The Village People

Running Man (RM) and I continued to clean the house and the little piece of property that came with it. We invited our friends from Lokve, Edbin and Tatijana, to come to dinner. They were very anxious to tour the house. We also spent some time with RM's brother, sister-in-law and their teenage sons. Other than that, we laid low and stayed close to home, except for our frequent trips to the library in Nova Gorica for wireless internet access. The telephone company was out of fiber-optic capacity for high-speed internet in Goce, satellite dishes or antennas aren't available, and because I didn't have a full-time employer in Slovenia, I wasn't allowed to subscribe to a service that would allow me to use a USB key to connect to a tower on Nanos that I could probably get a signal from given the position of the house. The situation posed a significant problem for my ability to work on client projects. But after several attempts and some arm twisting, RM finally managed to get a USB key and monthly plan for me.

Naturally, I was curious about my new neighbors but worried about the fact that I couldn't speak Slovene. Instead of venturing out to meet them, like I'm sure I would have had I bought a house in the States, I observed. I am a people-watcher, and I had a great place to do it.

There's a little road that runs right behind my house and around the corner between the house and the vineyard. When I say "right behind" I mean within a foot of the house wall in some places. On the other side of the little road is an open hayfield that meets the vineyard beside the house. The road isn't much more than a path but it has a lot of traffic.

Everyone traveling the road walks or drives small tractors behind the length of the house, rounding the corner and disappearing over the hill beyond. There's the small dark-haired lady whom I recognized as the next-door neighbor. She would travel the path a few times a day, sometimes pushing a wheelbarrow full of manure to deposit in the compost heap next to her little garden and sometimes with handfuls of flowers, herbs or some other produce. Then, there's the blue-haired lady who usually carried an empty pail over the hill and one full of lettuce or onions on the return trip. Although I never saw them together at the same time, I was struck by their incredibly stylish glasses in sharp contrast to their attire. The dark-haired neighbor would wear boots and cropped pants and bright blouses while the blue-haired lady always wore a long apron. Peasant attire with designer eyewear. I loved the irony.

The men who used the road were usually driving small tractors to their fields, gardens or vineyards. I wondered where they lived in the village, what crops they tended and what they all thought about the American woman who had moved to town. Surely they were as curious about me as I was about them.

The weekend after my experience with burja was incredibly warm and sunny for the end of October and above all, still. I was scheduled to fly back to the States in three weeks to spend Thanksgiving with my family, work on my residence permit and tie up some other loose ends. On this Sunday afternoon, RM and I had wandered through the wine cellar and out the back door to survey the house from the back and side and to take in the exhilarating views of the countryside. The grapes had been harvested and the vineyards and forests were just beginning to turn yellow, red and orange.

It was while we were enjoying our panoramic view that we met our first Village Person. He was walking with a black dog from the hayfield behind the house, back toward the road when he and RM exchanged a friendly "dober dan" (good day) and he stopped to talk. His name was Joze (prounounced yo-zhuh) and he spoke no English. The dog's name was Beno and he followed Joze everywhere. Joze was average height, tanned, mustached with dark hair peppered with gray. I listened as he and RM talked, then watched RM motion Joze down the alley and around the house.

"He has invited us to his wine cellar," RM said. "We're going to meet him around front."

It was our first invitation into the famous wine cellars of Goce. How exciting.

We walked quickly through the narrow streets to a building at the front edge of the village. Joze had restored the old building with its ancient wine cellar below, like the one in my house, and put another cellar above. Both were filled with large stainless steel casks. He welcomed us in and poured a glass of something that RM told me was his homemade vinjak (veen-yok) which is the local equivalent of cognac. We drank a shot, then another as we stood outside looking up toward the ancient church that sits atop a peak above Goce. The church is called "Maria Snezna" (pronounced shnez-nuh) which translates to "Mary of the Snow." With the spotlights on at night, you can see it for miles, statuesque among the forests and vineyards high above the Vipava Valley. RM and I had been planning to walk up to see the church but hadn't made it yet. Apparently, Joze was going to drive us there.

He opened the back door of the car outside the cellar, pushing papers and plastic bottles from the seat, and motioned for me to get in. RM got into the front seat and Joze walked around and sat behind the wheel. I was a little nervous because I could tell Joze was a little tipsy. You don't have to understand Slovene to figure that one out. And he'd brought along a full bottle of his vinjak for the journey so as he navigated the narrow, twisting rock road to just below the church, I wondered what the trip back down would be like. 

We walked to the top of the hill with Beno who had sprinted all the way up the road behind us. The view was absolutely amazing. RM had his camera with him, of course, so he had to shoot me above Goce.

There was a young couple from Ljubljana there, sitting on the wall around the Church, and a middle-age couple from Piran taking photos of the valley. Three of the four could speak English so I could make small talk with them, but most of the conversation was in Slovene. Joze was passing around the bottle of vinjak and everyone was partaking. I was reminded of snorkling the year before in February while in Mexico for my brother's wedding. My Dad, older brother, two sisters, brother-in-law and niece had taken the excursion one morning. There were about 20 people on the boat, including three local guides who passed around a bottle of tequila and only two glasses among all of us. Just as I thought in Mexico, whatever germs the strangers around me might have, the alcohol would no doubt take care of.

Joze rattled back down the mountain road, Beno running behind all the way to the wine cellar. Apparently, it was now time to sample some of his wines. The ones in the casks above were from the recent harvest and wouldn't be ready until St. Martin's Day in November, so we ventured down into the ancient cellar to sample his chardonnay, rebula and merlot. We were joined by Joze's wife, Nada, and neighbor, Tomaz. None of them spoke English so I listened closely and RM translated on the fly so I could understand some of the conversation. Nada left then returned with a heaping plate of homemade prosciutto, sausages, cheese and bread. Local fare but delicious.

After what seemed like hours, RM told me we were leaving. I thought we were going back home but instead, we walked a few yards down the main street of Goce and were waved down into Tomaz's wine cellar to sample his wines. His sons, Jan and Blaz, came down for introductions. Both could speak some English although neither wanted to. Blaz brought down a small accordian to play, which I learned is actually a harmonica because it has buttons rather than a keyboard. It was a dark red color with mother-of-pearl inlays of edelweiss. He started playing Slovenian folk songs and everyone in the room sang along, including RM who probably hadn't thought of them in years. I just sat on the bench, sipping wine, petting Beno and smiling at the warmth and friendliness of my new neighbors. It didn't matter that I couldn't speak Slovene. This experience was universal.

It was late and dark when we left Tomaz's cellar and wandered back to the house we'd left hours and hours ago. The next day, I had a bit of a headache but a wonderful memory of the somewhat surreal day before as I pondered how my liver would ever survive the Village People.