I admit that I was somewhat intimidated about meeting them. They are people of influence and means in Spain and I'm just an average middle-class American. I hoped I wouldn't embarrass myself or my nation. I've met national leaders, celebrities and even President Bill Clinton while working on his press advance team. But these were titled people and that put them into a different category.
RM kept telling me to not be nervous and he was right. As soon as I met them, I realized that they were kind and gracious people and, well, normal. That is, if normal people have multiple homes, wealth and influence. I stopped thinking about their titles and lifestyle and just thought about them as being warm people, welcoming me to their home. (Okay, one of their homes.)
The Countess herself gave me the tour of their lovely villa in the northern Spanish countryside of Puicerda, near Andorra and the French border. Her father had built this home. He had been smart, innovative and made a fortune by using both of these traits to introduce penicillin to Spain. Imagine that. Being the one person who brought a life-saving pharmaceutical to an entire country. RM told me this, not the Countess. But a blind person could see the pride she had for her father as we walked through a villa filled with the inventions he had put into the house, long before their time. I was awestruck by communications devices and electrical systems, the tiny elevator and the massive gasoline-powered stove moved from a ship to the middle of the villa's kitchen. I was fascinated by the observatory at the very top of the house with its star-painted ceiling and huge telescope. I was simultaneously saddened by the disrepair in some of the house. I couldn't imagine how much money it would take to restore this phenomenal home to its original grace, and doubted their children or grandchildren wanted to make the investment. Were I wealthy, I would have done it in an instant and opened the doors to show the world her father's brilliance.
Biography has been one of my favorite literary genres since I read a paperback about Helen Keller that I bought through the Weekly Reader in elementary school. I was hooked on reading about the lives of others ever since, and as a writer, I've always wanted to research and write about the life of someone significant. If I could do such a book about the Count and Countess, their families and their own marvelous love story, I would die happy. But they are very private people and I would not intrude upon that for the sake of a book. But perhaps someday, when they are gone, when I have time to conduct the research, and if I could get the blessing of their children, I just might consider sharing what must be a fabulous story with the world. Another dream for me.
The villa was a place where we dressed for dinner, had cocktails on the terrace overlooking the pool, mountains and horses, then moved into the formal dining room where wonderfully attentive staff served us a four-course meal. For this Midwest American farm girl, it was the stuff of British novels and Hollywood movies. "Dorothy," I thought silently to myself, "You sure aren't in Kansas any more."
The Count and Countess introduced me to some family members who were visiting, including a niece who was beautiful, very talkative and has led a rather intriguing life. They all spoke English for my benefit, although I tried to follow their Spanish. While RM admits his fluency in many languages, Spanish isn't one of them. I'm convinced that people who speak several languages like he does have a genetic propensity for this gift. I'd taken Spanish in both high school and college and he could talk circles around me, having just "picked it up" during his time around the Count and Countess. RM had spoken Spanish to me before and I'd poked fun at him because he sounded like he was speaking the language with a pronounced lisp. I would say "buenos dias" and he would say "buenth diath." When I listened to the conversation around the table, that's exactly what I heard. I guess it's not unlike learning English in the United Kingdom then hearing a bunch of Americans speaking. To paraphrase an old saying, the United States and England are two countries separated by a language. Apparently, the same applied to other countries that speak the same language. I tentatively used a little of my Mexican/Costa Rican Spanish but felt extremely self-conscious with my pronunciation among all of these native speakers. And when I head a little Catalan, a regionally unique language that seems to combine, among other things, Spanish and French, I was utterly lost but fascinated.
The Count and Countess were leaving on Thursday for their home in Switzerland -- a much cooler place to spend one's summer. RM and I were headed to Slovenia via southern France and Monaco, through northern Italy and back to Edbin's apartment in Lokve where we would stay until I had the keys to the "new" house in Goce. During our long drive, RM and I talked about our hopes, dreams and ideas about this huge change in our lives. I was living a dream and kept praying that I wouldn't wake up and find myself back in a dead marriage in small-town Missouri.
Edbin and his mother were happy to have us back and excited by the fact that I was buying a home in Slovenia. They welcomed RM and me back like we were family, and Edbin's mom smiled joyfully at my few clumsy conversational words in Slovene. Slovenia is a very small country with its own language, and a difficult one at that. The mere fact that I attempt to speak their language brings a smile to the faces of people there. The fact that I might be butchering the hell out of it doesn't really matter; only the fact that I'm making the attempt. Thank goodness.
I was nervous. This time it wasn't about meeting influential and titled people. After all, I was in a country of peasants here and, frankly, I was much more comfortable among them. They are my kind of folk. I was nervous because I was buying a home in a foreign country. Who wouldn't have a jitter or two? I wanted to sign the papers, transfer the money and move in. I could deal with the inevitable buyer's remorse later. I also didn't want to put out any more money to stay in the apartment. My budget was tight so I needed to stop paying rent.
