The other sword in the stone

 Italy has a more commendable Sword in the Stone story than the Arthurian legend. While Arthur pulled out the sword to gain power over all England, St. Galgano’s La spada nella roccia is a sign of peace.

Born to wealth in the Tuscan town of Chiusdino, Galgano had a dream in 1180 that the Archangel Michael and the Apostles would lead him to peace if he gave up his knight life. He took the deal, plunging his sword into a stone to show he renounced all violence.

Galgano lived next to the stone as an animal-loving hermit. After he died,, Pope Lucious III declared him a saint and built a round chapel around the stone (under which Galgano is supposedly buried).

But wait, it gets better.

Later, three envious louts tried to pull out the sword. A wolf that Galgano had befriended attacked the sword-stealers and ripped their arms off. And now those mummified arms are displayed in a glass case in the Montesiepi Chapel.

Sound as likely as Arthur and Merlin? Ha! In 2001 researchers from the University of Pavia used Carbon-14 dating to show the arms and the sword were indeed from the 12th century.

There may be no Italian Camelot, but the story of one man’s pledge of peace continues on a beautiful hilltop in Tuscany.

Tool Time in Italy

While having your own place in Italy puts a new spin on tourism, it also comes with responsibility. There is no front desk nor landlord to call when something doesn’t work. Just like home, it’s time to put on your handyman cap.

 Our apartment is in a building constructed sometime before 1900, so it has even more excuse for creaking bones than I do. 

Before Cecile and I arrived, Gillian and Will had scoped out the building supply stores and outfitted us with a basic set of tools. It wasn’t long before I got to try out both.

While trying to clear a sluggish drain in the kitchen sink, I broke a piece of pipe. There was nothing else to do but to find an Italian equivalent to Ace Hardware.

“Brico” is a general term in Italy for do-it-yourself – an adaptation of the French bricolage. The word is used in the name of several hardware store chains, from the huge BricoLarge to the very modern Brico.io to the inexplicably smaller MaxiBrico. Fortunately for me, there is a MaxiBrico tucked in an industrial park about 15 minutes of winding road from our apartment.

Hardware stores are magic. No matter if they are in Mid-Missouri or Mid-Tuscany, they attract some of us like light bulbs do moths. Especially if they are the kind that have little bins full of nuts, bolts and doohickeys that you just might need some day. (Even if they are measured in millimeters instead of 64ths.)

And here’s the good news: Clerks here understand the universal Tool Time language. The guy at MaxiBrico had the same response as the guy at Ace Hardware to my hand waving and “This thingy that goes into something under my sink is busted.” He looked at my broken piece of pipe, turned, led me to the plumbing department and wordlessly pointed to a whole box of thingies. 

He even smiled and nodded when I said “Grazie.” And I’m sure that, just like the guys at Ace, the nod turned to a shake when I turned around.

And like hardware clerks in any town or country, he knew he would see me again. It always takes at least two trips to the hardware store before you finish a project. 

I’ve been to the MaxiBrico three times and to its upscale Brico cousins twice. You got to love DIY tourism.

 

More than words

I’ll admit to a bit of anxiety when I heard the invitation. Lia Bonacchi, our realtor’s mother and the secret key to local life, asked us to go to a literary event she organized in nearby Prata. An actor from the regional hub Grosseto was to dramatically retell parts of The Decameron, the 14th century Italian classic written by Giovanni Boccaccio.

This is something like being invited to hear Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales in Old English. The Decameron is a similar set of 100 stories a group of young Florentines supposedly told to each other while waiting out the Plague in the countryside.

Cecile checked out an online English edition of Boccacio and read enough to see that the original seven young women and three young men used well-honed wit and bawdy innuendo to enliven a life in a pandemic. A bit classier than firing up Zoom.

I had no cause for anxiety.

Prato is a Tuscan hilltop town of about 500 souls. It had a few more when it endured a siege in 1285 or when it harassed Napoleon’s troops in 1799, but now welcomes both tourists and countrymen to its rustic beauty. That night it was mostly the latter – we seemed to be the only Americans in the audience.

