CRF: The Best Of Slovakia

"CRF" is not a crime show you've never heard of, it stands for "Cutting Room Floor." It's been almost a year since we returned from Europe, and we've started to get seriously nostalgic.  To give us all an extra travel fix, we're posting some of our favorite photos that never made it onto the blog.  Here are our favorite unpublished memories and pictures of Slovakia.
There are lots of Slovak trucks on the roads of Europe, and it's well known as the "other half" of Czechoslovakia, but it's still a little-known, hidden away country.  Crossing from the Czech Republic, we descended into a rougher land, spiked with tall pines and criss-crossed with big rivers - Slovakia smells first of wet woods and coarse paprika.
But there are also elegant promenades and beautiful towns, great museums and copper steeples.  One of our favorite towns was our last, the charming Banská Štiavnica in the south-west of the country.  This intriguing "plague tower" shone brightly in the middle of Trojičné námestie square.
At the technical museum, in Košice, we got lost in the dark, wonderful rooms.  Outside, the city was full of music and weddings, but the world contained in those dusty hallways was a silent one.  Displays of prickling antennae, bare wires, worn typewriter keys, dull lenses, remote controls - and what seemed like a hundred gramophone speakers.
Slovakia was a prickle of peaks and forests in the western part of the country.  At first, as we climbed in from the Czech Republic, the whole landscape was made of wood and stone.  It was wild.  We passed a shepherd once, standing in the mist by his flock, who wore brown robes of sheepskin that reached all the way to the ground.  He stared at us in the alpine cloud, leaning on his crook.  At that moment, Slovakia felt like part of the untamed past.
On the other hand, the middle of the country is flat and hot.  The land there is a continuation of the great Hungarian puszta, and the roads stretch out simple, flat and dusty.  We ate oil-slicked, paprika chicken soup at this restaurant, in the heart of the plain.  A thin, aproned Roma woman served us.  Across the road, a shanty village glowered.  Kids kicked at trash, the streets were full of brown water.  We stopped for not much more than an hour. The food was delicious and hearty, as it tended to be in Slovakia.
At "Theatur" bar, in Košice (not the gambling den pictured here), we had a long discussion about martinis.  Mainly, we talked about how good Theatur's martinis were - the young, blond bartender shrugged when we complimented her work.  "I didn't even try," she said. We agreed, after much discussion, that they were the best drinks we'd had in months, and were probably the best to be found within two hundred miles.
Košice is full of good food and exciting things.  It's also has - like so many regional hubs in ex-communist backwaters - its share of red neon and bleak-faced vagrants.
When we stayed in the forested hamlet of Podlesok, there wasn't much light at night save for the moon and stars.   In Slovenský Raj Národný Park (home to the slippery, scary Suchá Belá waterfall course) we saw men logging with horses and clearing weeds with scythes.  This was the edge of modernity, where tradition and machinery were meeting each other in the forest.
Ovčí syr (Slovak sheep cheese) can be so dry and thready that it almost feels like fiber on the tongue.  The tendrils squeak in your teeth. The texture is both bouncy and melting. Forget bryndzové halušky, this is Slovakia's real national flavor.
(Actually, bryndzové halušky is just potato dumplings with bryndza - one type of ovčí syr.  So, really...)
It was June when we visited Slovakia, so our memories are of summer heat, the sound of bugs, the intense green of early wheat and the yellow of rapeseed.  The days were long.  We ate picnics beside country roads, smelling pollen on the wind.
We spent one hot afternoon walking around Levoča, a pretty village with an imposing town wall and almost no people in the streets.  Slovakia evokes as much central-European grandeur as any of its neighbors (see Bojnice castle, the incredible ceilings inside or the ancient edifice of Spišský Hrad), but has many fewer tourists than the Czech Republic or Hungary.
Levoča has medieval history, UNESCO listed carvings and dark little cafes set in crumbling stone buildings - but, at the time, it was all ours.
To see all of our posts from Slovakia, just click here.
To see other Cutting Room Floor posts, with lots of other great pictures, just click here.

