A summer of travels 2011, part II of V: western Ukraine to Slovakia
'Afoot and lighthearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.'
Walt Whitman This was a trip that really made me feel my age, to borrow from Jarvis Cocker*.
I’ve done plenty of budget travelling and backpacking in my time, and for the most part I still enjoy it – when you’re on the road for a month, you have to do so on a budget, let’s face it – but in my cantankerous old ways, I have a hard time putting up with the crap that comes with staying in youth hostels. Whenever possible, I opt for a single room, but in many cases, you’re still faced with lots of noise and other general tomfoolery (like loud, idiotic backpackers talking utter nonsense till the wee hours of the morning). I think I’ve reached my limit when it comes to sharing rooms in hostels, not that I was ever much of a fan of it to begin with.
In Lviv I stayed at the Kosmonaut Hostel where I was kept awake every night by French and American backpackers recounting the usual banal tales of travel plans, border crossings, visa regulations, sweeping generalisations and the fact that the Lonely Planet represents the gospel truth. On my final night, a football fan – a member of the Banderstadt, the ultra-right wing Karpaty Lviv supporters club named after Stepan Bandera – was stabbed to death just outside the hostel. The police swooped into the hostel to ask whether anyone had seen anything, and fellow Banderstadt comrades set up a moving shrine at the scene of the crime. Earlier that night, Karpaty had played St Patrick’s (Ireland) in a Europa League match, which I of course had attended (Karpaty won 2-0).
Apparently the man was stabbed after someone made a move on his girlfriend.
The things people do over jealousy, I swear.
A hilarious – in a sad, cringeworthy manner – conversation I eavesdropped on one morning
Two American girls, early 20s, chatting, with one doing 95% of the talking. She was leaving Lviv that day, perhaps forever and her monologue went into great depth about God, making decisions, prophecies, fulfillment, pain, safety, love, the fact that ‘it’s been the best summer of my life, easily’ (said at least 15 times), making the right choices, the pain of saying goodbye, getting hurt and how it scares her, relationships and their highs and lows, redemption, being broken and learning from it and building on it…and to cap it all off, they said a prayer together. Trust me when I say that it was actually pretty riveting in its absurdity and scored very high on the unintentional comedy scale, and was way better than whatever I was reading. Damn, I sound like a cruel, cynical person…but I can’t help chuckling at other peoples’ pain and angst. We’ve all been through our fair share of it, after all.
Set to the tune of Echo and the Bunnymen’s ‘Nothing Lasts Forever’, it has all the makings of the perfect Christian-feel good moralizing blockbuster.
One more comment, though, and here’s one of my biggest pet hates. The girl said something about how she couldn’t ‘imagine being there year-round with the long, dark post-Soviet winter’. Ignoring the absurdity of that comment, it drives me nuts when someone says ‘such-and-such’ is such a splendid city in the summer. Look, unless you’re in Riyadh or Lagos or some other similar hell-hole, every goddam city is nice in the summer! When you’ve got streetside cafés and lovely weather, and people out and about and the parks in full swing, etc, etc, then just about anywhere becomes a cheerful, bright and uplifiting place. Truly terrific cities stand up well year-round, and the absolutely exceptional ones are at their best in the cold, murky depths of winter. I could list off some ad infinitum, but for my money, some of the cosiest winter locales include Krakow, Edinburgh and yes, Lviv. As a disclaimer I should add that I’m a big fan of winter travel in cities.
(On a more somber note, I should point out that, having visited Auschwitz in both a glorious, sunny September and a bleak, miserable January, it’s the kind of place that almost has to be experienced in the middle of winter. It was that much more powerful.)
That was Lviv in the summer of 2011.
From there I travelled 6 hours on a train southwest to Uzhgorod, for a day and night before heading into Slovakia.
I can’t say much about Uzhgorod, other than that it was a pleasant enough border town whose city centre reminded me ever so slightly of Belfast’s, which led to a bit of mopey nostalgia. As with so many other towns in this neck of the woods, there was a castle, which meant I had to make the obligatory visit in order to fill my afternoon (it was rainy as well). The highlight of Uzhgorod was a restaurant called Verpet, in which I had lunch and dinner, since it was so good. And no, this is not an oxymoron, but it featured outstanding traditional Ukrainian food. I make it a point when travelling to never eat in the same place twice, but after a splendid lunch, I wasn’t chancing it anywhere else.
