Friday, 9 October 2009
Slovakian Homes.
Being invited to hang with the Principal of the village and getting to party with the gypsies was a highlight of the trip, the interiors spoke about a million different personal ideologies and a life of celebration and family.
Bratislava.
The Graffiti is about Love which puts a pleasingly melancholic taint on this industrial suburb.
YOU KNOW YOU ARE IN SLOVAKIA WHEN A GUY GIVES YOU A RIDE IN EXCHANGE FOR SCRAP IRON
When somebody says to you “I have three houses, come visit me” it’s usually a good idea to consider the offer. If that somebody has three houses in a remote region of a former communist state it is a definite yes. You may have to shit in an outhouse, eat three times your body weight in cheese and be ultimately be deleted from Facebook by your (enthusiastic) but ineffably insane host, but it’ll assuredly be a tit tweaking, face slap of an adventure. Slovakia is the perfect idyll for me; alternately an innocent maiden beckoning you through natural orchards for flushed cheeked frolicking and a boob-tubed trashy whore of mish mashed cultural detritus who wants to bang you to a soundtrack of 80s ballads. Incidentally - it’s not that Slovakia is stuck in the 80s, it’s not, it just politely refuses to acknowledge the proceeding decades. That suits me fine. So shoulder pads please lets have a Slovakian adventure:
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