It was easier getting out of Poland than into it. Today's border protocol was downright casual compared to our entrance from Lithuania. We were waved through on both sides. The Slovakian passport control dude was a rotund Santa-esque old dude and was visibly drunk. I wonder if he even noticed us. Getting to the border was the hard part, since it involved traversing the Tatra mountain range. This morning I decided we'd avoid the truck-filled highway and take side roads. My map showed that this would only add ten kilometers of distance; what it didn't show was that my diversion also entailed over 600 meters of additional climbing.
After a coffee-free breakfast (the pre-menstrual waitress brought us tea and refused to deal with us any further) and squeezing our bikes back out of the raccoon-piss-smelling shed where they'd spent the night, we began our day on blissfully tranquil roads, ascending gently through verdant valleys. We witnessed the usual interactions between peasants and livestock, and noticed a significant increase in roadside chapels and shrines, many of them elaborately carved wooded structures with a mountain chalet sensibility. Some housed statues that were garishly painted and looked like they were made of marzipan, yet what astonished us most was Jesus' posture in these.
Never have I seen so many representations of the Son of God on all fours, lying down, or propped up an elbow like a reclining Buddha. Another striking feature of these valleys was the density of the population. Most of the villages ran into one another, a seemingly endless string of four-story dwellings. Ubiquitous schoolchildren made no effort to disguise the fact that they found us hilarious, and squat old peasants walking down the middle of the road and bent over under heavy vegetal burdens were a constant hazard. Despite all the activity, there were virtually zero cars, making for near-perfect riding conditions.
The only thing that kept today from being totally perfect was passing from one valley to the next. This we had to do five or six times, and each time involved coronary-inducing climbs. The worst of these took us up to an elevation of nearly a thousand meters and was like pedaling up the side of a wall. Back at the border, 62 kilometers and three gallons of sweat since this morning's start, I began to think about the country we were entering. What distinguishes Slovakia as a nation? I once spent an uninteresting day in dreary Bratislava, an accidental capital if there ever was one.
Other than that touristic mistake, all I know about this land is that it is or was considered by many Czechs as a poor relative, a polluted, industrial wasteland. On the map it looks brutally mountainous, which could make the 300 and some kilometers from here to Budapest very long. Riding across the invisible line that divides Poland and Slovakia, I also began to reminisce a little about Poland, a country I wish we'd had more time to explore. I'd miss its vitality and quirky people, but I definitely wouldn't miss Poland's drivers, which must rank among the world's very worst.
I was thinking these thoughts and pedaling along the interminable line of trucks waiting to get into Poland when my tire exploded. Fred says it sounded like a toy gun or a champagne cork this time, while it reminded me of a burst balloon. Whatever the case, it was a big drag to replace. I had rotated my two tires in Warsaw, and getting the Helsinki-purchased Nokia tire (they don't just make cell phones anymore) on my rear wheel was an opera in five acts. Getting it off was no easier; even using a knife and wire-cutters, the whole process took the better part of the hour.
On the positive side, we provided entertainment to a number of bored truck drivers. A new tire in place and rolling down the road, I was able to drink in my first impressions of Slovakia. It actually looked distinctly different from anything we'd seen in Poland. The landscape looked more rugged and pristine, full of tall pines clinging onto the steep slopes, yet at the same time it felt more urban and industrialized. Even the smaller villages had high-rise apartment blocks on their fringes, but most of the housing was rustic wooden structures resembling barns, different from those of Poland by their close-set proximity to one another and their orientation vis-a-vis the street.
The main door of these houses is always on the long side of the dwelling and perpendicular to the street. Some looked very old, in stark contrast to the apartment blocks and factories that loomed behind them. Catholicism is still very apparent here. Elaborately domed churches and lurid roadside shrines abound. As for the roads, they're much better here than in Poland, and upon them are far more cyclists, many of them sporting helmets and lycra. We were exhausted and starving when we rolled up to yet another communist-style hotel in Dolny Kubin, a monumentally unattractive hole of a town. We rushed to dinner.
To distract our brains from our gnawing appetites, we played backgammon as we waited for the food to come. I was ahead in the game and bearing off when Fred's appetizer arrived, a delicious crepe stuffed with barbecued pork. I was so hungry that I agreed to his ridiculous demand of placing a man back on the board for every bite. It was well worth it; I still won the game and feel satisfied knowing that Fred has screwed up his backgammon karma for months to come. Though it's only nine thirty now, I'm dog-tired and aching big-time. Hopefully tomorrow's ride will be all downhill...