The second highlight was the Museum Café, just down the hill from the castle. I quote verbatim from my journal, because I can’t be bothered to elaborate any more eloquently. And it’ll give you an insight into the kind of mundane note-taking I do on my travels:
‘very museum-like and austere. Table of young-uns, engaged in deep conversation, 2 older couples next to them the same. Old motorbike, lots of old musical instruments, big oak tables in a small space, shields, movie projectors, rough oil paintings, lamps, lanterns, pots, pans, kettles, various kitchen utensils, ancient coffee machine, beans, plates, jugs…’
Sound like a thrilling place or what?
Next stop: Slovakia
'All truly great thoughts are conceived by walking.'
Friedrich Nietzsche
The wretched water fountain: ghastly
From Uzhgorod I took an early Sunday morning bus to Kosice, where I spent the better part of the day before heading to the High Tatras. All I shall say is that Kosice is a far from exciting place with a large student population and a whopping big church in the centre. It’s your bog-standard central European city. One of its supposed ‘highlights’ is the water fountain in the main square that plays wretched Kenny G-style synth ‘classics’ on a rapid loop. It was played so fast, like they were trying to squeeze as much in as possible. In between all this were the occasional ringing of church bells, which I always find comforting and soothing, the more so in a country like Slovakia with its sizable atheist contingent.
I had planned on basing myself for 4-5 days in Zdiar, at a place called the Ginger Monkey. This was my final attempt at overcoming my ire for hostels and group settings and trying to re-discover a sense of lost youth. It was also a test for an anti-social misanthrope like me: I go out of my way NOT to socialize when I stay in hostels. Anyway, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but in retrospect it was definitely a case of ‘what the hell was I thinking?’
Here’s the Lonely Planet description of this hovel:
‘Crushing mountain views from an old Goral-style house, hot tea at any hour, laundry, wi-fi, a surprising sense of community among adventurous English speakers…There’s been some talk that this sort of writing will ruin things (remember the movie The Beach?). But how could we not mention the Monkey? There’s a full kitchen, but most evenings the host leads the whole crew to a local restaurant for rousing conversations about social systems, life’s purpose and what superhero could whoop which. Don’t just book one night, you’ll end up extending…’
Yes, seriously. I somehow made it through three nights.
Another pet hate: backpackers who buy cheap food – usually pasta – from supermarkets and cook in hostels. Okay, so it’s fine to do this every so often to save a bit of money (I’ve never done this and would never dream of it), but you’d be surprised about the number of morons who go an entire trip without EVER eating any of the local food. Don’t even get me started on the splendours of food and drink whilst travelling. That’s half the reason I hit the road in the first place.
And let me just reveal one of my deepest, darkest national prejudices here when I say that roughly 90% of the offenders here are Australian. (I could add here ‘just sayin’ but that little expression is yet another pet hate.)
The Ginger Monkey was swarming with Aussies, all of whom were obnoxious and prefaced every restaurant recommendation or description with the prices of the dishes. Rule of thumb for non-budget conscious travelers (I’m not too budget-conscious with food – most of my expenditures go on that): anytime someone mentions a restaurant and starts off with a mention of the prices or the fact that it’s cheap before discussing the actual quality of the food or the décor, don’t go there. It’s probably crap.
There were other travellers there, a motley assortment of people. I actually made an attempt to be social and went to a local pizza place with a few of them on my first night (a guy from Northern Ireland, a Frenchman, an Englishman and two uptight Dutch girls). Consulting my journal now, it says ‘decent chat, etc’. Really? It can’t have been all bad then.
'The moving landscape provides an absorbing diversion which frees the mind and gives us a fresh viewpoint, and we're most at ease with the world when we walk because everything is happening at a manageable place.'
Lloyd JonesMy first full day in Zdiar meant my first full day of hiking in the mountains. Long-time readers of my posts going back to the Layman’s Guide days will know how I feel about nature and its supposed beauty (for my diatribe about how overrated beauty in nature is, click here), but the High Tatras were truly magnificent and very refreshing. I’m not a big active, nature guy when I travel, so this was something new for me. I was wholly unprepared clothing-wise, only picking up a pair of hiking shoes in Uzhgorod and having no waterproof gear whatsoever. I muddled through, somehow, with the help of a three euro army-green poncho that looked utterly ridiculous.
