Slovenia. For real.

(Due to a series of blogger.com failures, pictures associated with this post can be accessed by following the various links included)

When you travel, travel through the back door. That's the Rick Steves philosophy.

Rick is the author of a series of travel guides, and host of a PBS travel show. During my three months in Eastern Europe, my weekend journeys have depended on the contents of his "Best of Eastern Europe 2005." The fact that it's a year old means the prices have undoubtedly gone up and a couple restaurants have closed their doors, but by and large, the information is spot on. It was good enough, in fact, that I purchased "Best of Eastern Europe 2006" from amazon.com and had it shipped to my dad a few weeks before he flew across the Atlantic to visit.

This post isn't a Rick Steves advertisement, but his philosophy of leaving the beaten travel path enough to experience true local culture is one I have adopted. In fact, as I walked the streets of Prague, Budapest, Vienna, Ljubljana, Piran and Eger, I found myself feeling sad for the throngs of tourists sitting at the overpriced, Westernized, streetside cafes and restaurants along Vaci Utca and similar thoroughfares eating from the "Tourist Menus."

So, it was this philosophy that led Cori, my dad and me to the Deluk home in rural, southern Slovenia.

It was sweltering in Slovenia. The three of us sat down for lunch last Friday in 35 degree heat (that's 95 to you and me). I know it was 35 because Mario told me.

Mario speaks no English, but we communicated using a combination of German, Italian, Slovene, and a heavy dose of body language. We ate in the backyard of Mario Deluk's vineyard, about 10 kilometers from nowhere, which is another 30 minutes from Piran, the now-well known (to this blog's readers) Slovenian Mediterranean coastal village. The only way we discovered Mario's eatery was because the lone English speaker at another winery told us about it. We had stopped at that winery after spotting some inviting road signs. But they were closed, preparing for a large party that evening. So we took the rental and drove 3 or 4 kilometers down the narrow gravel road "to the first house on the right after the asphalt road that goes up the hill. It doesn't look nice, but you'll get a lot of food for almost nothing."

As promised.

When we arrived (And there's absolutely nothing marking this location as a restaurant...not a sign, an awning or a parking lot) two heavy set women were working in a kitchen that would have made satan sweat. After a couple mintes of awkward miscommunication (no one there spoke any English, although German or Italian would have helped) I was able to gesture "eat" and we were told with a smile to sit. No other diners were there, only a little girl in a swimsuit who I presume was a grand daughter. The girl would later get in trouble because the dog she was supposed to be watching climbed onto a table and pulled a large cut of pork from a heaping plate of meat. Thankfully this was her table, not ours; But, we all laughed. That is until "Mama" came out of the house. Mama, we later learned, is Mario's 84 year old mother. When we told the shirtless Mario, "no one takes any 'guff' from Mama," by pounding our fist on the table, he laughed from his belly and poured himself more wine.

Shortly later, my dad turned to us and asked, "how will we tell them what we want to eat?" I told him, "I think we're going to eat whatever they bring out." First we got soup. "Soopa Istria" as Mario called it. This thick, hearty soup included large chunks of Slovenian bacon (that means the rind was too touch to chew through. While tasty, you had to swallow it somewhat whole), and plenty of carrots, beans, garlic and potato.

When we each finished our bowls (Cori even ate everything...except the bacon), we all agreed we were full. But, we couldn't stop the waves of food Marianna (Mario's wife) kept bringing from the kitchen. Next was home made gnocchi with large chunks of beef. The gnocchi was Cori's favorite, and it were great. Later on, we watched as Marianna made more gnocchi in the kitchen for a 60th birthday party that they were hosting that night.

During the meal Mario told us we were 15 meters from Croatia. Pointing to his vinyard he said "Hrvatska," the Croatian word for Croatia. Marianna then made a swimming-like motionand we figured Croatia was on the other side of the small creek running behind the house. My dad jokingly asked if Mario had ever shot at Croatian soldier. I was momentarily uneasy with the comment, but Mario releaved my concerns with a hearty laugh, then added to my releif and made me laugh when he mimiked shooting a machine gun while shouting "Kalashnikov," the inventer of the "AK-47," the famous Russian military rifle. Aah, the fun you can have with heat, wine and the inability to speak a common language.

The next plate was piled on with various grilled meats: cased and uncased sausage, veal, pork and another meat which was good and could have been lamb or mutton but we're never really sure. Mario also gave us salad greens with fresh tomotoes and olive oil.

All the while Mario was pouring us wine. His wine. He makes 4500 liters or red and 12000 liters of white a year. He started by bringing us a platter with three glasses or white and three of red, unsure of which we wanted, and unable to communicate the point. Cori drank the whites, my dad and I had the reds, and within minutes Mario was up from the table and back again carrying a carafe of red and a glass for himself. He joined us at the table and the "conversation" continued.

Later, he took us into his wine cellar and poured us glasses straight from the vats. At this point there was all sorts of laughing, picture taking, hand shaking, hugging and cheek kissing. My dad asked if he could buy a couple bottles, so Mario left before returning with two, one-liter, plastic water bottles, filled 'em up, and screwed on the caps.

Wine tasting Slovenian style.

As we sat in the car looking at the map trying to figure out where we were and how to get back to nowhere so we could eventually return to Piran, Mario appeared with a single, freshly picked daisy for Cori.

The perfect ending.

The whole afternoon (and it was a whole afternoon, about 3 hours), including the two bottles of carryout wine, the 1, 2 or 3 bottles that we must have drank at the vinyard, the soup, the salad, the gnocchi, the piles of meat, the glasses fresh from the vats, the plate of sweets, the once in a lifetime cultural experience, and the fresh daisy cost ... about $50.

Part of me hopes to return one day, but I don't think I will. I don't want to risk losing these perfect memories.