Lia had arranged to use the historic garden of an extremely tiny stone church in the old town. (The garden is another of her projects: Conserving fruit tree varieties dear to Tuscan hearts). Sweet Tuscan night air under the branches of a heavily-laden pear.

Actor Giacomo Moscato was amazing, as was his accompaniment on the lute and other stringed instruments by Paolo Mari.

It was all in Italian, very little of which I understood. But not to worry. In a way, it reminded me of opera. Moscato’s face and pacing spoke volumes. I could focus on the rhythm of the words, the story in Moscato’s gestures and the soothing sound of the lute. The words were important (and funny, if the chuckles from the audience were evidence) but I knew that could read the details of the story later. 

It was pure performance. Molto bene.

Leave it to Lia

We chose this apartment and, even more so, Boccheggiano, based on the enthusiasm and warmth of our real estate agent, Giulio Martini. Guilio grew up in the village as the son of its only realtor. The enthusiasm he and his 30-something friends (The 4 Gatti)­­ have for their hometown is without bounds – I’ll write more on them later.

But perhaps the most wonderful benefit of buying from Guilio was being introduced to his mother, Lia Bonacchi (Italian women don’t take their husband’s name).

Lia is the ultimate Italian mama. She seems to know everyone in western Tuscany, manages a vacation rental, organizes cultural and civic events, immediately befriends you with her smile and offers her help long before you realize you need it. She is from Prata, married a Boccheggiano man, lives near Follonica and seems to be in all three places at once.

Her English is good enough that, along with a little help from Google Translate and impromptu hand waving, she can explain anything. It has enough pleasant gaps, however, to encourage Cecile and me to try expanding our tiny Italian vocabulary. Talking to her is like opening a window to Italy.

The purchase of our little piece of Italy would undoubtedly been much more stressful if Lia had not volunteered to help us with the basic civic maze of utility bills, local rules, etc. She was a godsend to Gillian when she came over in January to sign the purchase paperwork.

Now she has, in her wonderful way, befriended us and sends to us a regular stream of pointers to interesting local things to do and – even better – invitations to events she organizes.  Through her we have watched a parade of classic autos, enjoyed outdoor drama and next will attend a dinner theater at an agritourismo nearby. These are local events that don't pop up in tourist brochures.

As I ramble on about our Italian adventure for the next two months, I’ll undoubtedly by mentioning events and places that Lia has recommended that will provide us with an inside scoop on Tuscan life. 

A day at la Spiaggia - the beach

 

Italians love their beaches. And their umbrellas.

We spent Tuesday, the last day of the ferragosto holiday, at Folonica on the coast across from Elba Island. It’s been a popular beach for a long time — even before Napoleon looked longingly at it. The 15th Century Torre Mozza looks over the beach and a Roman road cuts through the water just off the sand. You can stand out of the water on a section of Via Aurelia and tan like a gladiator. 

We were all there for the sun — but in moderation. A forest of umbrellas keep people from incinerating in the Mediterranean heat. 

Contrary to the rumor, Italian beaches are not full of topless grandmothers and Adoni in speedos. It’s a family place, although the popular tiny bikini bottoms offer hectares of flesh of for bun burning.

If you forgot your bikini, or lunch or a toy to bounce on the sand, not to worry. There was a vendor for any need. My favorite was the caterpillar-tree electric cart that sold ice cream and beer.  Hey!  Look at the tractor treads ...

You gotta love Italy.

A blur, Italian style

“Una sfocatura.” 

I’m not sure if it’s the proper usage, but that’s how Google Translate described my first day in Italy.

“A blur.”

Jet travel is hell on your sense of time and space. Especially so this trip, when we had a 7-hour layover in Chicago before a 9-hour flight, then 3 hours of rental car bureaucracy followed by a 2 ½ hour drive. Then, what the hell, let’s go to a festival until near midnight!

We had a choice of trying to make a connection from our Columbia-Chicago hop flight to our main flight to Italy in 40 minutes or in 7 hours. At my age, terminal sprints can be terminal, so we chose to wait it out, but bought a day-pass to American’s comfortable Admiral’s Club. Lots of great food and comfortable chairs, but it was a less-than-perfect prep for a long “night” in an airline seat.

