From My Ex-Pat Diaries: Bratislava

*An excerpt from my Ex-Pat Diaries, the European Chapters

Although I moved to Warsaw in mid-August 2012, work put such a demand on my time and energy that I didn't really travel until Easter of the following year.  When I did start, however, I quickly set about making up for lost time.  My first stop was the capital of Slovakia, Bratislava.

My story of Bratislava starts in Warsaw on Good Friday.  Although it was late March/early April, the Polish winter had been long and unforgiving.  The days were grey and short, filled with far too much snow and low, low temperatures.  That particular morning had seen sporadic snowfall that in the afternoon had steadied and intensified.  As my travel companions and I ventured across the city, we were slapped in the face by wind and big, wet snowflakes.  The snow had started to accumulate on the ground as well, so we were forced to drudge through inches of slushy snow as we trekked to our metro station, dampening shoes, socks, and spirits.  By the time we reached our bus we were soggy and cold.

Once we were on the bus, though, things started to perk up.  The heater was on and as soon as I situated myself in a chair I eased my boots off to allow both boots and socks to air dry.  I snuggled into my chair, cushioned by scarf, sweater, and coat and started to relax.  I had downloaded a 1920s copy of Vanity Fair earlier that day, so I happily worked away at my sandwich and marveled over the variety of Jazz Age ads as the bus motored its way across the countryside.

Attempting to be my best European traveling self

Because we’d had to work a full day at preschool, we’d also had to book tickets for a later hour and therefore did not leave Warsaw until early evening.  With bathroom breaks and scheduled stops included, the drive to Bratislava took about 10 hours.  Our plan was to sleep on the bus so that as soon as we arrived we could set about seeing as much as possible.  We arrived to an empty bus station at 4:45 a.m., and groggily gathering our things, bundled into our multitude of layers and stepped out into Slovakia.

Our first mission was to find the train station and buy tickets to Budapest.  A quick ATM withdrawal and a debate over a tiny tourist map and we were off.  At the train station we freshened up, slapping on fresh eyeliner and concealer to hide evidence of a sleepless night on bumpy roads.  And then we made our first mistake, spurning the busy diner in the station for a more authentic Slovakian café. 

Now, in the U.S., much of the city is still asleep at 5 in the morning, but some brave barista has already stumbled out of bed and into the coffee shop to serve the earliest caffeine addicts.  My two friends and I were all American and, unfortunately, arrived in Bratislava with the American misconception that coffee shops everywhere open early.  But this was Europe.  On a Saturday.  Nothing was open. 

So we explored the beautiful streets of the Old Town snapping photos and trying to ignore the chill in the air and our increasingly damp socks.  Through aimless wandering we discovered the Town Hall, several historic buildings of state, and beautiful chapels.  We cozied up to numerous bronze statues for cultural selfies and mimicked the faces of gargoyles.  We caught our first glimpse of the Danube River and the royal castle sitting perched above the city.  All the while, though, we returned frequently (and fruitlessly) to the main square to see if any early bird cafés had opened. 

By 8 a.m. we were ready to admit defeat.  The snow and ice on the ground had melted into a slush that had seeped into our boots and soaked our feet.  Our bellies were growling our brains were screaming for caffeine.  We were nearing that ugly point where friendship ends and hungry crankiness takes over.

In the main square of Old Town

And then we saw salvation—two iconic yellow arches beckoning to us, promising coffee and a hot breakfast.  McDonald’s.  We happily descended upon the sleepy restaurant, greedily ordering two hot breakfasts each and large, large coffees.  At first we ate quietly, but around the second breakfast and a safe distance into the coffee we finally returned to ourselves, laughing and joking at our situation.  We had come all this way—driven ten hours across hundreds of miles and  crossing international borders—and we were happily munching away on McDonald’s food. 

