And finally, it was ours. On a Tuesday, we set out together, the little family, for Johanna’s first long journey to the Balaton, to take over what we had been waiting for so long. When we arrived, the seller, with his daughter and son-in-law, was already waiting for us. We were all a bit taken aback. We started writing down the meter readings: here’s the water meter, this is how you open this, here’s the electric meter… By the time we reached the house, it was pouring rain. But that didn’t matter. We were so happy. The house was covered in fallen insects. Everything was coated in cobwebs. Some rooms were completely destroyed, the walls filled with nails where pictures, perhaps family photos, had once hung. The water was shut off, there was no power, everything was disconnected. So much junk to clear away. We signed the papers, took a few pictures to remember the moment, and promised that when we were done, we’d show the seller what we’d done. But no one knew when that would be…
Then they left, and it was just us. Together, and we celebrated. We went out into the pouring rain, huddled under the big willow tree, to take a few pictures and capture the moment. Szonja and I stood proudly in our new garden pants, while Johanna grinned happily, as she always does. She probably felt our joy too.
We walked through the house. Oh, there was so much work ahead, but that was fine—we were ready. We could already see what was hiding there, even if it hadn’t yet shown itself. We peeked into the little house as well; there was even more work waiting for us there.
It reminded me of the movie A Good Year with Russell Crowe. When we first encountered the place, I immediately thought of it. I remember watching that film and feeling that it was exactly this feeling I wanted one day—this kind of estate. I was sure that when we were older, we’d be living in a place like this. An estate with a centuries-old building, surrounded by fields—whether vineyards or other crops—a dusty old road leading to the first little village, and old stairs to the building. A neglected pool that we’d always refurbish when the grandkids came to visit in the summer. A bunch of rooms, only used when our children and their children come, or when we rent it out for bed and breakfast, making a nice breakfast for our guests. I’d cycle to the village every morning, bringing fresh baked goods, fruits, veggies, cheese, and the morning paper for Andris (I know by then there might not be any papers left, but I still picture it that way, with Andris sitting in his chair reading the paper). ). I’d put it in the basket on my bike, cycle back, enjoying the sunshine, the wind on my face, and how it plays with my hair. When I get home, I’d prepare a little basket with the local delicacies for the guests. Then we’d have breakfast ourselves. Andris would tell me about the latest global, political, or local news, how he thinks the world is going in the wrong direction, about all the problems we face. He’d sigh and talk about how things should be fixed. I’d listen, agree, and give his cheek a gentle stroke to calm him down, then hum as I head to the kitchen to put away the things, plan the day, and think about what I would do to make myself feel good and accomplished. Later in the afternoon, we’d take a nap, and in the evening, we’d invite friends and family from nearby. We’d play cards, drink wine, laugh about old stories, and talk about the state of the world and where it’s headed. And if we weren’t doing that with our friends, we’d be chatting with the guests staying with us. Then maybe we’ll have evening conversations with them…
This is how I envisioned our old age. Only it came a little earlier. Or perhaps, have we already become old?