauty and history.
On the fourth of July, RM invited me to take an evening walk outside the apartment in Lokve. He was carrying a sack as he led me a few yards down the street and into an open field. There, he surprised me with two fireworks fountains he had purchased in Italy without my knowledge. As I was applauding the sparks surging into the sky and the rather loud reports, I heard a baby start to cry. A light went on in an RV parked behind the nearby restaurant. Like two errant children, we giggled and ran back to the apartment, leaving the now-devoid fireworks in the field where we would pick them up tomorrow when it was light and they had cooled. I felt a little guilty about disturbing the silence of this sleepy village and yet, I couldn't help but feel proud about my native country. I might be looking at homes to buy in Europe, but the good old United States would always be first in my heart. What a wonderful gesture from RM. I just hoped our landlord, who was the mayor of Lokve, didn't receive any formal complaints.
It was my turn to surprise RM later that week. Thursday was his birthday and he wanted to spend it on the Soca River. I had brought gifts for him from the States and, unable to get out on my own to get a cake, I stuck a match in a filled pastry and sang "Happy Birthday." That evening, he roasted part of a suckling pig in the oven -- his birthday wish. Just after dinner, RM's phone rang. He talked briefly then hung up, smiling.
"That was Zvonka. She said she's found exactly what you're looking for but it's going to go quickly. We meet at her office at 9 a.m., tomorrow."
Having now looked at more than 20 properties, I wasn't going to get my hopes up too far. And yet Zvonka, by now, had gotten a pretty good handle on what I was looking for. Tomorrow, we would all know whether this one was a hit or a miss.
When we arrived on Friday morning, we were greeted by Jana, Zvonka's assistant. She had a huge smile on her face and was so excited she couldn't speak even broken English, choosing instead to let RM translate.
"She says it's an old stone farmhouse in Goce and it's just perfect," RM said, taking me aside as the phone rang and Jana answered.
"Do you think it's the one we've seen?" I whispered, my heart sinking a bit.
RM and I had gotten a call from someone about a house in Goce that the owners were trying to sell without an agent. I had felt a little guilty about going to see it without any of the various agents we had worked with thus far, but the whole real-estate process works differently there than it does in the States. Many properties are bought and sold without agents.
Goce is Slovenia's oldest village, laid out in the shape of St. Andrew's cross. The saint's namesake church towers above rows of connected stone houses on vineyard-covered hills above Vipava. You could see Goce from the motorway but once there, you couldn't hear it. That meant easy access without unpleasant traffic noise. A perfect combination for a B&B. The house we saw was small and nestled in the middle of a long row of structures. The owners had restored it the way I would have, using reclaimed doors and windows, tile floors and leaving some of the stone walls exposed. It had two large rooms on the ground floor and three bedrooms upstairs. You had to walk through one bedroom to get to another and in that one was the only bathroom. Perhaps I should just say, "bath." There was no "room" about it. The claw-foot tub, pedestal sink and toilet were simply lined up along the back wall of the bedroom. No privacy here. The tiny garden in the back was pretty and it had a garage. It also had an asking price of nearly 200,000 Euros. I figured that property must be pretty pricey in this lovely ancient village. Neither the price nor the property would work for me.
RM and I decided we would go take a look at whatever Zvonka had found. After all, there were many more houses in Goce. I hoped she was going to show me a different one. If she took us to the one we'd already seen, we'd just experience a moment of awkwardness. That's all.
As we drove into Goce, we turned left at the little school where we had parked on our first trip there. RM negotiated the narrow street with his car but instead of going in the direction we had walked previously, Zvonka told him to turn right. The street was so narrow between the houses on the corner that RM had to back up a few feet and take a second run at it. We parked a few yards up the street and waited while Zvonka knocked on the door of one of the houses. The neighbor had the keys.
Zvonka motioned for us to follow her. In front of us, just to the right of the neighbor's house, was a gate in a tall stone wall. The buildings inside were crumbling as were my expectations. But then Zvonka continued to walk down a narrow passage between the stone wall of the ruins and the side of another huge house. In front of us was another iron gate. As I neared the gate, I gasped at the courtyard in front of us. It was overfilled with fig trees, roses and hydrangeas. A tall palm tree stood at the far side of the courtyard which was surrounded by tall stone walls on three sides and to the left, an Italian-style farmhouse. I had to stop to catch my breath as my eyes took in everything and my brain started clicking to catch up. I didn't know anything about this property yet but I was overwhelmed by both a sense of peace and spiraling excitement. Embossed on the small metal license-plate-looking house number near the front door was "Goce 23."
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