By breakfast’s end we had happy tummies, thawing feet, fresh, dry socks, and we were somewhat loathe to leave.  To prolong the visit, I went to the bathroom.  As I stood rearranging my many layers of scarf and jackets, I heard rustling and giggling in the stall next to me.  Then, as my friend and I made our way back to the table, she confessed to me that she’d solved our wet feet problem.  The bathroom stalls had held small disposable plastic baggies for depositing sanitary items into before throwing them into the garbage.  She had wrapped her feet in these baggies before putting them back into her shoes, insulating her feet against the slushy streets.  She was the giggling rustler in the stall next to mine.  She was also a genius.  My other friend and I quickly followed suit.

Entering the castle grounds

And so we emerged back onto the streets of Bratislava reenergized and better prepared for the rest of our day.  Ultimately we would tour the royal castle, visit the famous Blue Cathedral, and gorge ourselves on Slovakian goulash before exhaustedly collapsing into our train car to Budapest that evening.  And we did it all with dry(ish) feet.  And while I have beautiful memories of the city, its people, and its architecture, I cannot think of Bratislava without thinking of plastic baggies on feet or the absolute delight I felt biting into my McDonald’s breakfast sandwich.

On our train ride to Budapest, MK blow dried her still-damp boots
before weatherizing them with another coat of water-resist polish

On Memory

Memory is a funny thing.

 It shifts and changes with time, altering to fit mood and desire.  A person can absolutely hate an experience, but time and good cheer can work together to color the memory and make it happy and loved.  In my travels I have seen this happen more than once to an unhappy traveler—a city despised and disliked transforms with time into a much-loved haven of happiness.  Fickle memory, as inconstant as the moon.

But memory can be honest as well, and surprising.  A small occurrence or chance happening can trigger a memory so clear, so vivid that it be said to be truly relived.  Here the senses are our greatest ally.  Smell can activate a memory; the smell of leather and horses always takes me back to the summer I spent learning to ride in the foothills of Pocatello, while the smell of a certain cologne always reminds me of a long-ago love.  Sound, too, plays on the memory.  Van Morrison’s greatest hits will forever bring to mind my parents dancing in the living room of my childhood home, a happy feeling I turn to when I feel particularly homesick.  In my recent travels, songs have taken a place of importance in memory—Michel Teló’s “Ai Se Eu Te Pego” takes me immediately to Mexico and the fun and friends I found there, while the Dirty Dancing classic “(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life” brings to mind (and a smile to my lips) a night of dancing in Prague.  These memories brought forward by music are as precious as the souvenirs I have collected.

One of my many literary travel companions

Books, too, recall various memories.  Books read in my childhood bring back feelings of happiness and fond remembrance (except for Where the Red Fern Grows, which I read in a middle school class and remember vividly trying pathetically to hide my profuse tears and running nose from the kids around me.  I failed.)  Books read for school evoke a spectrum of feelings—Eureka Street always brings me the thrill of discovering a new favorite, while the mere mention of Foucault makes my brain groan involuntarily.  Here, too, travel has had an influence.  I have lived two years in a foreign country, so each book read has been in a foreign (if not eventually familiar) environment.  I read passages of Nostromo on a beach in Mexico and the two complemented each other beautifully, while I read Persuasion in a German airport on an eight-hour layover.  The drama of the love story and the anticipation of a happy ending saved me from absolute boredom that day. The Lord of the Rings brings back my spring of European travels while The Great Gatsby takes me to the 141 in Warsaw, and desperately trying to finish my chapter as I walked from bus stop to preschool.  The memory of each story—its characters and plot—is thus tied entirely to my own memories of travel and experience. 

After almost two years I finally left Europe.  I am spending a brief visit at home and then I will go to China, where I will encounter new smells, sounds, and memories.  Since becoming sort of an ex-pat, this blog has been less about the books I have read and more about the places I’ve seen and the experiences I’ve had.  So while I do not intend to entirely abandon my goal of reading my list of greatest novels, this will no longer be the focus of my blog.  Instead, as I continue to read and travel, the two will continue to intertwine in experience and memory and I will do my best to record both here.