RM and I drove to Ajdovscina on Friday. I needed to open a bank account so I could have the money from my U.S. account wired there. I wanted to wire it to my own account this time, convert Dollars to Euros, then pay precisely what I owed. I opened my non-resident account at a local bank where the tellers seemed pleased to use their English. It's not every day that some Americanka walks in to open an account. I immediately contacted my bank and asked them to wire the money to my brand-spanking-new account. Then, we walked over to Zvonka's office to tell her that I was here, had put the wire transfer into motion and to ask her what was next. Zvonka was happy to see us again and told us to come back on Tuesday to sign papers and make the final payment. RM would have the dubious honor of keeping me occupied for the next three days as I anxiously awaited closing the deal. Making my financial matters worse was the growing Dollar-to-Euro conversion rate. It had shot from $1.25 to one Euro to more than $1.44. While that may not be a lot when you're converting $100 to Euros, when you're converting Dollars to 88,000 Euros, you choke on the difference. I would have to pay between $16,000 and $17,000 more now than under the conversion rate available when I made the down payment. I had budgeted for the balance, realtor's fees and a few extra dollars. Now, I would struggle to just pay the balance owed. I was frustrated and angry but knew that I couldn't control the conversion rate. One of the things I've learned in dealing with adversity in my life is that it's acceptable to stress over the things you can control, but it's futile to stress about the things you can't. For example, in planning public events for more than 25 years, I learned a long time ago that you can stress about everything except the weather. Despite your experience and expertise in event planning, you cannot control the weather, so why worry about it? All you can do is plan your event for both good weather and for bad then deal with Mother Nature that day. There was nothing I could do about the conversion rate. I would just have to suck it up and transfer the money. Then, I could turn my attention to how I would pay Zvonka's fees, taxes and everything else I would have to spend money on to start establishing my new home.
I was more worked up about the fact that the sellers were vacationing in Croatia. They would be back on Tuesday to sign the final papers and relinquish the keys. Until then, I would have to keep paying rent for Edbin's apartment. Not a great thing when I now had barely enough money to pay the balance on the house, let alone for an apartment.
I had RM ask her if she would take us back to see the property. I wasn't backing out, I joked, but I really wanted to see it again. Zvonka handed me the key and told RM to return it on Monday. I just stared at it in my hand, two keys, one for the gate and one for the door, attached to a ring with an Eiffel Tower charm. I couldn't believe she was just giving me the keys before the sale was final. The scene from the movie, "Under the Tuscan Sun," ran through my mind. In it, the Italian woman hands Diane Lane a huge skeleton key before the money has been transferred and the sale finalized. The woman tells her they'll take care of the rest later and says sardonically, "It's a house. What are you going to do, steal it?"
RM and I set off immediately for Goce. I couldn't get there fast enough. Despite the fact that I had now been to the village several times, I was as enchanted with it again as I was the very first time I had seen it. RM's sister-in-law had told me before that there was something magic about Goce, and I couldn't agree with her more. The house also still held the same magic for me. Mr. M. obviously had been there, clearing out the items he was taking and cleaning up a bit. Still, it looked mostly the same as it had before and RM and I explored every nook and cranny a little more closely than we had during previous visits. I didn't have to feel like I was snooping now; the house was virtually mine. The courtyard flora was starting to wane a bit but the view down into the valley, with the hillside vineyards heavy with grapes just before harvest, was just as breathtaking as I remembered.
When preparing for my return to Slovenia, I had forseen the fact that I would have no bed when I moved into the house. So, I had packed an air mattress, a battery-operated pump and basic linens. Now that I had the keys for the weekend, RM and I decided we'd camp out there on Saturday night. We returned to Lokve to make plans and pack a few things, then headed out Saturday morning to buy groceries and cleaning supplies. Since the house wasn't technically mine yet, RM and I sneaked in quietly, opening both gates and driving the car into the courtyard.
He volunteered to handle the bathroom while I took kitchen duty. He turned on the water heater and starting cleaning. I turned on the water heater above the sink, plugged in a fridge, pulled on rubber gloves and went to work. Mr. M. had actually left the place pretty clean so it didn't take us long before we were ready to open a bottle of wine and prepare a fabulous dinner of mussels and leeks. We ate at the concrete table in the courtyard, under a canopy of stars. We marveled at the fact that although we were sitting in the village, we felt completely and utterly alone. It was magical, and I couldn't stop fearing that I would wake up from what simply had to be a dream.
As it turns out, I wasn't dreaming. In fact, I was awake most of the night. The air mattress, while better than nothing on the vinyl-covered hardwood floor, was uncomfortable and the unfamiliar sounds of the house kept me from falling into a deep sleep. Still, as RM and I watched the sun rise above the foothills and vineyards, I was enchanted and relaxed for the first time in a long time.
The bells of the village church were ringing as we left Goce, headed back to Lokve. In my mind, I was rearranging furniture and creating a lengthy "to-do" list. I refused to let my dwindling budget dampen my enthusiasm. You can't control the weather. You can't control the Dollar-to-Euro conversion rate. In fact, you control very little in your life. Those who struggle with such issues are the ones foolish enough to believe they ever had control of something. I was learning more about that with every passing day.
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