I’ve only been here once, but I long to back.

Nestled in the rolling hills of Slovenia, there is a house. A house with fresh eggs from live chickens next door every morning. A house where you can stand on the fountain in the front yard and see a castle. A house where the doorway is covered with hanging strands of green ivy, and where everything you see is picture perfect.

I would stand outside and play catch for hours, till the sun set, and till the moon rose. The roads there were narrow and winding, and due to the grape orchard and flower trail behind the little cottage, it always smelled like French wine.

This is not a fancy house either. It is a small wooden two-story shack with a balcony only 10 or 12 feet from the ground. There is a stone wall stretching the perimeter of the house, and a driveway so steep I could slide down it.