The flight was as expected – marginal comfort, marginal food, very marginal sleep. But our plane actually arrived a half-hour early and amazingly, we breezed through Italian customs.

Not that our luck counted for anything at the rental car counter. We had reserved a car for noon and the saleswoman-clerk said that unless we wanted to upgrade to a bigger car (hint, hint), that’s when we were going to get it.

But we are retirees and know what to do with time on our hands. Eat. And fortunately, the Rome airport had a pizza parlor to weep for.

But eventually we were packed into our cute little Fiat Panda, following Google Maps north to a town that barely shows on any map.

I don’t know why I was surprised, but the trip up the coast from Rome looked almost exactly like driving the inland route off the California coast – golden-dry grass dotted with sturdy trees (stone pines rather than live oaks) and low stucco buildings. California’s Mediterranean climate really is just that.

But like California, Italy gets greener as you go north and more so as you gain altitude. Boccheggiano is just 38 kilometers (24 miles) from the sea but quickly rises 675 meters (2,215 feet). Once you leave the coast highway, it makes that climb on twisted roads that scream for a sportscar. For obvious reasons, “Panda” is not a sportscar name.

Entering Boccheggiano was breathtaking for us even without the altitude. It’s gorgeous. And there to meet us was daughter Gillian, her husband Will, daughter Evelyn and her friend Nata. It had been Gillian’s dream to buy an Italian house, a dream she easily roped us into. Gillian, Cecile and Evelyn went to Tuscany last summer and discovered Boccheggiano and an enthusiastic realtor named Giulio Martini. The rest is quickly becoming history.

Gillian and family had been in Italy about two weeks and would share a few days with us before returning to Oregon. They were excitedly ready to show us all the Italian wonders they had discovered.

It had been about 40 hours since we rolled out of bed in Columbia. But, as Gillian pointed out, the Medieval festival in nearby Massa Marittima happens only twice a year. So, we bundled into our tiny cars, swished over the winding roads and arrived in time to pack the courtyard as people have been doing annually for hundreds of years. 

The Balestro del Girifalco features a crossbow competition between historical neighborhoods. Before the amazing archers, however, each district stages an incredible performance of flag-tossing ancient pageantry. It’s sort of a Renaissance breakdance slam.

By 11 p.m., the day had truly become a blur. Trying to navigate those twisting roads in the dark woke me up just enough to get home, have something to eat and collapse. With a smile on my face.

La vita è molto bella.

Our Italian Adventure Begins

 The adventure continues! 

Sunday, Cecile and I will depart for Italy, where we will stay for two months in a tiny historical village in Tuscany. Boccheggiano is a hilltop village of less than 400 people that has roots that go back to the pre-Roman Etruscans. 

Our daughter, Gillian, has long dreamed of having a place of her own in Europe – ala “My Year in Provence.”  But rather than France, she focused on Italy where small towns are losing so many people that the country encourages “ex pats” to buy property.

So, with Gillian, we bought a small-but-comfortable apartment in a town that is aggressively working to make sure it is around for another few centuries. The town welcomes folks like us and produces a constant stream of cultural events to draw interest. This weekend, for instance, it is producing a tribute concert to Pink Floyd, a “peace theater” production and a festival of medieval fantasy. At least that is what Google Translate told me.

Gillian and her family are there now, but leaving a few days after we arrive. We will enjoy some time together (really together in this apartment), then take the handoff. While our grandson minds our Columbia house, we will explore a simply gorgeous part of Italy.

Meanwhile, between now and mid-October I will be posting updates on Facebook and on-and-off-again travel blog “Heard from Afar.” Ciao.

Passing of a local legend

 A bonafide character that I met to record his oral history died here in Columbia last week.

Bill Wulff built it.

If “it” is in Boone County, there is a good chance that statement is true. For decades, Wulff and his brothers Al, Martin and Doc were the premier builders in Mid-Missouri. They built hundreds of houses, dozens of commercial buildings, much of Whiteman Air Force Base, a lakeside resort with its own airport – and the Boone County History and Culture Center.

