Getting simple.

Getting simple.

We are flat broke, and his friends want to go out for cocktails this weekend. ‘Welcome home (finally), congrats on your marriage, welcome to Slovakia, this is everyone.’ An all-in-one meet-n-greet celebration funded by his sister, my new sister-in-law, a woman that I have met twice and now live with full-time.

I have never expected drinks for free, have been buying my own since I could, so this is a pill that my new hubby will swallow for the both of us. And it’s going to be one big-ass pill, as I suspect that more than a few cocktails will be necessary to get me through a night of inside jokes that cannot be translated, and if attempted will not only be lost in translation, but will be lost on me having not existed throughout this part of his life. An evening of memories and running commentary of their combined yesteryears in a foreign tongue. Though watching him converse in another language is entertaining, there is no way I’m coming out of this sober. My suggestion was for him to go out with his boys, reignite the torch of brotherly love that hasn’t been burning all that brightly given his relocation to America, then Africa, then Asia. ‘We’ll have time for that later’ he said. ‘Come on, you need to meet these people’. ‘Alrighty’ was my response as I genuinely like meeting new people. And another way to get to know your partner is to meet his friends, so let’s see if I meet another side of Mark this evening.

He grabs a hoodie, pockets the small wad of Krona’s his sister Leoni left on the kitchen table, as we wave goodbye to her, catching the ‘Good luck’ she offers with a little wink (ok, if you think I’ll need it, as I wink back) and out we go.

We’ll walk all the way to the town centre because ‘it’s such a small town that everything is within walking distance’ (in a few months I’ll take to biking around, and then be going by bus after realising that my South African driver’s licence has expired, and because there are parts of Trnava that are not comfortably within walking distance at 6am in winter, no siree.)

I am feeling excited, we haven’t had much time to explore this home town of his, now mine, as we arrived only a few days ago, and have spent most of any free time we have had looking for jobs, unpacking and washing clothes that have either spent the last few months bunched up in our backpacks or have been squeezed into suitcases, brought over by his parents and then stored in their basement for almost half a year. Wearing clothes that are properly cleaned and ironed is a luxury that I haven’t experienced for long while now. Fabric softener, that fabulous stuff that makes your clothes smell like flowers and feel like soft petals, where have you been hiding yourself away for so long? A teacher’s salary helped to cover my university fees, rent, food, wedding, very long honeymoon - no bells and whistles- and definitely not princessy things like fabric softener. Here I’ve decided I’ll at least smell like a princess. Spent almost half an hour scent-testing all the different varieties at the store the other day. Came home with a nasty headache, but it was worth it, that and the funny looks that people give you side-ways, lol. Totally worth it.

So now I am wearing a top that the new sis has lent me (red silk paisley is not really me, but I’m in a country I never thought I’d ever see, because I have made some bold decisions, this top is just another choice one ) while stating matter-of-factly that ‘I’m sure that they (his friends and their wives/partners) will want to meet at X’ she stated knowingly - I have already forgotten the name of the place we’re going to, though to be fair to myself I don’t think I took in the name of the bar/restaurant/??? any of the times it was mentioned, so I’ll take her word that is a ‘fancy’ place and that ‘I’ll want to be 'dressed up’. What she doesn’t realise I think, is that we don’t really go for ‘dressing up’, to go anywhere, and that to her brother ‘fancy’ is another word for ‘workplace dress-code’ so for social outings it’s always jeans with a clean t-shirt and vans, and mine is a simple summer dress, both of which I have been assured are not ‘suitable’ for this type of place because it’s not really an ‘islandy-beachy-bar-thing’ she stated while tilting her head and shaking it ever so slightly in the way that those who know so often do to those who are clueless. ‘So, no flip-flops then?’ (I miss Thailand already). Advice that he laughed at, stating that ‘Cajka’ has never been and will never be fancy, it’s trendy because it’s the only bar/restaurant that plays music that caters to our age group, and is open past 10pm. I however, nodded unblinkingly, and accepted my red silk top knowing that this might be beneficial for our future relationship as sisters-in-law/flatmates, so why not let her have fun dressing me up and imparting wisdom re local customs.

