At the gas station, all the women looked like Melania Trump. It was uncanny. In Hungary, the women had broader faces, softer features. But now the gene pool had pivoted. We were now on our way to Italy. I got out my laptop and we circled the gas station searching for a Wi-Fi signal. Finally, I got a weak one. Back in the car, I programmed Sevnica into the G.
Melania entered the White House as the most sphinxlike First Lady in modern times. She was the first ex-model to occupy the White House. The first third wife. The first Slovenian.
We drove on the immaculate highway for another half hour, paid a small fee to a high-cheekboned woman in a tiny toll booth, and exited onto a smaller, windy road. Soon we were in farmland and old-growth forest. Slovenia was a beautiful country, we agreed, almost like Switzerland, with its rolling hills and A-frame houses. The grass was an unusual hueβa pale chartreuse so bright and rarely seen in nature that I removed my sunglasses to make sure I was viewing the color correctly. The kids were in the back seat taking photos of the scenery, and then of each other.
His confusion was understandable. Usually when we spent long periods of time in the car, we were going to see someone, a relative or friend, for whom we had deep regard. As the G. There was a railroad running through it, a maze of narrow roads extending up from the valley floor and into the verdant hills.
The houses were average-sized, and most were yellow or white or peach. The rooftops were brick red; the church steeples were green copper. No, Sevnica was home to a large shoe factory. This factory town was not so different from the places in the U. Down by the train tracks, I spotted three long-legged teen-age girls waiting on the platform. The bags that hung from their narrow shoulders were large and full.