Born in 1931 near Fort Leonard Wood, he worked his family farm (at one time with the help of German prisoners of war) and later became a police officer in Columbia. He found that police work wouldn’t support his wife and child, so became a brick mason and eventually a developer of masonry buildings. Ever the entrepreneur, he opened his own lumber company and brick plant to supply his construction projects. He and his brother, Doc, built hundreds of houses and commercial buildings in Columbia.

He traded a house in Columbia for land on the then-undeveloped Lake of the Ozarks, buying or trading for neighboring land until he had a half-mile of lakeshore. He built the popular Wulff Harbor Resort there, but roads to the lake were so poor that he built his own airport for easier access.

Drawing on his police experience, he organized an auxiliary force for the Columbia Police Department that for years supplemented the stretched-thin paid force.

My favorite story, however, was how he surreptitiously moved a giant bell from the dome of the Boone County Courthouse to the lawn in front.  The bell didn't fit the plan for the remodeling of the courthouse and there was no money in the budget to move it. Bill took that as a challenge, so sneaked into the courthouse with friends one night to used chains and brute force to snatch the bell.  Getting it down entailed muscling it over a wall and into an elevator and sliding it across the courthouse's main floor. By dawn, they had it installed on the lawn. County officials arrived later that morning to a puzzling surprise.

Wulff and his wife, Helen, also liked to travel. Helen particularly like history and genealogy but was dismayed that Columbia did not have a museum like so many other towns across the  country had. That led to a fund drive and many nights and weekends constructing the museum’s home in Nifong Park.

Today, four flags and a bronze monument in front of the museum commemorate Wulff’s lifetime of work.

Bill died Aug. 7, 2020 at Boone Hospital in Columbia.  He was here for 89 fascinating years.

COVID: Out of fear comes joy

It’s odd how a threat to your life can bring out the best in your life.

I took the outbreak of the COVID-19 pandemic very seriously. I’m 69 and have the usual health challenges that come with age, putting me right in the crosshairs of the virus. But the 2 ½ months that we isolated together turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life.

It all started simply enough. In March, we drove from our home in Columbia, MO, to Knoxville for a week of classic “grandparent duty.” The daycare center where Fletcher and Cordelia spend weekdays was closed for Spring Break. Cecile and I jumped at the chance to sub-in so Garrett and Brittany could continue to work.

The world went to hell just as we arrived.  By midweek, health officials had issued “stay-at-home” or “self-isolation” advisories as the toll from coronavirus mounted worldwide. Garrett and Brittany could work from upstairs if we could ride herd on the kids downstairs.

We also found ourselves in a bit of role reversal. Son Garrett was now the protective father, “grounding” Mom and Dad to make sure we did not come anywhere near disease carriers. No more trips to the store or gatherings with neighbors.

But we had plenty to keep us busy. I developed a new appreciation for young parents and teachers. Little kids are not only bursting with energy, but they are so fascinating that I willingly let them monopolize my attention.

Cora was just six months old – barely able to roll over, not quite recognizing our faces and not even attempting to talk beyond a gurgle. Fletcher was coming up on his third birthday – intensely curious, insistent that he do it his way and ravenous for stories, songs and books.

What magic those 2 ½ months worked. It’s hard to notice when we are a busy parents, but as grandparents we get to capture what we didn’t really see as our own kids blossomed. Other than a dash home for warm-weather clothes, we spent our time in Knoxville closer to our grandchildren than would otherwise be possible.

Day-by-day, Cora expanded her world. In what seemed only minutes, she grew from infant to toddler.

She loved for me to hold her up to the front window, first just enjoying just the light but later delighting at birds in the yard or dogwalkers on the sidewalk. She went from just a cute little smile to locking her eyes on mine, brightening into a soul-warming smile and waving her tiny hands in excitement. Is there any greater reward for your life than seeing a part of yourself beaming back to you?

I delighted in her quest for mobility. I cheered her on like a championship team as she scooted to her knees and shakily edged toward me. Later I secretly took all the credit when she pulled herself up the side of her playpen and then toddled forward holding my finger for balance. When she tired of it, she rewarded me by falling asleep on my stomach while I lay smiling on the sofa.