Out the door and chat, chat, chat while we walk hand-in-hand, and before you know it (damn that was quick), we’re turning down an alley, sorry, a passage (pronounced the fancy French way, not the clipped Brit way) which is very pretty actually, with quaint bars and coffee shops each with a little raised deck decorated with cute tables and chairs, flower boxes and fairy lights strung up (not bad little Slovak town, a thumbs up from a foreigner like me if you want it).

And then we are confronted by faces that I kind of recognize (I’m good with faces) and names (I clearly should have at least tried to learn from Mark as I am not as good with names, and I cannot recall which one goes with which face though I had met - most - of these people when we first visited).

My mind slips back briefly to the first and previously only time that I had been to this part of the world. Over Christmas, a year before or two years before we left SA to go to KL (not good with dates either it seems) and am flung back to the present as I’m being hugged and kissed on one, no, both cheeks, thank you (oh yes that’s how they do it here, gosh that’s something I’m going to have to get used to again). And names are flowing and now we’re sitting and then there’s a drink waiting for me. ‘Na zdravies’ all around, that one I remember, been practicing, and a few ‘Serus’s (service said in a different way – means cheers or to health like the above-mentioned ‘na zdravie’) and I know it’s going to be a long, hard night, and that tomorrow morning is going to be even tougher.

South African ‘mampoor’ and my nickname-sake ‘Klippies’ cannot hold a candle to the type of hard liquor that is consumed in this place. Our German friend who always has a good Schnapps on hand, coughed violently, and I saw tears in his eyes when he sampled a shot from an unlabelled bottle I brought back to SA. And though the ‘Ballies’ (big men who drink lots of big beers and have big-beer-bellies in SA, the same exist in Australia and the UK, but have different names) think that they can drain and then maintain their senses even after a good amount of the hard stuff, these Slovaks would wipe the floor with any one of our boys, or an Aussie or a Brit.

My hope of a not-completely-awful-morning hangover goes up in smoke the moment I see the waiter casually walk over, his arm straining under a tray full of the biggest shot glasses I have ever seen, and places it right in front of Mike and I, the invisible vapours rising up and curling my nose hairs, triggering a little protest burp and acid-up-chuck which I quickly swallow while giving my biggest smile and wondering how the hell I am going to consume the amount of alcohol that will flow tonight, and when exactly we are going to run out of money that we don’t actually have.

Those thoughts aside, I very diligently focus my mind of what is being said, trying to remember all the foreign words which I will no doubt have to use on day soon, and in blocking my nostrils from the inside (a handy trick I have mastered to hide a yawn while at work or talking to someone who drone-like monotones to the sound of his or her own voice) so that I can at least save one of my senses from the attack I am about to receive from this clear and therefore very deceptively vicious tiny drink.

Slovak tradition and manners dictate eyes fully open with your gaze penetrating the one that you are chinking little glasses full of mayhem with, so my eyes will not be spared the vaporous singe. My tongue will suffer briefly and then enjoy the warm burn, as will my throat, but stomach, you poor bugger, you are going to suffer, and tomorrow you are going to get your revenge. And rightly so, because the Slovak pre-nasty-alcohol-stomach-buffer is a delightful offering of black bread (not black in colour, not toasted nor burnt black, but black because it’s brown and not white - I’m already in love with this type of logical creativity) a slice that has been heaped with what looks a bit like candle wax that has melted but somehow refuses to solidify and has grudgingly congealed. It may be earwax if anyone has ever tried to amass such an amount (I have not yet attempted this feat), garnished with little crunchy bits of - not sure what they are, think it’s fried onion- and freshly sliced onion (you can never have enough onion) and a sprinkling of salt to bring out the flavour of something that I have a very distinct flashback of eating but have already placed it, along with all other unfortunate flavour and food memories, into that little mental box of foreign foods that have been consumed in foreign lands that we all prefer not to know or forget to remember what it is or what it is made of. We all have that mental box locked firmly. And so, when I take that proffered slice because ‘you’re going to want to have that lining your stomach later and you’ll thank us for it’, and note that it’s quite heavy and dense-ish (my guess of some type of wax may have been accurate), with my eyes firmly fixed on my new husband and the cheeky little grin the reaches right up and makes his eyes twinkle, I take a bite, knowing that he is going to enjoy this much more and for way longer that I am going to.

