Fajcit Zakazane

Kosice is little more than 200kms from the Polish border, after which the line continues to Krakow; six or seven hours by train, allowing for the border crossing and a swap of locomotives. I assume this and make the classic mistake of neglecting to research the facts. There is a train, yes, but just the one - it leaves just before midnight and there is a change in the early hours of the morning. I cannot afford the sleeping car supplement, and I dare not risk falling asleep in an open carriage while the train stops at some out-of-the-way place in the dead of night. I spend 7 hours on a day train to Bratislava instead; its an enormous detour, but the connections to Krakow are better from the capital. It leaves Kosice behind one of the goggle-eyed diesels that I saw in Plzen; when the two countries became independent each took a share of the rolling stock, and the only difference is the logo on the sides of the coaches and locomotives. The scenery is quite spectacular as we climb through the hills to the West of Kosice, the engine struggling to drag the heavy train up the steep climbs, the speed falling to walking pace. The tiny villages we pass have a few cottages with chicken coops and vegetable patches, a couple of goats tethered to the back gate, a stack of firewood under the lean-to ready for winter. Life in rural Slovakia seems little changed from the rustic scenes depicted on the postcards for sale in Kosice. The illusion is shattered as we approach the outskirts of Zvolem and the inevitable tower blocks and factories loom on the horizon. I email Erika at the City Hostel and she reserves a room for me, but for the wrong night.
"But Paul, we expect you yesterday" she says when I arrive, "we wait until nine o'clock". I apologise and show her the email I sent. "Shit! I did not read carefully!" Her English is improving.
When I get into bed it is rattling and bouncing over railway tracks; I even hear the chime whistle as the bed leaves another station. I turn the light on and drink the Kozel beer I bought from Erika then get back into bed and instantly fall asleep.
I spend the morning shopping for supplies and working at the internet cafe near the Vietnamese market. It is a pleasantly warm afternoon as I walk down to the Duna and cross the New Bridge. It has a striking, circular observation deck at the Southern end - like the bridge of Starship Enterprise - propped on thick, forward leaning concrete pillars held up with sinews of steel cable; it is unique and unmistakable, a landmark as iconic as Brussels' Atomium.
I catch a tram to the Hlavna Stanice to buy a ticket for Krakow. A group of about 15 Italians are having a furious row with two ticket inspectors at the terminus. They didn't validate their tickets and are refusing to pay the 1400skk penalty; the police are called and detain them in the empty tram: their trip to the station will end up costing them the best part of 400 Pounds.
The Informacia desk will give me the train times, but will not tell me the cost or sell me a ticket; for this I have to queue at one of the ticket windows, which closes just before I reach it. I join the queue at the next window and finally buy my ticket from a woman who is surly to the point of insult. I later discover both the ticket and the timetable are for the wrong train. I walk back into town past the Radio Building and the National Bank's skyscraper and decide to eat at the Vellah Bar I spotted on my earlier walk.
I sense something isn't right as soon as I sit down. The place is scruffy and unclean - dirty plates left on the plain wooden tables, the tiled floor unswept, an enveloping atmosphere of stale beer and strong tobacco so strong it is almost physical - but I'm not bothered by this; what does bother me is the hostile looks and conspiratorial comments of the other customers. I sit on a bench at a table round a corner at the back of the bar and avoid any eye-contact. After a lot of persuasion the waitress brings an English menu, and cross-references my order with a Slovakian copy; she sits on the edge of my bench and puts her arm around me, head bent close to mine. She is middle-aged, with a faded purple shell suit and peroxide hair; she is also drunk, and her breath reeks of cheap alcohol. The food is appalling. The Partizan Cutlot which sounded so appetizing is a charred, greasy lump of reheated flesh covered in burnt onions - fried for so long they are as brittle as dead leaves. I eat some of the grey, watery mashed potatoes the menu optimistically described as Gnocci, and ignore the cold rice the inebriated waitress translated my order for salat into. The waitress returns and points accusingly at me and the barely touched food, saying something like "not good enough for you, eh?". She writes 126skk on a scrap of paper and keeps the change from 150. I finish my drink and gather my things to leave, but before I can move she is back. She shoves a printed till receipt for 140skk at me.
"I have paid you already", I remind her -"I gave you 150".
She rattles off something in Slovakian, then: "moment".
She returns with two big sweating men who lean over me and breathe vodka fumes in my face. "You pay now" the one wearing an old grey suit says, his face flushed, fists bunched at the end of his too-short jacket sleeves. The other stares down at me, a sneer of contempt curling his thick lips. The waitress is smiling in victory. I am hidden from the street outside and trapped.
"No problem. Es Ist problem Nicht" I assure them and drop exactly 140 Korun on the table, ignoring the grasping hand of the waitress. I step quickly between the trio and put as much acid as I can summon up into a sarcastic "Goodnight".
Their insults and jibes follow me out into the street, but thankfully they do not. I am leaving Bratislava in the morning, and the moment cannot come too soon after this ugly encounter.