You naturally love your grandson, but Fletcher became my best buddy. A high point of my day was to escort him on a walk around the neighborhood. He taught me to literally stop and smell the roses as we trekked at glacial speed. Every stick and rock was a discovery, every leaf a piece of art. It might take an hour to walk around the block but I gladly gave up the vigorous exercise for the Zen of a little boy’s pace.

He excitedly explained his world in a constant stream that I half understood but fully appreciated. It was our own secret when I let him pee in the bushes or made his snack of “mud and sticks” (peanut butter and pretzels). I watched him put his imagination into LEGO constructions. I sang the ABC song more times than I ever did as a child to time our frequent hand scrubs. He hugged me. A lot.

Having four adults constantly in the same house could have been a disaster. But it wasn’t.  It was family.

You might imagine a daughter-in-law resenting the intrusion of a strange old man in her house, but Brittany welcomed me into her life. We grew closer as each day passed and I more and more appreciated how strong and bright she is. We are so lucky that she joined our family.

There were years when Garrett and I simply grated on each other’s nerve, as fathers and sons often do. But our mutual isolation drew us together more than since he was the little boy in the house. We had long talks and worked on projects together. I saw first-hand what a brilliant engineer he is. He pleasantly surprised me in the kitchen, making us with meals both delicious and healthy. The boy shared his life as a man. He is my son. 

As much as I missed my own bed and the comfortable nooks of my own home, my heart ached as we backed out of the driveway to head home once the daycare reopened. A vicious disease the turned our lives upside-down had given me the joy of a lifetime.

Fear? No. Gratitude.

Slovenia – Epilogue

For six weeks in Slovenia I taught, but what did I learn? After a week of recovering from travel and reorienting myself to life in the United States let me ponder this fascinating country.

In an odd sort of way, Missouri and Slovenia share a status with the rest of the world. Missouri is a “fly-over state,” largely ignored by the news media focused on the two coasts and our fellow citizens who, frankly, find us a bit boring.

Slovenia has a 1,000 year history of being walked over, ridden over and flown over by almost every great power in Europe. It is a quick passageway from the Aegean to Central Europe that by tradition even Jason and the Argonauts used. Few Americans could point to it on a map.

But though it is hard to tell a Missourian from an Iowan, Slovenians stand alone. No matter who tramped through or ruled over them, the residents of this small country have maintained their own distinct language and culture for a millennium.

Let me put that in Missouri context. At 7,827 square miles and with 2 million people, Slovenia is a bit smaller than the St. Louis Metropolitan Statistical Area (8,458 square miles, 2.6 million people). Imagine that although the Spanish, French, Germans, Confederates and Yankees have had their day in St. Louis, folks there still spoke the Cahokian tribal language.

Language aside, it is the less definable distinctness of Slovenians that most fascinated me about their country. Except for the tiny cups of coffee, most Americans would find it easy to live in Slovenia. Almost everyone speaks English, you recognize the brand names on the grocery shelf and you can even get barbecue in downtown Ljubljana.

But you always know that something is different:

· Slovenians have a much different attitude toward life. While Americans seem largely driven by money, Slovenians seldom fantasize about becoming a billionaire. As my host Marko Milosavljević explained, Slovenians choose an “as is” culture rather than an “upward and onward” culture. The goal of most Slovenians, many told me, is to live comfortably and enjoy their country’s spectacular beauty. That probably accounts for the aura of calmness that visitors soon pick up on.

· They pay somewhat higher taxes, but use them to amplify that lifestyle. Healthcare is provided, college is free. The education system is considered one of the best in the EU. The roads are well maintained and parks are everywhere. And the whole country is remarkably clean.

· Laid back, but certainly not lazy. Slovenians are big-time joggers, ride bikes everywhere and never saw a hill they didn’t want to climb. I didn’t see nearly as many overweight people as I see on any U.S. street corner.

