Will Harris takes a trip into the unknown

“You do realise,” I say to my friend K, “that we have booked a holiday purely so we can enjoy the looks on people’s faces when we tell them where it is we’re going. What do you think that says about us?”
“I think,” says K, “it says that we are made for each other as travelling companions. What about money? Is Slovenia in the Eurozone or what?”

There are two worrying aspects to this sentence. The first is that K apparently thinks we’re going to Slovenia, when our destination is in fact Slovakia. The second is that she has been given sole responsibility for booking our accommodation. It takes about five minutes of sifting through travel documentation before I am reassured that, against all odds, K has managed to find a holiday let that is not only in the right country but the right city too. Less encouraging…

“What do you mean, they died?”
K shrugs. “They were old. Old people die. The daughter’s redecorated it since. Obviously.”
I ignore her eye roll, and stare at my laptop and the apartment K has selected for our little adventure over the Easter weekend. Death flat. Great.
“Is it the same bed?” I ask.
“I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Look, it’s £25 a night.”
“Is it the same bed?” I ask.
“The woman’s a set designer apparently. Film sets and everything. Look at those curtains.”
“What film?” I ask, looking at ‘those’ curtains. “Hostel? Oh my Christ, what is that?”
That, on closer inspection, was a battered upright piano, upon which sat a yellowing wedding photo with a man and woman’s hat arranged carefully on either side. “See? Death flat!” I yell, pointing.
“Well if it had been down to you, we’d now be contemplating two relaxing nights on board an old boat.”
“It’s not a boat,” I sulk. “It’s a boatel.”

Dodgy accommodation aside, it seems the pair of us are equally excited about our impending adventure. Key to the anticipation is the knowledge that we’re going somewhere, if not totally off the beaten track, then at least stumbling drunkenly through the bushes at the side of it.

“That, on closer inspection, was a battered upright piano”

It’s cheap too. After hours of exhaustive research, K has found a place where they will apparently massage you for two hours for €30 (although I am yet to be convinced it is not an underground hunting lodge for murderous millionaires to exact their societally-suppressed bloodlust on innocent twenty-somethings aka us), while I’ve discovered that a small glass of wine costs around €1.50. And I’ve a feeling I’ll need a lot of small glasses of wine to take the edge off sleeping in a room that is haunted by the ghosts of an old eastern European couple.

Watch out, Bratislava, wherever you are, here we come!