I don’t want to get into too many hiking details. Suffice to say that if you’re into outdoor, mildly strenuous mountain hiking, then I highly recommend the High Tatras. It’s very tourist-friendly, there’s enough English-spoken, and the views are spectacular. On my first day I went to Biale Voda and hiked up to a lake with a chalet, where I had lunch and enjoyed the views. After my day, I commented in my journal that thus far, the Tatras were like Anna Karenina: the kind of thing that you want to start all over again once you’ve finished, if that makes any sense.
My first thought: how the hell do they get the beer up here?
That night was a disaster back at the hostel. The bloody Aussies kept the entire hostel awake all night with a raucous party in the kitchen. The Ginger Monkey isn’t a big place, with room for about 30 people, but these 10 nitwits incurred the wrath of everybody else after their antics. I was pretty sore after my first day’s excursions and was badly in need of a good night’s sleep for day two. 
Ah ha! That's how
Day two (Stary Smokovec) was rough because I lacked energy, but I persisted and enjoyed myself, except for the barrage of insects that followed me all day. The Aussies behaved themselves that night, but I had already decided that I was going to leave after my third night. Sometimes fate plays its hand in funny ways, for had I stayed 5-6 nights as originally planned, my trip would not have turned out as well as it did.
Day three (Tatra Lomnica) was another epic day in the mountains and it was thankfully my final night at the Ginger Monkey.
I should know by now not to trust the Lonely Planet with its descriptions, but I still fall into the trap. Poprad was described as not very nice and useful only as a ‘base’ for exploring the surrounding areas of the Tatras. Its location and transport links were apparently it’s only virtues. I must admit that upon arrival, I wasn’t wholly impressed, but by the end of my stay, I left Poprad a bit sad and misty-eyed and thankful, in a bizarre sort of way, to the Aussies for driving me out of Zdiar.
In Poprad I stayed at Aqualand, so-called because it’s next to a giant aquatics centre called Aqua City. Though I had to share a room with some others, it was more like a B&B than a hostel, with incredibly comfortable beds, and I enjoyed restful, nice sleeps with considerate and decent people. (Not in the same bed, unfortunately.)
I spent my first day relaxing at Aqua City, soothing my aching muscles in its jacuzzis, pools, saunas and swim-up bar (how do they prevent people from spilling their drinks in the pool, I wonder). I love going to baths on my travels, though I much prefer the grubbier options like in Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan. Aqua City was a fairly upscale, luxurious, large complex, though it did as advertised on the tin.
In the evening I ventured into Poprad town centre, where I was more than pleasantly surprised. Perhaps the Lonely Planet writers skipped it, but I found it to be an enchanting, welcoming, warm little town, full of cosy cafés and open, hospitable people. Of course, the ever-so-lovely Martina might have had something to do with it.
Regular friends and readers will know that no waitress or barmaid is safe from my charms, and this is especially so on my travels. When I went to the Petit Café and saw my waitress, Martina, I knew that I wasn’t leaving without asking her to join me for a drink later on.
Flashback alert
(I was much more polite and much less audacious than a couple of years prior in Prague, where I had an audience to perform to. I was having coffee with Michael and Matej, my two Czech friends I had met working at a summer school in Canterbury, when they goaded me into asking the waitress out. Emboldened by their taunts, I didn’t merely ‘ask’ Elena out: I told her that I was coming back later in the evening and buying her a drink and that she didn’t have a choice in the matter. Visibly stunned, but flattered, she couldn’t say no, and so I did return that evening and had a delightful time.)
My mundane journal can sometimes get me into trouble. The next morning, I wrote of our first night out together: ‘awaiting super-cute waitress….lovely girl, okay chat, hope to see her again this evening…’ On the second night, when we met again at Poprad’s only Irish pub, she looked through my notes when I went off to the little boys room and exclaimed ‘what, it was only an ‘okay’ chat?’
I had spent that day in Levoca, which features the whopping big Church of St Jacob and then to Spisske Podhradie, and its magnificent Spis Castle.
