Peter saw me to the Bratislava train station. Next stop, Kosice. He had pointed out old buildings allowed to deteriorate so hotels could buy and build, and kitsch statuary that sprouted up in the old town after Perestroika. A medieval neighborhood was destroyed to build a bridge and a highway in Soviet times. On the train I sat opposite a Slovakian gynecologist working near London headed for his high school reunion.
My new host, Juraj, a bio-engineering PhD would meet me at the Kosice cathedral at three. Two ladies on the train pointed me in the right direction, in German. I dragged my suitcase to the spire and there he was, reminding me of Danny Kaye. He dragged it on to the Soviet era flat he shares with two others and my bed would be the kitchen table couch. The sink was full of wild mushrooms he'd picked on a weekend hike where he injured his Achilles heel (the mushrooms eventually migrated to the trash) so he couldn't walk me around as much as he wanted. He is the child of a single mother, a teacher, rigid and controlling, according to him. He is anxious to emigrate to Australia but failed the language proficiency test by a half a per cent. He will try again. His students are comparing how patients of different nationalities use computers in health care.
We returned to the old city. He also expected a Swiss German couchsurfer hitching from Ukraine. He showed me opposing monuments honoring Russian and German soldiers. His grandfather's farm hosted both during the war. The Germans were helpful and respectful; the Russians trashed everything. We waited downtown for Matthieu, looking for tokay, shopping in a supermarket, discussing the many gypsies hanging out, finally adjourning to Golem Bar for unfiltered beer and a Czech specialty, marinated cheese with bread.
Juraj pointed out an elaborate sculpture called "immaculata" where people had been burned at the stake, a monument to the end of the plague. There was an arts event to go to that evening. Matthieu finally appeared in a 400-euro yellow Goretex-type jacket. He has a wife in Ukraine. Coming from that frigid land to milder Slovakia, he needed a shower badly so Juraj and I tried the tokay while he showered and dried his long blond hair. He asks people at gas stations for rides rather than hitching. Matthieu hikes and mountain climbs. I mentioned the problem of abandoned feces, he said you should see the dead frozen bodies! He warned me Ukrainian water and soup would make me sick; he gave me 10 Ukrainian hryvnia for a Euro so I might have bus fare when I arrived at Lviv on the morrow.
We each paid 5 euros to enter the art event but it hadn't really started so we went to a restaurant on a medieval street. Juraj tempted me with a specialty usually found only in Mongolia, not cheap at 8 euros. When it was served with a raw egg, onion, garlic, a dish of worcester sauce
and toast, I knew it at once. Steak tartare! The raw meat was velvety, scraped near the spinal column, Juraj said, I let him enjoy most of it. Never again!
We returned to the "art event." I expected art exhibits, dance performances, but it was electronic technobeats with blinking lights, loud and monotonous. I dozed off, hid in a quieter space to read. Juraj took us home at last, then returned and enjoyed the noise and spectacle until 3 am. I couldn't get into The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, finished The Beach House, and started a 1921 swashbuckler, Scaramouche. Masterpiece Theatre should produce it!
Matthieu left the next morning. Bratislava Peter had downloaded train schedules to Lviv and Kiev on my Kindle. Juraj urged me to take the evening train rather than the noon one, no changing trains. He had a standing meeting with a Persian friend in a coffee shop who spoke little English, and urged me to explore the town on my own.
I set off looking for the bakery - "Pekar", like the late cartoon writer - on the medieval street, which was being repaved with cobblestones. I stopped in a small museum to inquire and the girl thought the bakery was closed due to the construction, so I became her first customer of the day. It was an old jail and executioner's home, once part of the city ramparts of Kosice. The basement has cells and torture devices.
Back at the coffee house for a capuccino, then off again to see the marathon man, a nude runner modelled on one of Juraj's profesors when he was just 17. When I came back again, Juraj was alone so we went to the Technical Museum to see a display of DaVinci's inventions made of wood - most interesting was an army tank to be operated by four men walking inside it.
Europeans use military time, the 24 hour clock, and I often confuse 8 pm with 10 pm, as it's 2200. I was happily checking emails at his flat when he asked what time my train left, and I saw my error. There was no time to take the bus. I frantically packed. Juraj gave me 3 euros for the cheap taxi and I hurriedly bought my ticket for the sleeper to Lviv, only leaving my cheese behind.
I had the compartment to myself. It included two bunks, a lit sink, four hangers, and cost 10 euros above the price of the train. I made up the bed and showed the porter - I had confused the mattress for a quilt! I washed my hair and started doing laundry, but was asked to stop, we were stationary for some hours while my passport disappeared for scrutiny by the border guards.
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