Slovak Spirits

Slovakian liquor stores generally highlight three interesting spirits – one strange digestif, one common-seeming brandy and one truly different thing that belongs to a singular classification. All are shockingly cheap, none are of undrinkable quality. While nobody would classify Slovakia as a great drinking destination, there are some interesting and quirky things to sip on here.The digestif is called Demänovka, and is referred to - in the peculiar taxonomy of Czech and Slovak imbibables – as a “bitter,” which is only somewhat descriptive. Partly concocted from a mead-like honey liquor, the herb qualities in the drink are less bitter than aromatic. Clove and cinnamon are probably part of the recipe, even if they aren’t named. It is dry enough to drink a lot of, unlike more cloying and intense digestifs. Perhaps this could be used well in a good mixed drink with a dark rum or a bourbon. I rarely have access to ice, so that’s just speculation.
The commoner in this grouping, “slivovica” comes in many forms and bottles. Sometimes dressed up, sometimes sold cheaply, this plum brandy is the same as any fermented-fruit alcohol in that its quality has more to do with the producer than something inherent to the recipe. The Slovak model skews toward unthinking clout, with searing alcohol content and a plum flavor that’s unadulterated by aging or finesse.
Of the three, “borovička” is the most unique. A Slovak invention, the strong national drink is often referred to as “outlaw juniper brandy” because of the illegal distillers who first produced it in the 16th century. Made from juniper berries, and thus obviously similar to gin, borovička has a strange, essential woodsiness that is entirely its own. The production process is completely different – gin gets its herbaceous qualities from vapor infusion, not from fermented juniper – and the taste isn’t quite the same, but the effect with lime and tonic is nearly identical to gin’s cantankerousness. A gin and tonic is refreshing, a borovička and tonic has an outlaw dash thrown in. It has less astringency than gin does, but a stronger taste of its base liquor. Slovak people tend to drink it warm, in a post-prandial ritual that is supposed to cleanse the digestive tract. I feel that it’s probably best taken on ice or mixed with something a little easier on the throat.
Slovak beer is generally pretty good, but not outstanding in any way. As I’ve said many times before, though, I’m not really a big beer drinker. Ignore the green can of Kozel – it’s actually a Czech beer.
One can be forgiven for thinking that all Slovak beers – like their Czech counterparts – are extremely alcoholic. Every beer produced here has a number on the front, followed by a percent sign. Most display 10%, 11% or 12%, with even 14% showing up from time to time. This - thank goodness - has nothing to do with alcohol content. Instead, the numbers reflect the degree of maltiness in the pre-fermented mash. Higher percentages tend to be darker and stronger tasting, lower numbers usually signify lighter, pilsner types. The numbers actually refer to the specific gravity of the mash, measured in Plato units. I have absolutely no idea what that means. Apparently, mass-produced pilsners are usually in the 6% to 7% range, while stouts and Belgian trippels can run above 20%.

Castle Hunting: Spišský Hrad

Rebecca remarked, when we first caught sight of Spiš Castle (Spišský Hrad, in Slovak), that this must be the most amazing castle that nobody's ever heard of. During that first glimpse, we felt a kind of awe. This is the kind of fortress that seems only to exist in the imagination or in tourist towns - turning off the car's engine and stepping out into the field, we felt almost alone with this medieval apparition. A tractor grunted its way across the field in front of us. cutting hay, but otherwise the hilltop seemed constituted only of ancient rock thrust up into the wind. This is the Slovak backcountry, and Spiš Castle rises in a lonely, limestone vision.
As we got a little closer, hiking up from a lonesome parking lot far below the walls, signs of modern life began to emerge. A group of paragliders circled above the hilltop and a second (closer, much more convenient) parking lot was bustling with cars. Spiš is famous within Slovakia, and it doesn't want for attention from Slovak daytrippers. From across the valley the endless walls had seemed deserted, but this was a trick of the distance.
From a nearby hilltop, we took advantage of the great light and blue skies. The breeze had attracted winged visitors to the high ground, and we watched as a few paragliders launched from nearby. A sidenote: I was intensely jealous of these guys. What fun it must be to fly like that.
Spiš is a ruin. In 1780, a huge fire destroyed all the wooden elements of the buildings, which had already been mostly deserted by the owners. Much of the stone components were damaged further by scavenging locals, who were looking for building material. The early-13th century stone tower at the center of the complex is one of the few remaining parts of Spiš in good shape - remarkable because of its age and its height. The tower was built to replace an earlier keep, built sometime in the 12th century, which was toppled by an earthquake. It was one of the first stone defensive buildings in the region, and an unsuccessful Tatar attack in 1241 - during which the tower was held easily by its defenders - helped popularize the masonry (as opposed to wood) trend. The walls are especially thick for such a short and narrow structure, and they seem a little primitive when compared with later designs. Still, it's remained intact for eight hundred years, which many newer, more advanced towers weren't able to do.
The fortification stood at a major crossroads between two trading routes, and the hill upon which Spiš stands has been settled since the 5th millennium BC, with rudimentary fortresses occupying the point for the past four thousand years. At the beginning of the middle ages, the Celtic and Dacian tribes that controlled the region had a stronghold here where they produced unique silver coinage that became the dominant hard currency of Slovak lands. Later, the kings of Hungary began building here, and created a monumental, defended residential outpost. The genesis of the surviving castle was centered around a Romanesque stone palace, accompanied by the original tower and a network of supporting walls and gates. Additions and flanking walls sprouted outward from this point as time went on and the site grew in importance. By the beginning of the 15th century, it was already one of the largest fortresses in Europe.
Constant construction and ambition ultimately proved a detriment, however. A long, lower extension was added to the upper castle in the 1440's so that a larger army could be garrisoned at Spiš. Two towers and a round keep were built, and the defensive focus shifted away from the high structures to the lower, more vulnerable walls. The advent of gunpowder weapons also complicated this addition, because the gunning vantage points of the high walls were so distant from the outer defenses that it made it impossible to fire in that direction without damaging the castle. New batteries were added below, but what was once an asset to the defenders became a liability, with nearly a kilometer of exposed battlements.

