We don’t speak Slovakian either

The first thought I had getting off the train in Zilina is that we had made a terrible mistake and shouldn’t have come here. We had practically traveled halfway across Slovakia to go to this tiny town which may or may not have a castle, where we would be picked up by unknown persons (our couchsurfing hosts) who would put us up in an unknown location. To top it all off, we had wittingly taken the slow train, unwittingly dooming ourselves to four and a half ours of Slovakian countryside instead of one and a half hours on the fast train. We should have stayed in Bratislava, we should have planned for Trencin, we should have done this or that or anything else. The train station in Zilina looked somewhat dismal, and we still didn’t speak Slovakian, and everything seems a bit gloomy and foreboding if you aren’t comfortable where you are and are unsure about the future.



But our couchsurfing hosts rode to our rescue, or biked rather, but before we knew it we had our bags stowed in the ticket office and were off, bicycle and dog proverbially in hand, to go visit ‘downtown’ Zilina. After a somewhat complicated maneuver, we managed to send our bags off with the father of our host, leaving us free and unencumbered and able to hike into the old part of the town (pop 100,000) for a short tour, the obligatory photo, and some beers at a local restaurant.



I must say, I am completely a fan of couchsurfing. As much as I love my travel companions, I see them all the time; as much as enjoy the interesting Brits and Americans you meet at your average hostel (and particularly in Prague), we didn’t come halfway across Europe to meet other Americans or just talk to each other. We had the opportunity to sit at this restaurant, actually have someone order for us in the native language, and talk about everything from language to culture to whether or not you say “cheese!” while taking pictures (you do. It’s called syr). We learned how to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘3 beers please’ and ‘I don’t speak Slovak’ and the nearly unpronounceable word for ‘ice cream’ (zmrzlina). And they swept us off to our family home located deep within the Soviet-style ‘suburbs’ (by suburbs they mean rows upon rows upon rows of unimaginative Soviet flats, nicknamed the Great Wall of China for its improbable length). Our hosts, a young couple, introduced us to his father and mother, neither of whom spoke anything other than Slovak and Russian. But the father, an incorrigible troublemaker with an eternal twinkle in his eye and an easy manner (reminding me of a wonderful French gentleman whose acquaintance I had the pleasure to have made), made us feel right at home. We concocted some kind of pudding (Dr. Oetker) with fresh blueberries (also practically unpronounceable), grapes, and Nilla wafers (Slovak style) and we toasted with homemade cherry liqueur. After our sumptuous dinner of venison and rice for everyone and salad and rice for me, followed by some kind of goat cheese which made our teeth squeak (no joke—but it was yummy) and fresh tomato salsa stuff, we set in on the puddings and homemade cherry/blueberry/apple cake with Slovak-style Sprite.



Couchsurfing lets you really get to know people from other countries. We heard about life under the Soviet system, with Slovak-East German football cooperations, no dishes without meat, how the school system, and pretty much everything else we could think of to ask. And this morning, our host took us on the most amazing hike ever, up a hillside overlooking a beautiful valley of verdant fields, tiny villages and even tinier people. And after that... the castle!

More later.