· We may have Starbuck’s, but Slovenia has a true coffee culture. Any work break, meeting of friendsor simply time to get your head straight means a stop at any of the multitude of coffee bars always within an easy walk. Coffee there is not a huge and expensive mug of Joe, but some variation on a shot of expresso served in a tiny cup. For about a euro (a bit over $1), you can sip your expresso and often munch a bonus cookie while you ponder that pleasant lifestyle.

· No tipping. Wait staff get a fair wage and diners pay the price on the menu.

· Slovenians use TV to become multi-lingual. While English lessons start in elementary school, Slovenians swear by their other source of education. With such a small population, Slovenian television must count on programming from other countries. However, those shows in English, Serbian, Italian, etc. are never dubbed. Viewers hear the American cops on CSI banter in English – but see the translation on subtitles. Hearing native speakers night after night reinforces the English lessons from school.

· Books are everywhere. Despite having fewer readers than most American cities, Ljubljana is chock-a-block with bookstores offering titles in Slovenian. The government subsidizes the book industry to make sure Slovenians always have a printed source of their ancient language.

· Slovenian food is a fusion of the surrounding Slavic, Austrian and Italian cultures – heavy dumplings but also al dente pasta, hearty lager but Tuscan-style wine. And they seem to like culinary surprises. Our favorite was pizza with brie cheese, black caviar and red salmon roe.

· Distance is relative. From the capital Ljubljana, you can drive anywhere in Slovenia in about two hours. But that’s not just two hours between towns, it’s to different environments. One side is towering Alps, another rolling wine country, a third the bright beaches of the Adriatic -- with castles are on all sides. And with the European Union’s open borders, another country is just a tank of gas away.

The tourism folks have adopted a catchy logo for this pleasant land: sLOVEnia. I like it. What’s not to love?

Saying farewell

It’s hard to say goodbye to colleagues. It’s harder still to say farewell to friends.

We will board an airplane in the early hours of Wednesday to return home after six weeks in Slovenia. The Fulbright Specialist Program gave me so many gifts: The chance to renew my love of teaching, the chance to serve where I know I'm needed, the chance to explore a truly remarkable country and culture…

… And the chance to meet people who will forever be in my heart.

The Fulbright Program inserts professors from U.S. universities into the academic lives of colleges and universities around the world. My opportunity was to work at the University of Ljubljana, the flagship university in Slovenia.

The students were incredible. Bright, as journalists should be, but also talented. We are often frustrated trying to help the public make sense of 50 sort-of united states. They will go into a profession where news comes in dozens of languages and even more cultures.

The University of Missouri, from which I retired in 2017, counts its journalism professors by the score. The University of Ljubljana counts them on one hand. While other professors in the Fakulteta za družbene vede teach the linguistics and literacy theory and knowledge courses, the professional aspects of journalism are taught by four very competent, very collegial and very busy professors. Jernej Amon Prodnik chairs the department and teaches both the introductory reporting class and journalism history. Igor Vorbič is the video journalism specialist and also oversees the streaming news program. Melita Poler Kovačič teaches the crucial ethics classes. Marko Milosavljević is the lead in teaching reporting and editing. And of course, they all cover for each other while also teaching graduate classes and performing important academic research.

Knowledgeable, supportive, enthusiastic … none of those adequately describe this crew of journalist-scholars. Even "colleagues" falls short. They are a great group of folks to be around.

And there were so many others who helped us live here rather than just visit.  Ali Zerdan, the editor, and Tadeja Jelovšek, the judge. Technologist Dejan Gajšek and his wine-making parents. Literacy campaigner Sonja Merljak.  Tech writer Lenart Kucic. Sound guru Martin Jelovšek, and Maša Kolenbrand, my university paperwork guide. And, of course, all the folks at the U.S. Embassy – Jean Leady, Brian Street and Ivanka Ponikvar.

But Marko, oh Marko. As my host and mentor, you made this month-and-a-half a true lifetime event. Marko trusted me with his students, which is an honor no professor treats lightly. But he also quickly became my friend. We shared endless little cups of Slovenian espresso talking shop, but he also shared his family. I can’t adequately tell you how much Cecile and I enjoyed being with Maja and little Maša. Of course, what grandfather wouldn’t lose his heart to a beautiful 4-year-old who doesn’t care at all that you can’t understand what she is saying?