Partly because of this over-extension, the castle didn't fare very well in the centuries after, being taken and retaken by various forces until the region became more stable in the 18th century. As Slovakia became more peaceful, Spiš was also turned into more of a residential structure, with an architectural consolidation of the disparate upper buildings in a late renaissance, Italianate style. Interestingly, most of that renovation has been completely stripped away. The stones that were used for the more modern project were better-quarried and more valuable, so they were the first to be looted from the ruin. What remains is mostly older and more original.
At this point, Spiš is almost more impressive from afar, when the immensity of the thing can really be appreciated and one can imagine it more complete. Walking around the actual grounds, the walls seem more decayed than whole. From afar the outline is evocative enough to make you gasp. It looks, in its tumbledown way, better than a lot of rebuilt or well-kept castles and the white walls catch the light in a striking, romantic way.

Ovčí Syr Stands

Ovčí syr means, literally, "sheep cheese." Signs litter the roadsides of Slovakia, particularly in the mountains, with nothing but these two words. The rest of the products sold at ovčí syr stands are only implied - there is often "žinčica" (a sheep's-milk whey drink) and sometimes frozen fish or even vegetables - but not promised. These aren't grocers, they are cheese mongers, and they don't pay much attention to anything else. Above is one of the more modern and product-rich ovčí syr shops that we've been in. The display cases and selection were unexpected and impressive.
The whole thing was squeezed into this little, wooden cabin next to a winding road near Levoca. This type of market feels like a holdover from earlier days, when travelers on popular routes needed a quick bite of cheese on their way from place to place. It's rare to see ovčí syr places in towns or cities, though they do exist. Usually they are on the outskirts, near roads and passing cars and - most importantly - the animals themselves. When we pulled in, a boy on a bicycle stopped by to ride in circles near our car, staring at the license plate.
The smoked "oštiepok" that we bought there was imprinted with the Slovak coat of arms, but this type of cheese is pressed into myriad molds. There are more traditional designs shaped into simple balls, a popular subset of easter egg patterns and some oštiepok are sold in cutesy little-lamb forms. It has a strong smokey flavor and aroma, without much room left over on the tongue for the taste of cheese. It's bouncy and makes an audible squeaking noise in the teeth, which is fun but unsettling.A more representative stand, with it's own flock attending closely in the meadows behind, was this little hut. Nestled in a pothole-ridden pull-off, it was popular and staffed by a disinterested woman. The guy before us in line began drinking his žinčica before he'd even paid.
We bought two different types of uniquely Slovak cheese there: "korbáčiky" (which means "little whip") and "parenica." The parenica is the one that looks like rolled bacon, and is a smoked and steamed cheese that's tough and almost fibrous in texture. It's not bad, but the taste is more akin to cured meat than to dairy. The korbáčiky is a softer and more cheesy type. It's greatest quality, of course, is the novelty of the consumption process. It's strange to untie a cheese and untangle individual strands.

