The Kosican And The Revenge Of The Dragon

As soon as I wake I have a fit of sneezing, and my throat feels dry and itchy. I seem to have lost a good deal of my hearing, too. Perhaps the Chinese waiter's infectious mucus wasn't confined to his shirtsleeve alone. I go to the ornate restaurace for breakfast. There are four waitresses and two other guests all of whom throw glances at each other and quickly look away again; an uncomfortable silence hangs over the room. I feel a sense of guilt as I serve myself at the buffet table, as if the staff are monitoring every crumb I consume. Not that I have much of an appetite; I'm feeling lightheaded and constantly blow my nose as discreetly as possible on my serviette. There are two receptionists to speed the process of checking out three guests. In the car park, an old woman lives in a caravan as grey and faded as her old clothes. Her job is to move cones about to free and block parking spaces, and at night the flicker of a television set plays on the frayed curtains in the window of her home. Outside the caravan door she has optimistically placed a bucket of red roses to sell to romantic couples- let me take you to the steelworks of Ostrava, darling. I leave the hotel and go to the station. I buy a ticket for the EuroCity Kosican which will take me through the Tatra mountains into Slovakia, where I plan to change and make Debrecen late in the day. The train is almost empty and I walk it's length looking for the smoking car. There isn't one; it is a five hour trip. I make myself comfortable in the last coach and watch the industrial skyline of Ostrava recede. At Bohumin I am joined in the coach by two men. They have brought beer, wine, bread, cheese, and sausage for the journey and lay their provisions out on the table between them. One of them takes an 8 inch hunting knife from his belt and dices the sausage as the other opens the beer and wine. The meal finished, they take turns in visiting the toilet and return smelling strongly of nicotine; I duly take my turn and return their knowing nods. There is no passport check at the Cacda border crossing - no guards, militia, nothing. As the train leaves, there is the usual announcement over the tannoy detailing the next stop; then another voice takes over and I pick out the words Zakaz, Toalette, and Korouni - no smoking in the toilet. The three of us look sheepishly at each other, and stare fixedly out of the windows whenever the conductor walks by. The journey is as spectacular as any I have made. First forested hills, then deep gorges with crystal clear streams as the train climbs; then the lower wooded mountains, and in the distance, the steep craggy peaks of the High Tatras. These rise dramatically from the plains of a high plateau the train reaches at Liptovsky Mikulas. There is a pure quality to the light, the sky a thin palest blue; it reminds me of pictures I have seen of Patagonia. Towns are scattered around the base of the mountains, and even the tower blocks and factories seem cleansed by nature, white concrete and glittering glass, the chimney smoke lost in the vast surroundings. The trains airconditioning is making me shiver, and I use the last of the paper handtowels from the toilet to stem my streaming nose. We stop at Poprad-Tatry, with it's thermal pools and baths steaming gently in the mountain air, then descend from the plain, back through the foothills and forests to Kosice.
By the time I get off The Kosican I am running a temperature; my legs are shaky, I cannot stop the fits of sneezing, and my right ear is ringing. I cannot imagine another five hours traveling, not today, not in this condition. I start to walk into town to find a room, but turn back halfway across Mestsky Park and take a taxi - my bag is three times it's normal weight and I am drenched with sweat. The taxi takes me to Panzion Nad Bankou - the driver knows the owners - and I climb the stairs to my room and flop onto the bed. The room is small and a television is blaring somewhere; with my partial hearing and fever it sounds like the disturbing, echoing sountrack to a nasty horror film. I wrap myself in the duvet and fall into a horribly nightmare laden sleep, populated by knife wielding Chinese waiters and sneezing dragons. When I wake my alarm clock tells me it is 7 o'clock. I pull back the curtains and am surprised to see early morning sunshine: I have slept of 12 hours solid.