Places. That’s what we usually associate with our travels. Slovenia provided no end of beautiful photos to fill my scrapbook. But this trip was really about people. And what people I met! Old Senator Fulbright would be proud. Face-to-face travel makes memories – and peace.

The highs and the lows

I’ve joked to friends that Slovenia is a Readers Digest version of Europe – turn a page and you have the landscape of another country. We put that notion to the test this weekend by spending Saturday in the majestic Alps and Sunday in the lowland wine country.

Saturday afternoon, we went to Kranj, just outside Ljubljana, to visit the Teran family. It was one of those “six degrees of separation” moments that make you wonder if “foreign” is really a word. Aleš and Nataša Teran have three bright and talented daughters – Manća, Kaja and Spela. Manča was an exchange student to Maryland, living with Scott and Susanne McLellan. Susanne’s parents, Gary and Nancy Franklin, are our friends and fellow dining group members at the Missouri United Methodist Church in Columbia. One good meal, like one good friend, leads to another, so (if you are still following me) here we were in the shadow of the Julian Alps enjoying an incredibly sumptuous repast.

Nataša had another commitment and Kaja had to study, but thanks to Sunday’s switch to European Summer Time (I know, I know. The U.S. made the DST spring-forward two weeks ago. Bear with me) we still had plenty of time to explore Lake Bled.

To pass anywhere close to Lake Bled without visiting it is a sin against Rick Steeves and the gods of tourism. Less than 55 kilometers (35 miles) and another world from Ljubljana, it is the mold from which fairytales are made.

Slovenians love to point out that they have the sunny side of the Alps, where Lake Bled shines brightest. Rulers from Empress Maria Theresa to Tito have guarded Lake Bled as their own bit of heaven and impressed their guests with it for nearly a thousand years. It must have been an exceedingly stunning surprise when it took a long carriage or sleigh ride up the sunny side of the Julian Alps from the capital and crested the mountain to view the lake.

Besides water so clear you can watch fish swim from the overhanging cliff, Bled is known for its unique human edifices. The imposing 11th century castle looms over the lake from a rocky perch that looks across the water to Tito’s square, modernistic retreat.

But what appears on the postcards and thousands of snapshots is the tiny island in the center, upon which sits the Pilgrimage Church of the Assumption of Mary.

Legend says an ancient Slavic temple to the goddess Živa stood on the island, but that early shrine was replaced by a Baroque church. You can hire wooden boats to row you to the island and ring the church bell – tradition says it will make your dream come true. Many couples also go to the island for a romantic wedding. And everyone – even if your new friends have stuffed you with a great meal – ends their walk around the lake with a precisely 7x7 cm square of Kremsnita, the cream cake that vies with the island church for Lake Bled fame.

A quick trip to Lake Bled and the majestic Julian Alps is everything one would expect from an Austrian Sound of Music vacation. But instead of trudging over the mountains to Switzerland, Cecile and I made our next getaway to Slovenia’s sunny southern exposure. More friends, more fine food and more adventure.

Sunday morning we joined my university host Marko Milosavljevic, Maja and 4-year-old Maša for a quick drive to Goriška Brda.

Don’t struggle trying to pronounce any of that. Slovenians are graciously adept at understanding American Mumble.

If Lake Bled is a stand-in for the high Austrian Alps, Goriška Brda substitutes well for the rolling hills of Tuscan Italy. Here large vineyards, green pastures and soaring pines make a crazy quilt vista dotted with Medieval villages and hilltop churches.

You don’t find stout half-timbered houses in black and white here. The buildings are plastered in a warm tan, the streets are both cobbled and ox-cart narrow and the best view is over the rim of a wine glass. Bled is a yodel. Goriška Brda is a soft song played on a lute.

Part of the wonder of our Sunday in the south was watching it through a child’s eyes. Maša found magic in every flower, statue or pond. And so did I. But as you have probably guessed by now, I find Slovenia’s magic high and low.