Ovčí syr signs are comforting. They are a reminder that not everything in Europe has been homogenized and that the ubiquitous Tesco, Billa and Lidl supermarkets haven't completely cornered the market on groceries. If there is a romantic image of the Slovak Tatras, it is of the mountain shepherd standing beside his flock. A Slovak man about my age recently asked me if coming to Slovakia was like "stepping back a hundred years." I told him that no, it wasn't. Our campsite has fast wi-fi, people watched the NBA finals, radios play a mix of Katy Perry and "Born This Way," Japanese-fusion cuisine is available.

Really, I should have agreed with him a little more. Sheep cheese stands don't exist like this in America. Perhaps they exist, but they aren't normalized. Men don't step out of their trucks to visit with a local shepherd and buy a package of fresh bryndza. The past feels closer at ovčí syr shops because they are a continuation of an unbroken tradition. Even if there are big plastic signs now, beckoning people in from motorways, and even if the cheese is refrigerated and sealed in plastic, there are still shepherds in these mountains that make a living selling their cheese on roadsides.

A Very Cool Place, Indeed

I have to admit that since my last post was about our Sucha Bela gorge excursion, I'm feeling sort of like a comic book author. Next up on the Adventures of Merlin and Rebecca: The pair travel inside an ice cave! It's true, though. We did. Digging out the few cold-weather holdovers in our car, we bundled up and visited one of the most important ice caves in the world at Dobšinská.
It was instantly cold and not as far underground as I was expecting. In fact, just a few steps down there was already a coating of ice all around us. The combination of rock and ice crystals made me feel like Polly Pocket, if Polly Pocket lived inside of a geode. I was able to have such inane musings, because the tour was conducted in Slovak and there were no information panels or pamphlets. (Other brilliant observations: it was like a scene from an epic battle between Batman and Mister Freeze). It's not such a bad thing in situations like this, I think, to be left to your own mental devices. The experience is completely sensory while you're there and then you can research what the heck you were looking at online afterwards.
It was amazing to imagine digging this walkway out. Sometimes, we can't help but wonder how people had the audacity to put something so precious at risk for the sake of tourism. However, the cave has been doing just fine since its discovery by miners in 1870 and subsequent opening to the public just a year later. In 1887, it became the very first electrically lit cave in all of Europe. I'm sure a huge amount of its preservation comes from the switch to a non-heating light source.
There are elements of the Slovak language we've come to understand, namely menu items and numbers. We eat out and pay for things a lot. Anyway, the guide pointed to this wall of ice and said 250,000. That happens to be the estimation of the cave's age, so I can only assume that he was pointing out the lines in this wall covering as indicative of that fact. Sort of like tree rings. Before it was officially "discovered," local shepherds and hunters referred to it as "the cold hole."
Apparently, an Olympic figure skater did a short display in the cave in the 1950s, to draw attention to the natural wonder. I'm guessing it took place here, in the largest, flattest space we visited. On each side of the 'rink,' the ice billowed up into rolling waves. My idea of what the surfaces looked like kept changing: foamed tidal tips, hoar frost on firs, enormous melted candles. The age gives the blue and white covering all sorts of wonderful texture.
The centerpiece ice hall reminded me of a cave diorama with stalagmites and stalactites made of blown glass, beautiful in its brilliant translucence. The iron deposits conjured images of a rusty gutter, surrounded by icicles, all hanging from a snow covered garage. Not soon after, the tour abruptly ended. Only about a third of the Dobšinská ice cave is open to the public and it took us all of a half hour to walk through. We emerged thinking, "What an awesome place!" and "So, what the heck forms an ice cave?" In Dobšinská's case, its a sort of cold trap. During the winter, cold air travels in and the warm air rises out of the cave. All full up with cold, the lighter hot air of summer has no room to eek its way in. Thus, the cave maintains a pretty steady temperature of 0°C.

What a sad irony when we still couldn't find any ice to fill our cooler that evening.