I’ll put it down like you say it because if I don’t, you’ll be saying it wrong in your head, here you go: crunchy stuff - OSHK-VAR-KEY. Easy. Wax-like layer: MAST’ (must-ya the T is softened with the -ya following it, I kind of like the way it flows rolls off my tongue. Feel like a bit of a linguist yet? Basically, you just said in your head, and then out loud, I know you did because you had to hear it out loud, we all do, it sounds good right, pronouncing a previously unknown word from a country foreign to you. Well done. You just said ‘fried-pig-fat’, followed by ‘lard’ to our Americans or simply ‘grease’ or ‘fat’ to those who are less American. No issue with the taste, we all like greasy and salty, but the crunchy/oily-warm-jelly consistency is…’interesting’ I say as I notice that they are waiting for me to say something, give some sort of feedback with automatic head-tilt, eyes widened to suggest surprise albeit not negative in the least, and accompanying nod displaying, hopefully, warm thanks for new taste sensation and tummy-buffer-soon-to-be-made-use-of which I cannot verbally share with my new friends as I chew, and chew, and chew, gosh why can’t I swallow this mass? I think it’s because it has this ability to stick to every surface of the inside of my mouth. I need something strong and acidic to cut through this greasiness or something warm to melt it and create more of a squishy pulp which can be swallowed. But my throat is not cooperating even though my stomach is egging it on knowing that it’s going to need that warm, oily paste and that it’s going to lather it all over itself, so it won’t feel the burn that is coming.

Jump forward 20 minutes and multiple shots later and I am very happy that these Slavs have shared their wisdom with me, stomach warm and softly boiling, but the stuff is staying put and my stomach seems fine. Not sure if tomorrow I’ll like them as much as I do now, but I’ll remind myself of that when I’m examining the insides of our indoor plumbing.

Later…

I am not sure how I got here, but I am in bed and therefore we are at home. This alcohol-induced teleportation is something that I can get on board with. At a certain point in the evening, time will stop, and I will be in ‘the morning after’. I will have no memory of how I got to tomorrow, or when, but it will not matter as I am snug in bed, I am wearing pjs, and the bathroom is a convenient 4 steps away. Roll out of bed, crawl to loo, insert head, ejection, crawl back, pillows and duvet, sleep.Hours later and I feel that Mike is no longer in bed with me. For his sake, I hope that he is busy making coffee and brekkie in the kitchen, his very life depends on it. How did he get out of bed? How is he making stuff? If I groan loud enough, will he come here so that I don’t have to talk or move at all? A series of grunts and other animalistic vocal offerings and he is at the door. I can open one eye for him, so I wink, manage a smile and a clumsy thumbs-up, and he is on the bed cradling my head and chuckling in that demeaning-but-I-love-you-so-you-know-it’s-not-demeaning way, and when I look into those baby blues of his I almost feel that however I finished up last night was worth it. ‘So they all really like you’ he whispers (sweet man knows my head is killing me). I smile, nod, and mumble something as he pts a cup of coffee and a plate of toast with peanut butter on the bedside table. ‘Need any help sitting up?’ He is a saint, this man. Up we go, he’s fluffing pillows and pulling my hair out of my face. ‘You?’ I mumble. Our shorthand is down, he knows that this single word holds everything I want to say and ask but can’t. ‘I’m ok, feeling better than you look’ he chuckles. ‘I ate not so long ago. I didn’t want to wake you up. I wanted you to sleep for as long as you needed to. I slept ok. Was out like a light. No, I didn’t puke, but I’ve gotta hit the loo’ he shares while rubbing his tummy. ‘Are you gonna be alright here?’ Gosh I love this man. True, I can’t get out of bed right now, but I also don’t want to, and he knows it, hence breakfast in bed.

My stomach is having none of this, and I know what it is thinking as it convulses once more – This is not what I signed up for!