Bratislava lacks the attitude of perhaps most capitals, probably because it’s a relatively new one, politically if not historically. Of course, if you get into a taxi at the airport rank or at Petržalka station – the major one (of two) that lies south of the Danube – you’ll probably get chiselled in some way but the odds remain that you’ll be done for a lot less than you would be in Prague.
The first time I was here, in the Staré Mesto (2016), I got some novädzi gúlaš at a place where a young-ish American with long hair slicked back behind his ears was wearing sunglasses. On a rainy night. At an unlit table. He ignored both waiters who thanked him as he departed. On the way back to the hotel I passed a lone English stag party near Michael’s Gate. The trams beyond the gate made an eerie, whistling sound in the wet. The wheels were whining in the night.
When I came back (2019) the bright morning after arrival meant a sweaty climb to the Castle. At least the shop there had a couch. At least I bought some postcards to justify the seat. (It’s worth knowing that hotovost’ and s kartou denote ‘cash’ and ‘with a card’ in both Czech and Slovak.)
Upon descending we stopped at a place beside St. Martin’s cathedral. The woman smilingly corrected my chléb (Czech) to chlieb (Slovak) after one of my companions nudged me to ask for sliced bread to go with the toast on his platter.
It was the afternoon when I got most of my photos that time and spotted another lone, harmless, English stag party in town. This meandering, photo-taking, was an essay in relaxation. Happily (2023) the old town hasn’t lost the kind of calm humanity it shares with, for example, Zagreb.
Dr. John Flynn 