What one will do…

We spent a few days in Slovakia last month; heading east after leaving Vienna. Somewhere between Bratislava and Kosice we jumped off the train looking for lunch and a place to stay the night. It was a pleasant town: wide streets opening into a large square then steps leading past the church into another large square. There was the quiet buzz of energy and afluence of a town on the rise. It was in this second square where we spotted a great looking restaurant with window seats available on the second floor. Awesome! And a great looking lunch special — the three course, super-cheap tagesmenu which we had become so familiar with. At least we hoped it was a great looking lunch special. Our grasp of Slovakian was almost enough to convince us that it was a menu.

With a little bit of pointing and a lot of smiling we managed to order and sat people-watching until our food arrived. It seems our trepitadion was entirely without basis; the food came and it was fantastic. Once we got down to serious business of eating it became apparent something was missing. A glass of red wine; cabernet sauvignon perhaps, or a nice smooth zwigelt to help wash the travel-dust from our mouths. Once we got the waitress’ attention it was clear we had a problem…No English…No Italian…No German. Not that I can speak anything but English, but I can at least order wine in the other two. Unfortunately our waitress didn’t speak anything but Slovakian; and fair enough too.

It’s quite interesting to see the length one will go to in order to get what you want. Just imagine my predicament. After saying “red wine” in every language I knew (and that amounts to quite a few) I was rewarded with a smile and the kind but vacant look one gives to Aunty Vera each Christmas. So I resorted to playing charades as Linda, my wife, started almost bouncing off the chair with laughter…Titanic? Oh, it’s a book…wait – a movie. Cup…Glass..Search for the Holy Grail!

In the end I had communicated my desire for a drink. Even wine, I think. Then I made what would prove to be a tragic mistake…As I looked around frantically for something red (I figured I had no hope of ordering a varietal) I saw only a few tomatoes on my plate. And I pointed. And I smiled. The waitress left and my lovely wife stopped laughing long enough to congratulate me on my communicative prowess. We settled back down to our meal.

A few minutes later the waitress reappeared from the bar. As she brought her tray down by our table I realised that Linda was never going to let me hear the end of it. I had managed to order a large bowl of freshly chopped tomatoes. C’est la vie. Now I have a few important pictures glued into the back of my notebook and with any luck I’ll never go thirsty again. But Linda’s still laughing.

Craig Martin is (soon to be) a regular contributor to the amateur traveler, podcasts at indietravelpodcast.com and blogs at Our Crazy Travels. He currently lives out of a pack somewhere in Europe.