Slovak Food

Rebecca made the astute observation that Slovak food isn’t all that much different from other heavy, mitteleuropean cuisines – but that it seems nicer because it’s dressed up a little. Though the table may groan beneath the weight of “bryndzové halušky” - Slovakia’s national dish - one can’t grumble about the presentation. It’s amazing how far a few ringlets of scallion and a carrot flower can go in the direction of prettiness.
“Halušky” are little potato flour dumplings, similar to gnocchi. Here, in the common fashion of ovine-mad Slovak chefs, they are drenched in melted sheep’s cheese and topped with bits of crisped pork fat. Bryndza is the type of sour, soft cheese that gets used and gives the dish its name. It’s a dense plate of food, and one encounter was enough to feel well acquainted with it. Certainly a pleasure, but I doubt we’ll meet again.
There are several kinds of “guláš” (goulash) in Slovak cuisine. Some are quite familiar, some are less so. This is a cabbage and gravy variety called “gulášová polievka” with some braised cut of beef swimming around in it. The accompanying “knedle” is a popular starch for soaking up things like this – boiled flour loaves that have little flavor and a spongy texture, they are extremely absorbent.
A guláš that looked more familiar, this paprika and “ram’s meat” stew was served in a little cauldron and was studded with small, toothsome noodles and new potatoes. It had a generous amount of spice, but paprika is by nature very gentle. The meat was tender and globs of melting fat clung between chunks of tissue. The name for this particular dish is “kotlíkový guláš,” a variant that takes its name from the kind of pot and that is often cooked outside over an open fire – though we have only seen it prepared that way in beer advertisements. I ate it on the packed porch of a “salas” eatery near Spiš castle – salas are simple, traditional places that tend to specialize in sheep products. The word means “shepherd’s farm,” so they are destined to be a little tacky and touristy in modernity.
There is virtually no cheese in Slovakia other than sheep cheese, and it comes in a huge number of forms. Smoked, semi-hard cheeses are popular, as are softer, farmer’s types – like the one that has been mixed with paprika on the right. Often, it makes up the only protein in a dish, and one can buy it on the roadside in little ovčí syr stands.
“Pirohy” are very similar to their polish “pierogi” cousins, and are treated in the same, greasy way as halušky. These were served at an outdoor, dusty table on the outskirts of a Roma village – part of a lunch with a bowl of soup that cost three euros. A creamy potato filling was lighter than I expected, and the sour cream on top was more flavorful and oily than typical types.
Oil-slicked, paprika-stained “rezancová polievka,” or chicken soup, is a central Slovak specialty that has a deeper flavor and a heartier broth than its American counterpart. Soups in Slovakia tend to be treated more like stews than broths, and are often served as a complete meal with a few massive slices of bread.

The food of this country is very much like this - simple and rich, but with a flavorful vein that sets it slightly apart from the Ukrainian, Polish and Germanic foods that weigh down the south, east and west. Crossing the mountains from the Czech Republic, the culinary landscape tilts toward the south and Hungary. The higher ground is more the domain of the sheep, too, which sets Slovakia apart from the mundane pork plains. It may only be a hint of spice here and there, but it's a promising, welcome tang.

Suchá Belá

Hindsight doesn't always have its cliched eagle eye vision. Only twenty-four hours after completing our hike up Suchá Belá gorge, I began to think of an angle for this blog post. Well, it sorta felt like an obstacle course more than the natural wonder I was expecting. But then I looked at our pictures. Sometimes, I think my memory downplays cool experiences in order to make sure I keep searching out new ones. Sure, we scrambled across horizontal ladders set above rushing water and climbed up cliff faces on a veritable adult jungle gym, but it all gave us an opportunity to explore an otherwise inaccessible terrain that was truly beautiful.
We were almost scared off from the hike by a tourism brochure that lauded its 30meter high ladder and final walkway, which becomes completely submerged when the water is high. You see, between the two of us, we've got one fear of slipping on wet surfaces and one fear of heights. Neither are crippling, nor do they stop us from many activities. We just, you know, don't prefer them. Our decision was made, though, when the campsite receptionist waved at us and said "You going to Suchá Belá? Have fun!" Okay, he thinks we can do it. An out of shape father and his two small children joined us on the walkway to the trailhead. If they can do it. Off we went!
Fallen limestone and pines, the casualties of century old weathering, lay all around the trail. Some areas were bone dry, others necessitated skipping across stones in shallow ponds. In those situations, I find it best to just get your feet wet off the bat. That way, falling off a stone into the water loses its scariness. My hiking shoes were sopping wet only minutes into the trail on purpose. I promise.
The network of ladders and steps were first put into place in 1908, then available only to researchers. They were opened to the public in 1957 and are now traversed by more tourists than any other trail in Slovenský Raj Národný Park (Slovak Paradise National Park). Apparently, some elements were added for "playfulness," like these logs, set up to prevent the canyon from closing up. Whenever we reached a particularly dicey walkway with steps just a little too far apart, we would blame the playfulness.
Here's the fearsome 30 meter high ladder. The previous series of steps definitely reached up higher, but were not as straight and steep. I enjoyed having something more solid to hold on to than a chain. This was just one of the many waterfalls we walked up alongside. Passing by some people and letting others go ahead, we found ourselves with a rare moment of aloneness. It was perfect timing to really take in the simplicity of the path ahead and the amazing situations we find ourselves in.
Up, up, up, we went around a series of plunge pools that are said to resemble a set of plates. "Misore," this fall's name, actually translates to "Dishes." Even in the cool shade of surrounding pines, we wished we could take a dip. We've made it our habit to carry bathing suits everywhere we go. Wishful thinking, really, but they're very light. This section of the trail was the prettiest and made me feel very fortunate to be there in mid-June. Any later in the tourist season and I doubt I would have had time to stop and look down.
There's never a sign at the end that says, "You did it!" which often makes completing something like this anticlimactic. As the trail widened and led into a flat wooded area, we realized we were about to begin our journey back down. Suchá Belá is one-way only, obviously, and the hike back home was just a simple dirt walkway. We sat on a newly cut log to have our lunch of smoked sprats and bread. Then, we continued on past a logger and his draft horse, toward our campsite.

