MARCH 26, 2022 – After my wonderfully intense days in Prague, I took a train to Brno in eastern Bohemia, then to Bratislava on the western edge of Slovakia, another train east-northeast to Poprad, and a bus to Novy Smokovec—a spa village nestled among the formidable High Tatras of the Carpathian Mountains. I’d been guided to this place—unknown to me prior to Prague—by Pavel, who’d spent much time hiking and skiing there and swore to its alpine beauty.
I was awestruck by the jagged peaks that punched through skirts of dense, fir forests and scraped the sky. Only in Switzerland had I seen such razor-sharp mountains. Waterfalls spilling from the heights provided a musical backdrop. I spent two days hiking as vigorously as I’d hiked anywhere in the world. Two months later, I’d approach the same area from the Polish side out of the ski resort town of Zakopane—by then a hotbed of political activity.
The only available accommodations in Novy Smokovec were at the posh “Park Hotel” for $32.50 night, including breakfast. Though 50% above my total daily budget, I’d saved money in Yugoslavia and Prague, so I dipped into my surplus and reserved the room for two nights—and collapsed in comfort after each of my two marathon treks.
My time in the High Tatras produced three vivid memories: the first, filled with stunning scenery; the second, crowded with Germans; and a third, replete with . . . dinner entrées.
“Up I hiked,” I wrote home, “reaching the sun basked summit ridge after four and a half, sweat-filled hours. At 8,500’ elevation I stood well above the clouds and high above the timberline. I hadn’t expected such alpine heights and beauty in a non-alpine country, and so the day and place won a special spot in my growing list of paradises.”
I was not alone. “But the day’s hike brought more than exhilarating scenery,” my letter continued. “At the summit I met a crowd of East Germans, and with some effort we overcame the language barrier. We spent several hours together, talking hiking, and drinking. My American passport catapulted me to instant celebrity status—as is so often the case in the Communist world.
“My German friends besieged me with questions—‘Where did you buy those hiking boots? How much? Your jacket? May I see it? Your pack? Where did you find [an Instamatic] camera like that? Are they cheap in America? Where else have you visited? What’s your profession?’ They acted like caged animals at the zoo—pacing back and forth behind the iron bars, drooling over the elusive freedom outside their cells. With no Big Brother around, I seized the opportunity to discuss politics.” Doubtless of habit, the Germans were reserved in expressing their true feelings, but I persisted, and in no time I heard their version of the ‘system.’ In sum, they were bitter about travel restrictions . . . disgusted by low-quality consumer goods, and downright hateful of the Russians.” (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
