GLOBOKO IS SUB PAR
BLED, Slovenia A Baroque church preens on a tiny island. Gondolas ply the mountain lake, which shades from sapphire to turquoise. The castle looms 100m above on a crag. Even the weather is playing at postcards today: sunshine gilds the Julian Alps in the distance.
Ed and I take one look at this idyllic panorama and utter the same word: mini golf!
The Buddhist sort, he carefully blows ants off the red-cement course before putting. I hack away, missing the ball as often as I manage to concentrate and pot it perfectly. We're both howling with laughter. And quite probably scaring the natives, who play with MittelEuropa gravitas.
On the train home, Edward's daydreaming. "Let's move to Globoko," he suggests. "Wouldn't that be a great return address: Globoko, Slovenia?"
I examine the hamlet, maybe 20 houses arrayed around the tracks. And I voice my usual rural lament: "I don't see a Thai restaurant. Forget it."
No amount of mini-golf proximity or Globokian street cred makes that palatable.