Slovakia's Second City

Košice is the second city of Slovakia, a big sprawl of cement blocks rising in the rust-colored, iron-mining east of the country - on Ukaine’s doorstep and about five hours drive from the Czech border. In our time traveling in Slovakia, we’ve skirted the capital and headed further inward, deciding to leave Bratislava’s charm for another time. Approaching Košice, feeling that industry and communism had perhaps created a cubist wasteland in utter isolation, it seemed that it might have been nice to spend some time in a more cosmopolitan place. Later that night, after eating well and drinking very well, the old town was magical and we felt that the city was an oasis.
There is plenty to see in Košice, and the architecture that has survived at the heart of town is stunning. (By the way, Košice is pronounced “koh-sheets-eh”) Renaissance facades have been mixed with medieval stone buildings along the square, and the Hungarian empire’s stability – along with the town’s provincial location – allowed the buildings to be exceptionally well preserved. The cathedral of Saint Elizabeth is one of the easternmost gothic cathedrals in Europe and one of the grandest for hundreds of miles. Nearby, the older St. Michael’s chapel (dating from the 14th century), is less imposing but perhaps better attended at Sunday mass.
There is a liveliness in Košice that was refreshing. Even on a Sunday afternoon, when most European cities feel desolate, there were locals out and about, sitting at cafes and drinking in side-street bars. There aren’t many tourists, and those that are around seem content to sit at sunny tables and revel in the unhurried energy of the place. It signaled something to us about the changing of the seasons.
Finding restaurants with a more au-courant approach to food is always a joy. Appearing in the wilderness, where they’re least expected, they seem a miracle. The lushness of the dining scene might be sparse compared with more western cities, but there is nowhere nearby, that I know of, where one can find a simple plate of smoked salmon, or pans of paella served with decent Spanish wine. We even had expertly made cocktails – the bartender didn’t blink when I ordered a gin martini (not on the menu). She mixed it deftly and carefully, straining out the last remnants of ice and serving it in a chilled glass. What a pleasure! It’s difficult, actually, to find a better made drink in New York, and I have never seen anyone as adept as she in Europe.
There are certainly a good number of “herna” bars (read: “slot machine joints”) and strip clubs, but there is a thriving bar scene with a more relaxed feel – places where people go for conversation and camaraderie. Walking on the square it was suddenly apparent that summer had showed up. The pace and the light of the later hours had none of the inward looking, shelter seeking aspects of colder times. The common desire was for the outdoors and for calm, neutrally cool air.
As we headed towards home one such evening, we were struck by how exotic a city can feel on a warm night in Europe. A throng of revelers had just been let out of the cathedral after a musical event, and the square was busy with people saying goodbyes and greeting each other in the darkness. The bell towers loomed overhead and the scene seemed very ancient. It isn’t always immediately present in our mind, how old and very European everything is around us, and sometimes we are struck by a wave of awe – almost an emotional response.
As we drove eastward towards Košice - and into territory that was familiar to us from earlier, less sunny times - we expected a return to backwaters and barrenness. The city was a compromise, a destination that seemed both inevitable and necessary for our experience of Slovakia without Bratislava. It turned out that it was, indeed, representative. Instead of bleakness and hardscrabble blocks, though, it was a joy, a place that felt unique and itself.