Just before 9:30 AM, I stand amidst all this antiquity, in the drizzle, looking for Vanja. I saw her before she saw me, and despite her being nearly 50 years older than the picture I had of her in my pocket, her beauty was undiminished. I smiled at her and she then knew it was me. She came with a neighbor, Josef, who grew up with her son Boris; together they played soccer across the street from their home in a field that is no longer. Josef is our interpreter. Vanja speaks some English -- after all she had studied English written textbooks all through college and dental school, but since she had few opportunities to speak the language, she is unconfident and hesitant. We walk a short distance outside the palace walls, pile into Josef's black new Jeep, and drive 15 minutes to Vanja's home.

Mirko, Vanja's husband, greeted us at the door. He speaks no English, but his eyes speak his affection for this moment. He’s been ill of late and looks a bit weary and rumpled, but at the same time is delighted by our company. Ushered into the living room, a bottle of Scotch is soon produced and toasts are made. We had an hour and a half to visit, and I want to absorb every minute of it.