Oh, it used to be such a wonderful place, that sliver of triangular territory on which the jewel of the Danube presently rests.

Bratislava -- or Partyslava, to those who know her best -- that old annointing ground and seat of the sacred Hungarian kings of yore.

Blava, that quintessential mitteleuropaisch metropole, where you could order a cuppa and a slice 'o cake in at least four different tongues (German, Hungarian, Slovak, or Czech), and be understood fluently by all and sundry. Even the garbage man could speak 'em all.

Yep, to those who lived during the era when it was still politically correct to refer to oneself as a dyed-in-the-wool Czechoslovak, the inter-war period was a heady time indeedy-do.

Bratislava was a key way-station on the road to Czechoslovak shangri-la, and those who were alive during that era -- people like my so-hip-it-hurts father -- remember it best. This is what he emailed me recently when I'd asked him about those long-ago delectable days:

"Down the street from us lived the Schlesingers. They were a nice family who sold assorted tschotchkes for a living, and, mind you, kid, they made a good go at it. On top of our flat lived Mr. and Mrs. Toth. They used to argue a lot between them in Hungarian, and the smell of Mrs. Toth's goulash-baking and paprikash-basting used to creep up through the thin floor boards of our old cold-water apartment. Mother used to shout down to them in a combination of Germano-Slovakian to cut out their culinary shenanigans, and somehow...just somehow...the Toths understood her. On the subject of raising your voice, Father used to shout until the cows came home at our landlord -- Mr. Krause -- but Old Man Krause just kept using his frequent trips to Vienna as an excuse never to do anything about it. I even remember asking a Czech(oslovak) policeman for directions to the cinema. He thought I was cute, and called me a 'jeden maly chuligan' in Czech, and it made me smile. Somehow, it all seemed to work. That was life on the edge. That was life in Middle Europe. I miss it so."


Don't you just love my dad?

But then the War came -- the Munich Arbitrage had the Wermacht stationing troops on the other side of the Danube (where Petrzalka presently lies, in all its panelaky glory) -- and that halcyon time was wiped out, forever. Nazi soldiers used to take potshots at the young Slovaks walking along the banks of the Danube as they hustled double-time to parochial school.

A topsy-turvy time indeed.

Hele, none of this registers on the radar screen of today's latter-day inheritors of the Stefanik-ian and Masaryk-ian dual legacies.

Our brash ICQ-ing skateboarding Czech and Slovak adolescents, according to a recent study cranked out by the harmless neo-socialists at Mlada Fronta Dnes, have no means of apparently communicating with each other.

Like blindfolded shadowboxers, the next generation from areas outside their respective capitals hardly seem to know that one another exists. Linguistically and otherwise, they're swatting at the air in front of them as they helplessly attempt to gain their bearings.

To Czechs, Slovakia is as good as in the former Yugo, as far as these Pardubice-ites are concerned.

Friends, yesterday marked fifteen years since our regretful parting.

It's a day that has gone down in infamy east of the dotted line on the Central European map. While there are those na Slovensko who are jingoistically pleased that Slovakia is no longer a part of the Czechoslovak Manifest Destiny, I and my various Slovakian confreres marked yesterday by daubing our faces with ash and donning sackcloth (on top of our thermal underwear, naturally).

** We still listen to Czech music.
** We watch all of our classic 1970s films shot by Orson Welles in Croatia with Czech dubbing.
** We buy all of our electronics goods from Big Momma Tesco, even though none of the manuals are in Slovak. We read and can even mimic your lingo, but you don't seem to understand ours.
** We have no problems being referred to as Czechoslovaks as we meander about the planet in search of greener pastures in the West.
** We invite you to ski our Tatras, even accepting your money while you hardly recognize ours.

So I make one humble request today of you, dear readers: when you go out there on those Prague, Brno, or Ostrava streets, reach out for the nearest Slovak and give them a massive bear hug.

Like a turkey shoot, there are masses of us out there -- thousands, even -- so your work's not going to be too difficult.

Ask them some questions to show them you care. Tell them they mean as much to you as you do to them.

Because, for some of us, this will always remain Czechoslovakia forever. Despite the most strident protestations of those temporarily deceived by illusions of grandeur.

Not mentioning any names, of course...

Dovi a majte sa,
ADM