Bratislava and the Rest

Matyi asked me, one evening as we were walking from a photography exhibition to Nagymama’s house, if anything had changed since last I was here. And the answer was everything, but subtly.

The trams still rattle along their tracks, and big soviet trucks hurtle around corners. But there are more Peugeots and Mercedes queuing at the lights now. The apartment buildings still mill around like gossiping old ladies in long grey coats with graffiti-lace hemmed dresses swishing around their feet, but flashy new shopping centres are slowly pushing them away, telling them to “move along” with a polite, but bored tone in their voices. The Christmas markets in the square seem bigger and brighter than I remember them, and Obchodna is polishing up its best cobblestones and shop fronts. The city is getting dressed up to meet the rest of the world.

And the rest of the world is happy to meet her. There are more English speakers, and German speakers and even Japanese speakers than I remember from last time. Matyi complained of the tourists from England who have started to go there for cheap bucks nights.

The family, too, is mostly the same, only subtly different. Matyi and Szibi are just as they always were, but grown up a little more. Seeing Szibi again was fantastic, and she introduced me to all her friends, some new and some I knew from long ago, and she took me back to all the places I used to know well: school, and Obchodna, apple cake at Nagymama’s, beer and pizza in Presporska. I met her boyfriend in Budapest, and we all climbed through the barbed wire fence to dangle our legs over the edge of a traffic tunnel, watching the cars drive home from work beneath us, and the lights float up the Danube.

Bratislava hasn’t changed that much at all really. Going there was just like going home, so familiar. I knew where I was and where I was going. I thought about going back and staying for a while. English teachers can pick up work like that. And my brain was so switched on! I think I learnt more Hungarian in that one week, than I did the entire year I was there before. It just seemed to make sense this time round.

But now I’m back in England. Last night here, in fact, and I can’t wait to come home.

The Hardest Thing

Hardest thing about travelling? The people you have to leave behind.

I’ve met so many people now. People who just happen to be going my way, so we might as well go together. People to laugh with, and to explore with. People to show me around, and people to get lost with. People I knew for a day, or maybe not even that long, people who keep showing up, again and again, and people I can’t get rid of if I tried (and believe me, I’ve tried...)

The hardest one’s are the times you meet somebody, somebody you just click with, and then you have to leave them behind, no way to draw it out any longer. I feel cheated, by those encounters, like I’ve been robbed of some great experience. But I also feel blessed, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

Last week, I took a trip to the Lakes District in northern England. It wasn’t planned – rarely are my movements planned – and I stayed in a gorgeous little town called Ambleside. Here, the autumn leaves dressed the hills and mountains in yellow and gold, with the occasional glimpse of a shocking red petticoat, and Lake Windermere pooled at the town’s feet. During the day, I wandered through the woods and at night I went to hear a Jazz man play.

Andy sat down in the seat next to me, and told me of the time, years previously, that he had met tonight’s musician. He told me of the music, and then worried it wouldn’t live up to the hype. It was fantastic.

After the show, we shared a bottle of wine, and swapped travel stories. Words came easily, and afterwards, he slipped my hand into the crook of his arm and walked me back to my hostel. The next morning, he met me at my doorstep again and we drove off to explore.

Small villages, Wordsworth’s grave, a stunning view from the top of a hill and Andy tried to name the mountains that surrounded us, but couldn’t. He told me of adventures sliding down icy peaks and of market bazaars in Jordan. I was comfortable, easy, relaxed in his company, like we’d spent months getting to know each other and not just hours. When he drove away from the hostel later that evening, I felt strangely cheated, like somebody had stolen days from me, like I should have had much longer to get to know him. But it was only me, you see. Me and my nomadic lifestyle.

Last weekend, I spent the time in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. Another person I’d met along the way, Stephan, invited me along, hoping to improve my opinion of the city. Stephan and I are very different people, and rather than opposites attracting, it was a case of opposites arguing, or at least debating heatedly. It was good when we were wandering the city, taking in the river and the bridges, the New Castle and discovering the weird and wonderful world of the Contemporary Art Museum. But, alone together at the dinner table, or in the hostel having breakfast, or the pub having a pint, we either argued, or had nothing to say. Two and a half days felt a bit strained by the end, and I couldn’t help wondering why I got so much time to spend with the wrong companion.

I’m coming home in two and a half weeks. It has been a fantastic time, and I have met some amazing people, but I’m ready to come and meet all my old friends all over again. It’s going to be hard to say goodbye to this place though, no matter how ready I am to come home. I’ve really come to love Britain, and the nomadic lifestyle that I lead. I’ve seen such amazing things, and had more adventures than I can tell you about here. It’ll be hard to say goodbye. But coming home is just the next adventure