Koniky, Erika, and the Vietnamese Market
I wake in the City Hostel Pension, and turn on the television. The girl in the Tourist Informance was next to useless: it was a huge effort for her to pick up the phone and call the pensions I selected from the printed list she reluctantly found for me. After the fifth one, she put her head on her folded arms on the desk, exhausted, the task impossible; I cajoled her into trying one last time, and she charged me 50 Korun for making the booking: I had made her earn it, it would seem.
I watch CNN for a while, then turn to a children's fire safety program, hosted by a clown called Koniky: two children light a piece of newspaper in a clearing in a wood. Cut to a Petrochemical plant, railway marshalling yard, and housing estate engulfed in flames: quite how the children managed to cause this inferno from their clearing in the wood is not made clear, but it gives Koniky the clown the opportunity to join the fire brigade for the day. I am enthralled and soon in hysterics. He wears an absurd, baggy, multi-coloured jumpsuit, and has a square red box for a nose. He slides up and down the fireman's pole, abseils down buildings, and struggles with the high-pressure firehose. It is hilarious. He is completely incompetent at all of these; he would do well at the Tourist Informace.
The receptionist's name is Erika. I tell her mine is Koniky, and she laughs. She gives my name it's German pronunciation: Paul becomes "Powell". We chat while I look at my email at the terminal near her desk. We are at ease with each other, and get along well. She is my age, divorced, her boyfriend at work in Germany. She tells me about the city, it's monuments and history; she is witty, charming, and speaks Russian and German fluently. She tells me stories about life under communism, and a visit to East Berlin as a girl; how the Slovakians hated the Nazi occupation, and had little time for their Russian liberators. And about how difficult it is to live in Slovakia today. Her stories are fascinating. She gives me a map, and some advice; I go out to explore the smallest capital city in Central Europe.
It is warm and sunny. I take a tram around town and then wander around the cobbled streets of the old centre; there are alleyways and cafes, classic 17th century buildings shoulder to shoulder with slab sided cold war blocks, and a statue poking out of a manhole cover. I walk up Stefanikova, past the Presidential Palace, and climb the hill to the monument overlooking the city. It commemorates the liberation of the city in 1945; the graves of more than 6,000 Russian soldiers lie here. It is a public holiday to commemorate this change of invaders. In the square is a memorial to the Partisans who undermined the Nazi occupation, and a cermony is taking place. There is a military band and a small gathering of onlookers; a few of the Dress Gaurd smoke cigarettes behind the regimental bus while the dignitaries speak and lay wreaths. If there is a final resting place in the city for the Partisans, I can find no trace of it: perhaps they turned their attention to the new order.
I wander through the alleys where the Vietnamese traders make their precarious living. I pass tiny, open air cafes with the delicious smell of fresh lemongrass and ginger hanging in the air; past a stall with rows of female lower torsos and legs modelling skirts and low cut denims, their upper bodies, chopped at the waist, on shelves above wearing bright red bras and striped vests. All of this under corrugated plastic roofing, which, like the woks and the half-mannequins, will be taken away at night, only the market's metal skeleton left for the moon to gaze at.
I eat at a little bar called Zlata Fantazia. I order a Topvar Pivo beer and some Slovak pasties while the locals dance to an accorian player; the bar is dark and smokey, with an almost conspirtorial atmosphere: Bratislava on the eve of war. The Spenatove Pirohy arrives: seven small wholemeal pasties stuffed with spinach and chicken, covered in sour cream. It looks disappointingly small. The pasties are as thick and heavy as stones, so filling I can barely finish them. I am as solid and immobile as any of the city's statues after my meal, and struggle to leave my seat, as weighted as a deep-sea diver. I leave the bar and change some money at a shady looking office with chicken wire over the shattered window. I am charged a 250 Korun fee for the exchange: more than the bill for my dinner and drinks, an outrage. I am asked to provide my name and passport number. I make up a number and sign the photocopied form with a flourishing, but legible "Koniky".
