Bratislava

After a day of peeling buildings, ornery weather, bald men, and stale pastries, Sami Omaish, English track 1A with distant Slovak roots, finally ceded: “I can see why my ancestors left.” On our November break, our travel group decided to take a day trip from Vienna and explore its cipher of a neighbor: Bratislava. When Omaish enthusiastically pitched this Slovak pitstop, I was indifferent. Perhaps I would sample some pierogis, ogle at a blue church, strut down another cobbled European alley. But I grew skeptical after sharing my vacation plans with seasoned travelers. “I’m going to Bratislava for break!” I proudly announced to 1A Emilio Egger Prieto, to which he responded with a simple but damning “why?” When I briefed my grandfather about my Bratislavan prospects, he chuckled and informed me that he had gone there on business. “My colleagues and I called it Boring-slava,” he quipped.

When I shared my newfound misgivings, Omaish emerged as an unusually staunch defender of the Slovak capital — he insisted that we must go. When travel companion, 1A Gayle Krest, remarked from the train that the city’s outskirts looked industrial, Omaish angrily accused her of “judging Bratislava before seeing the old town.” And after observing Omaish’s suspiciously eager behavior in a subpar souvenir shop, I began to wonder whether he might be secretly employed by the Slovak government to propagandize to Sciences Po students and drum up local tourism.

I suspected him of such collusion because I simply failed to see what he saw in this contradictory metropolis. I have been to cities that do not make sense — Gainesville, Florida for instance — but never have I been as baffled as I was in Bratislava. The capital boasts an unnerving blend of East and West. Soviet-era highrises, panelaks, clumsily mix with buildings that look to be the architectural manifestations of wedding cakes. The language resides in limbo liminal space between Czech and Polish. The men wear full Adidas tracksuits. And yet, the women expertly don the dark and cutting-edge Berliner fashion.

First on our agenda was a hot lunch. We settled on an empty restaurant that promised traditional Slovak meals. A picture of a sneering moose inexplicably graced the eatery’s façade and menus. The food was filling — latkes and Slovak cheese dumplings, pierogies — but our travel group of five was forced to split due to a puzzling Bratislavan Covid-19 guideline. Two of us were made to sit at one table, while the remainder were seated elsewhere. We were separated by an awkward distance that impeded conversation but facilitated an expressive exchange of confused glances.

When we got to our second destination, the Primate’s Palace, there was no one there. The museum employees, fearful that the day’s only visitors would leave on account of the meager ticket fee, offered us free admission. The tapestries inside were spectacular but discolored by the copious amounts of sun streaming through the windows. I pitied the city. Bratislava is faded, abandoned, frequented by few, forgotten by most.

We wandered aimlessly about this tragic city. We found an altar for aborted babies, a flower market under fluorescent lights, and a clothing store selling t-shirts plastered with the pope’s face. But with the lowering sun, Bratislava cooled and our limbs weakened. We moved languidly, in a seemingly impossible quest to find a steaming cup of joe and a quick bite. As de facto French people habituated to croissants in every other establishment, we were dismayed at the difficulty of this task. But, this initial dismay only deepened when we finally did stumble upon a cafe an hour and a half later. 1A Julien Zeman got a coffee — nothing to write home about. Omaish got a crescent-shaped fig newton — bizarre, but not inedible. Krest, however, bought a slice of what she thought was chocolate cake. Much to her confusion, the pastry’s brown color could not be accounted for by the flavors present on her palate. “It was the texture of dried-out cottage cheese and tasted like that as well. I took a bite and there was a (full) lemon seed in it, so I threw that ish away,” said Krest.

After the cafe ordeal, 1A Ellie Carter purchased a bagel. It was surprisingly delicious. And that is the part about Bratislava that makes me inexplicably sad. It can be pleasant at times, espousing a rare delight — one that can only be found in places where you would least expect it.

Perhaps if I had shared Omaish’s open-mindedness I might have appreciated the city more. But, alas, my skepticism hindered me from enjoying what little charm Bratislava had to offer.

- Lara-Nour Walton