For the first time in my adult life, I am truly lost for words. I have entered a country where I cannot utter the most basic pleasantry, nor can I pronounce the road signs, nor can I ask for help. Here in Postojna, Slovenian is the magnetic force that connects people, but I am a penny without a charge.
Without that faculty, I am ignorant and fearful. If I had even a smattering of Slovenian I could tap into their conversation, and to my surprise I would hear the people surrounding me make friendly or even like-minded conversation.
Or more likely, if I could catch just the odd word, I would know that their conversation was disappointingly mundane – but reassuringly innocent. I would know that they're speaking in angry voices not because of my presence, but because of the frustrating moment this passer-by had this morning trying to open the front door, which he's now recounting to his friend.
As it is, I thank the coach driver in Italian, and wonder uphill in silence, without any idea where I'm heading. I cannot approach but must wait to be approached. They are the ones to make the first move. They are the guarders of the secret and can chose whether to reveal it to me.
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