I collect my key from Erika, and ask if I could buy a drink from the cooler in reception. I choose the Kozel Pilsner. It is 5% proof, the Slovakian alternative is twelve. "That is for children" she jokes," and clowns".
I watch CNN for a while, then turn to a children's fire safety program, hosted by a clown called Koniky: two children light a piece of newspaper in a clearing in a wood. Cut to a Petrochemical plant, railway marshalling yard, and housing estate engulfed in flames: quite how the children managed to cause this inferno from their clearing in the wood is not made clear, but it gives Koniky the clown the opportunity to join the fire brigade for the day. I am enthralled and soon in hysterics. He wears an absurd, baggy, multi-coloured jumpsuit, and has a square red box for a nose. He slides up and down the fireman's pole, abseils down buildings, and struggles with the high-pressure firehose. It is hilarious. He is completely incompetent at all of these; he would do well at the Tourist Informace.
The receptionist's name is Erika. I tell her mine is Koniky, and she laughs. She gives my name it's German pronunciation: Paul becomes "Powell". We chat while I look at my email at the terminal near her desk. We are at ease with each other, and get along well. She is my age, divorced, her boyfriend at work in Germany. She tells me about the city, it's monuments and history; she is witty, charming, and speaks Russian and German fluently. She tells me stories about life under communism, and a visit to East Berlin as a girl; how the Slovakians hated the Nazi occupation, and had little time for their Russian liberators. And about how difficult it is to live in Slovakia today. Her stories are fascinating. She gives me a map, and some advice; I go out to explore the smallest capital city in Central Europe.
It is warm and sunny. I take a tram around town and then wander around the cobbled streets of the old centre; there are alleyways and cafes, classic 17th century buildings shoulder to shoulder with slab sided cold war blocks, and a statue poking out of a manhole cover. I walk up Stefanikova, past the Presidential Palace, and climb the hill to the monument overlooking the city. It commemorates the liberation of the city in 1945; the graves of more than 6,000 Russian soldiers lie here. It is a public holiday to commemorate this change of invaders. In the square is a memorial to the Partisans who undermined the Nazi occupation, and a cermony is taking place. There is a military band and a small gathering of onlookers; a few of the Dress Gaurd smoke cigarettes behind the regimental bus while the dignitaries speak and lay wreaths. If there is a final resting place in the city for the Partisans, I can find no trace of it: perhaps they turned their attention to the new order.
I wander through the alleys where the Vietnamese traders make their precarious living. I pass tiny, open air cafes with the delicious smell of fresh lemongrass and ginger hanging in the air; past a stall with rows of female lower torsos and legs modelling skirts and low cut denims, their upper bodies, chopped at the waist, on shelves above wearing bright red bras and striped vests. All of this under corrugated plastic roofing, which, like the woks and the half-mannequins, will be taken away at night, only the market's metal skeleton left for the moon to gaze at.
I eat at a little bar called Zlata Fantazia. I order a Topvar Pivo beer and some Slovak pasties while the locals dance to an accorian player; the bar is dark and smokey, with an almost conspirtorial atmosphere: Bratislava on the eve of war. The Spenatove Pirohy arrives: seven small wholemeal pasties stuffed with spinach and chicken, covered in sour cream. It looks disappointingly small. The pasties are as thick and heavy as stones, so filling I can barely finish them. I am as solid and immobile as any of the city's statues after my meal, and struggle to leave my seat, as weighted as a deep-sea diver. I leave the bar and change some money at a shady looking office with chicken wire over the shattered window. I am charged a 250 Korun fee for the exchange: more than the bill for my dinner and drinks, an outrage. I am asked to provide my name and passport number. I make up a number and sign the photocopied form with a flourishing, but legible "Koniky".
I collect my key from Erika, and ask if I could buy a drink from the cooler in reception. I choose the Kozel Pilsner. It is 5% proof, the Slovakian alternative is twelve. "That is for children" she jokes," and clowns".
posted by Paul O'Halloran at 1:22 AM
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