Slovakia: The rest of the story on how I got there.

I shall recommence the tales of Slovakia from where I left off - at the airport in Vienna. The airport in Vienna was rather disappointing, because I was fully anticipating an Austria stamp in my passport, but alas! It was not to be so. There wasn't even any customs official to interrogate me. Up to this point in time, I would say that everything had gone more or less as planned. This is about where everything stopped going more as planned and started going less as planned.

My next objective: find the Eurolines Bus office and particularly the Slovakia desk and buy a ticket from Vienna to Bratislava. Can't be too hard, right? After a decent 15 minutes of walking to and fro and fro and to, the man at the airport information desk kindly pointed me in the right direction and the destination was soon located. Communication with the girl was somewhat rocky. She didn't speak English. She definitely didn't speak French. I can count to ten in Slovak, and I know the words for bellybutton and duck and that's about the extent of my Slovak. But a few minutes later, I was walking away 6 euros poorer and one ticket to Bratislava richer. After some deciphering, I figured she was directing me to bus stop #4 that was outside. Hmm. Bus stop #4 outside. Real helpful. Thankfully, I had more than an hour before my bus left. So. Outside. Whereto next.... I followed what basically seemed to the be the crowd, but instead of taking me outside, they took me underground to a train station. Oops. Eventually, I found my way out of the train station and I was out in Vienna. I decided that this would be a very good time to stop and call Katarina to let her know what time my bus would be getting into Bratislava. And it did not work. I tried literally every single combination of numbers and stars and zeros and country codes and plus signs that I could possibly contrive of. I tell you every single allegedly internationally minded phone I've ever tried using (and that would be a grand total of two, in case you were wondering) has proved itself to be nothing but a useless piece of plastic when it actually ends up going to some place international.

So! There was I, with a phone that didn't work, in a country whose language I did not speak, and there was no bus stop #4 in sight. Just a lot of tall, grey buildings. There were signs to the airport, signs to the train, signs to the taxis, but no signs to the bus. But stress or worry did I not! Instead I found a café and bought myself a chickenbagelwich (beacuse it was the only thing on the menu that I could come even remotely close to pronouncing) and found someone there who spoke a tiny bit of English. They gave me some great directions to the bus stop, "It's over that way" (proceeds to point). So over that way went I. After a bit more unsuccessful wanderings past tall, grey buildings, I saw an old man sitting in a parking lot booth near the airport who looked to me like he might be able to speak a different language. Not sure where that gut instinct game from, probably the grace of God, but voila! Lo and behold, il parle français! He spoke French really very well, and gave me detailed directions to the bus stop. Which I had maybe walked right past about a half hour beforehand....

I sat down on the bench at bus stop #4 and chowed down on my chickenbagelwich. Eventually, it hit me that I still had not contacted Katarina and it was imperative for the success of my journeys that she knew which bus I got on. So it was back into the airport and back to the information booth. A different information booth, but the same exact man... "Ummm...Hi again! I found the Eurolines ticket booth, thanks for giving me directions there, I bought my ticket, it's right here!" I received a very blank stare. Clearly, he either did not remember me or did not share my enthusiasm about purchasing a bus ticket. "Well, umm, anyways, now I'm looking for a payphone, would you please point me to the nearest one?"

Called Katarina. Talked to her, figured out a plan, everything looked good. I was parched from the chickenbagelwich, so I stopped by the McDonald's at the airport and bought myself a cup of orange juice. If you ever go to the Vienna Airport, don't buy orange juice from their McDonald's. It's lukewarm and pulpy, and they only fill the cup about 70% of the way. I sat there and you know what I did? I studied for my French exams. Yuppers. At last it was time for the bus to leave. I got up and stopped by the bathroom. I almost ran smack into guess who? The very same airport information man. Third encounter of the day.

made eye contact. Promptly looked the other direction. Awkward.

So now! Bus! On the bus headed to Bratislava! Success! Happy day! But the ride was a somewhat unpleasant one, for over the course of that bus ride, I slowly realized a very horrible thing. By the time I stepped off of the bus in Bratislava, I was 95% sure that the bus I was on was in fact, taking me to the wrong bus stop in Bratislava. Thankfully, I still wasn't stressed or panicking. Next objective: find someone who could speak English or French and who could give me a phone. First try: Bus driver!

Kathryn - "Excusez-moi, monsieur, parlez-vous français?"

Blank stare.

K - "Do you speak English, sir?"

Bus driver (big, ancient, really big, gruff sort of a fellow), "SLOVAK."

K - "Oh, okay thanks anyways, bye bye!"

Kathryn was trying to get to the city center. I asked (count them now) not one, not two, but THREE people if this was the city center. They all said it was. It was not. I could tell by my very gut (and by the fact that these people clearly didn't really understand my question) that this place was not the city center. So. To find someone who I could communicate with... I was very unsuccessful at first. I asked a woman at a little store...

Kathryn - "Parlez-vous français?"

A few seconds of the blank stare, then a grunt of recognition. The vendor disappeared momentarily, and came back later with a bottle of water. Sorry lady. Not what I'm looking for.

Then after what felt like a very long time of asking the same questions and receiving blank stares in response, a voice behind me on the left said with a very thick Slovak accent, "I speak English. You need help?" I turned, and lo and behold! A tall, old, very old man, with not many teeth, a red coat and a black hat riding a blue bike. The statement, "Don't talk to strangers" had become, "Feel free to talk to strangers as long as they speak English or French." He apologetically listened to my tale of woe. He checked his pockets, and then told me that he was terribly sorry, but he hadn't brought his cell phone with him that day or I would certainly be most welcome to use it.