I paid 2 euros to enter the Church of St Jacob. I would never normally pay to enter a church, but yet again I was Shanghaied by the Lonely Planet’s overly flowery description of its majesty. Not only did I say goodbye to 2 euros that would have been better spent on a cappuccino, but I had to endure a tour led by a pudding-faced dumpy woman who led the tour – in Slovak – in a dour, monotone voice as if she’d been forced into the role as some sort of punishment for her sins. I could have seen everything the church had to offer in less than 3 minutes. But the door was locked behind us as we entered, and we were frog-marched around and lectured to about God knows what. Anyone who strayed away from the group was shoved back in with the pack. There were ‘no foto’ signs everywhere, but just to be an instigator I repeatedly asked Ms Pudding-Face if I could take photos, and every time she had conniptions and almost broke out into religious convulsions. After 20 minutes we were ‘allowed’ to look around on our own, but after asking one more time if I could take a photo (there was actually nothing I wanted to take a photo of), Pudding-Face lost it and ordered me to sit in the pews. So there I sat like a petulant little school child waiting to be dismissed.
After lunch in Levoca I hopped on a bus and headed to Spis Castle, which was a healthy hike up a hill from the town centre. The castle grounds had a torture museum, where I overheard an absolutely priceless conversation between a Spanish woman and her son. Looking at the various torture devices, the little boy asked whether these things hurt people. When the mother said that yes, they probably did, the little boy then asked why people wanted to hurt other people. Whereupon the mother replied ‘well, sometimes it’s necessary to hurt people in order to get the truth’. Good to know that the spirit of the Spanish Inquisition is alive and well.
That evening I treated Martina to her first ever Guinness, which she loved. For the second night in a row I walked her to the train station to catch the last train back to her village and we said our goodbyes. In the midst of a trip like this, it’s such a pleasant feeling to not only make the acquaintance of a lovely young local, but also to establish the sort of mini-routine that I had with Martina.
My final full day was a thrilling and fitting end to a glorious week of activity. I spent it in Slovensky Raj, or ‘Slovak Paradise’. As far as hiking in the woods goes, I’d say it was quite paradisiacal. Finding it took a bit of time. After a short train ride from Poprad to Spisske Tomasovce, I had to make my way through a village that was predominantly made up of gypsies until I was able to find the right trail. Once I’d done so, after a leisurely walk along a ridge, I eventually ended up at the perilous, exciting part of the trail. Much of the journey featured precarious walks along rock faces, raging river below, with only small, slippery metal juts for the feet and rickety chains for the hands for support. Other sections involved scrambling over slick rocks and vertical steel ladders, where one false step would send you plummeting to your demise. Not for the faint of heart.
Just concentrate and don't look down
Towards the end of the day, and mindful of the limited train service back to Poprad, I was in such a hurry to get back to the village that I somehow got hopelessly lost in the middle of the forest. I was way off trail and getting lightheaded from a lack of food and energy. I had to clamber up a steep slope in the middle of the forest, daylight fading, and by sheer chance I eventually found myself back on trail. On the way back through the village, I witnessed a half amusing/half sad scene where two gypsy boys hurled abuse at some old man, who then chased them, swearing and throwing his shovel at one of them. Alongside me, a Slovak woman muttered something about how the gypsies are always stealing their things, and how this man had just been robbed the previous day.
I missed my train by 10 minutes and the next one wasn’t for 2 hours. This being a remote, tiny village, there was but one bar near the railway ‘station’, where I sat exhaustedly, slowly sipping a beer and watching the sun set.
You call that a station?
My week in Slovakia was a bit like the Tour de France. I had tough, strenuous mountain days mixed with relaxing, meandering days and a rest day in the middle (Aqua Land). Most of the good work hiking was probably undone by my daily routine of an evening beer or two before dinner, and then during the meal where I enjoyed a glass of red wine or two. Unlike Kyiv, where decent wine in a restaurant is pricey, you could get a healthy measure of good quality wine for 1-1.50 a glass just about anywhere in Slovakia.
In conclusion: Slovakia is an utterly wonderful place full of welcoming and open people. Previous visits to Bratislava and Horny Bar (where my friend Kristina is from) introduced me to its charms, and my week in the High Tatras and Poprad merely confirmed it.
Coming up in part III: drinking Bull’s Blood in eastern Hungary, the Sziget Festival in Budapest, and the arrival of Dr Wasabi Islam.
‘You are the party that makes me feel my age.’ (Pulp, ‘Like a Friend’)
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