|
 |
| |
|
|
|
There
are times when the 'lets get out of town' mood takes
over. The other week end, facing the prospect of
another night funding the Irish national debt, I
took the motor and headed north.
Shortly after crossing the border, at Sahay, I hung
a left and ended up in Nitra. In fact Nitra in due
North of Komoron, and as I discovered on the way
back an easy two hours drive from Budapest, although
the route via Sahay is considerably more scenic,
especially after Vac.
|
| |
|
|
|
| The first view I had of Nitra was promising.
The church and citadel are on a prominent hill, thus
it was not until I had got close to the town that
the inevitable concrete nasties took the landscape
over. Slovakia is a place of real contrast, the countryside
is often beautiful, but the towns are particularly
nasty. |
| |
|
|
|
I navigated my way to the citadel, and
then went in search of accommodation, reflecting as
I looked at the dug up Main Street, and general run
down state of the town, that Budapest was only two
hours away. In the end I found the Hotel Zobor (Stefanikova
5. Tel (87).253.81) which was facing onto the dug
up bit of the main drag, however the rear entrance
was signed, and approachable by something other than
a tractor. The receptionist spoke English and was
amazingly helpful. She quickly realised that I was
not after a cheap facility-less shoe box, and offered
me a pleasant enough room (I am after all used to
communist era bedrooms) with a functional bathroom
for a little over $40. I braced myself for an early
and boring night.
First of all I set out to explore the citadel on the
hill. All the way up to the top looked like an awful
long way, so I confined my visit to the wonderful
little renaissance square and the few old streets
around it. In its day this part of Nitra must have
been a pleasant place to live. |
| |
|
|
|
The rest of the town has various large
churches with towering spires and a beautiful classic
building on the main square. Around these examples
of mans ability to add to the beauty of the world,
were many examples of mans ability to violate that
same beauty. Concrete nasties and abused architectural
classics stood side by side, a horrible reminder of
the recent past.
Virtually opposite my hotel I found the Atrium Restaurant
( Stefanikova 8), a small complex of bar, restaurant,
terrace and courtyard which must be pleasant in the
summer. The basement restaurant was a long comfortable
room, and was busy with one large group, and was clearly
expecting another. But no problems I was put in the
corner and fed beer, wine, soup and meat, pots and
a salad in a trice. The service was good, the food
better than acceptable and everybody very helpful,
in spite of a chronic communications problem. |
| |
|
|
|
| I retired to my hotel to let the wine
work its way through the system before I ventured
out again shortly after eight. I found a splendid
local's pub in a basement at the far end of Stefanikova
(no name but under pizza place on the corner) and
settled in, leaning against the bar drinking half
litres of beer at 60 cents each. The assembled crowd
was friendly, even if several had been alcoholically
challenged. The shock came at a quarter to nine, as
in England (but two hours earlier) the lights were
flashed on and off. Closing time was nigh. |
| |
|
|
|
I trundled back down Stefanikova, watching
all other places similarly closing. I was working
out, once again, that it was still only two hours
to Budapest when I found solace in the ground floor
bar of my hotel. Called the club 99, it was a shishi
place with lots of purple, chrome and running water.
I had a beer served in a glass featuring explicit
Karma Sutra style poses on it, but even here people
seemed to be drifting off. Outside again I realised
there was a small sign directing patrons to the Club
99 via a small side door. It was another Club 99 and
finally I had found what I was looking for.
It is strange to go to a disco at ten in the evening
and find it full, as this one was. The billing system
was different and worked well: upon entry a ticket,
in the form of a sheet of paper, is purchased for
50 kcs ($1.6), every time a drink is ordered it is
put on the paper, before leaving the bill is settled,
lose the paper and you pay 2,000 Kcs ($65). I could
not but help reflect I had seen rounds at Becketts
for more than that. In fact my bill was about $13
for several whiskeys and a few beers. I stood at the
bar and got into a mutual drink buying session with
the only man wearing a tie, several large males came
and greeted my new friend, who seemed to command a
certain respect, even more than the Italian suit seemed
to merit. It was probably a good thing we could not
converse in a mutual language.
The girl in charge of the main bar was one of the
best barmaids I have seen for a long time. She had
more that a passing resemblance to Lisa Manelli in
Cabaret. She poured all the drinks, added up all the
bills and directed the other staff without stopping
once in over three hours. Nobody waited for more than
a couple of minutes for a drink. The dance floor was
in the centre of the room and was partly surrounded
by perspex so the music did not preclude conversation,
but the action of the dance floor could be watched.
The customers were clearly having a good time, and
there was great atmosphere. I soaked it all up, and
could not help comparing it to a place called the
Hippo in Nottingham where I played in 1966. The last
time that I made a correlation, with the sixties,
was in an article I wrote here in November 1991. Not
a connection I would make today.
C YA |
| |
|
|
|
| |
|
|
|
|