His next suggestion: "You can come with me and we will find a hotel or a hostel where you can use a phone. Or maybe the post office." I had but seconds to assess my options. I either wander around Bratislava by myself looking for a phone, or I could wander around Bratislava with this old, English-spekaing man. Who had just offered to help me find a phone. A large part of the side of my brain with common sense told me to refrain from following a man I did not know into a city I did not know that does not speak a language I know. But he had a kindly face, a very kindly face indeed. I sensed no malice, trickery, or ulterior motives on his part. Maybe he was my guardian angel, although it would've been rather nice if my guardian angel could've been carrying a mobile device with him. I said a quick prayer of thanks... Dear God, thank you that even if he isn't my guardian angel, you still have plenty of them protecting me so I don't need to worry! and decided to go with my gut on this one and hope that it turned out to be a good guiding gut. We sauntered into the city. Within seconds, we had walked into an absolutely enchanting part of Bratislava. The old part of the city. No cars, only pedestrians. Magnificent old buildings, cobblestone streets, gold-gilded terraces, truly a pleasure at every corner. I was slightly alarmed at how many corners there were. We were getting further into the city, and I had no idea how to get back to the bus stop. Not that getting back to the bus stop would do me any good at this point in time. We were chatting, and it occurred to me as I said the words that I was being very open with this stranger. Perhaps I told him my age, the city in France where I'm currently living, what I'm doing in Slovakia, and that it was one of the first times I had travelled by myself. Perhaps. I was beginning to think that maybe my guardian angel wasn't so much of an angel anymore, and I informed him that I could definitely find a phone by myself, but he said it was no problem at all. He was old, retired, and had nothing better to do. I wasn't feeling threatened in the least, but at the same time, this old man seemed to be making it up just about as much as I was making it up.

Since I was living in France, he told me he was going to take me to the French embassy. At last, we stopped at our final destination... The second to last thing I felt like doing was walking into the French embassy as an American citizen and ask them for a phone. The last thing I felt like doing was spending the night in Bratislava with my new friend (his name was Victor) who had just offered me his son's empty room in his house in case I needed to spend the night. He could even show me around the historic sites of Bratislava, not a problem, not a problem at all. In fact, here was his phone number if I wanted to take him up on the offer. Very nice of him, and I still don't think he had any malicious intent, but at the same time, that is, perhaps, a little bit odd. Or maybe a lot. So I bid him farewell, and off went Victor, the maybe-guardian-angel without a cell phone.

I took a deep breath and pushed open the doors of the French building. No one at the receptionist desk. Hmm. Strange. Not sure what I was expecting out of an embassy, but in retrospect, I believe it was a rather violent image I had in my mind of lots of French military personnel who guarded the place and closely interrogated anyone who dared enter the doors. Yeah not so much. Instead there was no one. So I pushed further up and further in to the cubicle office land of this building, whatever it might be, and eventually found a lady in her office who ushered me in. I explained my dilemma in the very best French I could possibly muster from my brain and out of my mouth. She magnanimously let me use her phone (guardian angel #2?) and seconds later...the sound of Katarina's voice!!!!!!!!!!! Alleluia. Problems solved. "Katarina! I'm here at the French Embassy" ("not embassy, institute!" interjected a co-worker who had peeked her head into her neighbor's cubicle at the sight of this foreign child with a big back pack.) Katarina sounded quite relieved, I must say. She asked me to hand the phone over to someone who spoke Slovak and knew where in the world I was currently located. So the two of them jibber jabbered in Slovak for a few seconds, and then she hung up and informed me that I ought to stay put at the French Institute and "elle va venir ici." (she is going to come here). Perfect.

This is the very square in the heart of Bratislava where the French institute was located:

I went outside, sat down, and grew roots. Nothing could've moved me short of Janka (Katarina's friend who was bringing me on another bus that would take me ultimately to the train station). 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes, at last 17 minutes later, there she was! I saw Janka coming, and Janka it was. And I loved her. She was one of those really deeply wonderful people that you just really don't want to leave, and who you really do have a hard time ever forgetting. She was beautiful, with a blue hat and tiny pear earrings (yes, pear, not pearl!), and so gracious to me in my time of distress, and so very personable, intelligent, and clearly incredible. A lot like Katarina. When I walked away from her at the train station feeling refreshed deep down, but also sad that that brief encounter was likely the last time I'll ever see her on this side of Heaven.

So then came the train. The train was long and cheap with nice accommodations - only 7 euros for 3+ hours in the train with 6 people in compartments with very cushioned chairs and coat racks. Thankfully, I happened to pick a compartment with a very dear old Slovak lady who spoke English. She was also married to a Pakistani man, and she was on her way home from Pakistan. She shared sun-dried apricots - picked fresh off the trees in Pakistan and baked on their roofs in the hot summer sun. They were delicious. I was very glad she was there to help me figure out when to get off the train as the Slovak trains never announce the stops and neither do they illuminate their train stops very well in the night, making it nearly impossible to figure out which stop is which if you're not an insider. And so off the train, and then into the arms of Katarina and then into the car where Samuel, the most wonderful and incredible and intelligent Samuel who I love so very much, was waiting.

And then after a short drive, we were there in her little mountain village, and in the house she had always told me about, and I was being fed warm lentil soup by her mother in the coziest kitchen, and then brought up to my room upstairs - Katarina's old room - and it was the most wonderful room with wood floors and walls and ceilings and cupboards and bookshelves, all handmade by Katarina's dad, and then it was into bed and slumber sweet slumber. Eighteen hours of travel has it's benefits - the greatest one being, perhaps, the satisfyingly deep sleep that inevitably ensues at the end of those hours. And that is the full account of my travels from Vienna to Katarina.