Koobazaur's Domain

I always wanted to visit another Slavic country outside of Poland, my home. I finally got a chance, and the similarity was uncanny.

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A Tale of Two Cities

After the brief one hour train, my new travel companion (whom I met en route to Vienna a day before) and I navigated the alien yet oddly familiar side streets to Veronika’s place. In lieu of a traditional hostel, I gave AirBnB a shot, an online crowd-sourced platform where anyone can put up a spare room or even a couch for short-term rent to eager travelers. Veronika was very nice and, despite not speaking English, had no problem communicating with me. Slovak and Polish are surprisingly similar languages, I discovered. But she was not able to provide any tips or guidance “from a local’s eye,” much to my disappointed. Perhaps she was new in the city as well? Perhaps she just hated me.

And so the two travelers ventured out on their own. I put my navigational skills aside letting Al lead this time around. Going through graffiti-splattered parks, asking strangers for directions, and observing how oddly empty and “dead” the city seemed for a Saturday, my travel companion somehow managed to get us to the city center. Giving praise where praise is due, he accomplished it sans a map.

That’s when I began to realize – Bratislava was really Warsaw’s little brother. We shared the same architecture, walls were veiled by equally profane graffiti’s, and iconic red trams wobbled on the streets.

Everything, even the language, was almost identical, though perhaps slightly smaller and more run-down here. We also both had our touristy historical “Old Towns.” Speaking of which…

Ice cream and goat cheese dumplings

We strolled down the winding streets of old sloped roofs and church towers, passing by open squares where Slovaks enjoyed their afternoon beers and lunches. I temporarily joined Al in his permanent sobriety and instead turned to a “since 1954” ice cream store. The line took half an hour, so it had to be good, right?

After a nap in the park to replenish dwindling energy, more walking led us to a delicious dinner of Halusky, a savory pudgy noodles in goat cheese with bacon. It reminded me of Polish kluski leniwe, but far tastier. Al’s stew was nothing to scoff at either. The Slavs know how to cook.

Walking back and gazing and the bustling night life, not unlike Lyon’s old town, we sat down to enjoy coffee with cake, and wrote postcards to our friends. My first night in another Slavic country has come to an end.

Eastern Europe

But I haven’t had enough of Bratislava yet, unlike Al who was heading off to Budapest instead. After warm goodbyes, I ventured away from the city center to observe the more “regular” parts of the city. Tall concrete housing blocks with little playgrounds in between, run-down “shopping centers” mostly operated by Asian immigrants, and ceaseless graffiti further reminded me of my own home country.

But hey, I found my own street!

I randomly stumbled into a mall, much like any other mall save the historic statues inside inviting you into modern stores. Stocking up on 3 Euros worth of food, I ventured to the Danube waterfront where youngsters and families leisured. I, too, sat on the grass, devouring my bread with ham and cheese, watching the boats pass under the bridges.

Slavic lazy Sunday

Grabbing a Zlatý Bažant (Golden Pheasant) brew at the waterfront bar-restaurants, surrounded by lively Slovak chatter, I caught up on some work. I will admit both mainstream Slovak beers I tried (Urpiner being the second one) are better than the Polish ones, yet still not as distinct as my favorite Belgians or the Viennese one I was yet to have. They’re the kind of beers you enjoy and would definitely order again, but not ones you’d randomly crave on an idle Friday evening.

I also finally bumped into Cumil, Man at Work statue I’ve seen on countless postcards. A little chap sticking out from the sewer – perhaps enjoying his break, perhaps hiding from invading armies, or maybe just looking up girls’ skirts. A mystery fueling chirpy debates among locals, from what I read.

Taking a long break at a comfortable Bookstore-Cafe and mending my blistered left foot now going numb, I read a book about traveling while working out of coffee shops. A fitting little find I wish I could have taken with me. After another delicious Slovak goulash supper (which shamed the Austrian version), I obligatorily took the wrong bus home, ending with a longer nightly trek back to Veronika’s.

In the morning, the brief visit to my country’s younger twin was over, and I was back on the train for round two of Vienna, yet unaware of my pending Freudian slips and big travel epiphany.