Domestic Bliss
The Pension Orange is the restored, converted second floor of a disused warehouse. Reception is manned at various times by a skate-punk, a crazy-but-friendly old man, and a matronly old woman who doesn't understand a word I say, but mothers me nonetheless. They've printed up some leaflets in correctable English which clearly state breakfast is included in the rate: there is even a picture of the "cafe", and guests having breakfast. I can't find it. I search the entire floor, but there is no "cafe". Its made up. Its completely fictitious. I ask my surrogate mother, but she just throws up her hands. I give up and walk down the street until I find a real cafe. Its closed, but I hammer on the door until they let me in, and insist they make me coffee. I drink it at a table where I can watch the empty, early morning trams crawl by, as the staff vacuum around my feet and look at me sideways. Theres an almost audible sigh of relief when I pay and leave: "Who the hell was that?"
I go to the station and buy a ticket to Bratislava. As I wait for EC279 I see this:
A commuter service arrives with a grey and white diesel at it's head. I look into the cab and see a Kozel Pilsner sticker on the bulkhead with a pine framed mirror next to it, and a rug on the floor beneath the driver's seat. Its spotlessly clean inside and out, cared for and loved. I see another engine with a medieval tapestry draped above it's windscreen as a makeshift sunvisor, a cast Brno crest above it's numberplate, amidships. Then theres an old Russian freight engine with a full set of net curtains, neatly held in place with tiebacks, bottles of condiments lined up inside the windowsill, like a mobile domestic kitchen.
There is a foot crossing between the tracks, and a small clapboard shed with blue framed windows on Nastupiste 2; two middle-aged men sit on a bench outside drinking cups of beer. The commuter train is ready to leave again, and toots it's chime whistle ( the airhorns are too loud to be used in a station ). The men place their drinks on the bench, position themselves at either side of the crossing, and perform the only duty demanded by their tenancy: they ask people to wait as the train pulls out, then go back to their shed and beers, where they'll wait until its time for another train. Then wait some more.
The whole scene is redolent of the way British Railways was run in the 1950s, and cannot possibly last. There is a hoarding outside the station telling travellers of the EU funded modernisation projects taking place, a model of standardisation that will eventually stretch from Gdansk to Girona. The mirror will be removed, the tapestry stripped, and the curtains will come down forever. But what of the two men whos job is to wait?
I take the same seat in the Speisewagen as before; the Slovakian coach is shabby, the chairs falling apart, and the waiter removes my ashtray when we arrive at the customs post at Breclav: "It is prohibited in Slovak Republic". The police and border gaurd check my passport three times on on the way to Bratislava, the train heaving and rolling, the track badly maintained. I stand on the platform at my destination and light a cigarette. In an instant, two stone faced, aggressive policemen are demanding my passport. One of them copies my details onto a scrap of paper, mispelling my name and knocking 20 days from my date of birth, while the other dead-eyes me. Then he slips my passport into his shirtpocket.
"It is prohibited to smoke on the platfrom". Oh yes, I think: that one again. I apologise.
"1000sk penalty". What? I shake my head and say I have no Slovakian Korun, although my wallet bulges with notes I changed in Brno.
"Exchange office in station. Follow, please". They walk off with my passport as I trail behind with my heavy bag. Bastards. They bully me into the queue at the exchange, impatient to hunt for their next victim, and I'm immediately bitten by a mosquito. The rate is robbery, but I can't suddenly remember that, oh yes, I do have 1000sk. I'm furious. I push the note at the officer and whip my passport from his fingers.
"Give me a reciept" I demand in a tone that suggests they're a pair of crooks. He hands me a wad of raffle tickets with 100sk printed on them, and I throw them straight in the bin next to me. There is nothing they can do. They stare at me for a moment, then slowly saunter off into the station, one of them saying a derisory "Goodbye".
Welcome to the Slovak Republic. Perhaps I should have listened to that waiter.
I go to the station and buy a ticket to Bratislava. As I wait for EC279 I see this:
A commuter service arrives with a grey and white diesel at it's head. I look into the cab and see a Kozel Pilsner sticker on the bulkhead with a pine framed mirror next to it, and a rug on the floor beneath the driver's seat. Its spotlessly clean inside and out, cared for and loved. I see another engine with a medieval tapestry draped above it's windscreen as a makeshift sunvisor, a cast Brno crest above it's numberplate, amidships. Then theres an old Russian freight engine with a full set of net curtains, neatly held in place with tiebacks, bottles of condiments lined up inside the windowsill, like a mobile domestic kitchen.
There is a foot crossing between the tracks, and a small clapboard shed with blue framed windows on Nastupiste 2; two middle-aged men sit on a bench outside drinking cups of beer. The commuter train is ready to leave again, and toots it's chime whistle ( the airhorns are too loud to be used in a station ). The men place their drinks on the bench, position themselves at either side of the crossing, and perform the only duty demanded by their tenancy: they ask people to wait as the train pulls out, then go back to their shed and beers, where they'll wait until its time for another train. Then wait some more.
The whole scene is redolent of the way British Railways was run in the 1950s, and cannot possibly last. There is a hoarding outside the station telling travellers of the EU funded modernisation projects taking place, a model of standardisation that will eventually stretch from Gdansk to Girona. The mirror will be removed, the tapestry stripped, and the curtains will come down forever. But what of the two men whos job is to wait?
I take the same seat in the Speisewagen as before; the Slovakian coach is shabby, the chairs falling apart, and the waiter removes my ashtray when we arrive at the customs post at Breclav: "It is prohibited in Slovak Republic". The police and border gaurd check my passport three times on on the way to Bratislava, the train heaving and rolling, the track badly maintained. I stand on the platform at my destination and light a cigarette. In an instant, two stone faced, aggressive policemen are demanding my passport. One of them copies my details onto a scrap of paper, mispelling my name and knocking 20 days from my date of birth, while the other dead-eyes me. Then he slips my passport into his shirtpocket.
"It is prohibited to smoke on the platfrom". Oh yes, I think: that one again. I apologise.
"1000sk penalty". What? I shake my head and say I have no Slovakian Korun, although my wallet bulges with notes I changed in Brno.
"Exchange office in station. Follow, please". They walk off with my passport as I trail behind with my heavy bag. Bastards. They bully me into the queue at the exchange, impatient to hunt for their next victim, and I'm immediately bitten by a mosquito. The rate is robbery, but I can't suddenly remember that, oh yes, I do have 1000sk. I'm furious. I push the note at the officer and whip my passport from his fingers.
"Give me a reciept" I demand in a tone that suggests they're a pair of crooks. He hands me a wad of raffle tickets with 100sk printed on them, and I throw them straight in the bin next to me. There is nothing they can do. They stare at me for a moment, then slowly saunter off into the station, one of them saying a derisory "Goodbye".
Welcome to the Slovak Republic. Perhaps I should have listened to that waiter.
posted by Paul O'Halloran at 6:10 AM
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