I had to go to Bratislava. Eurotrip is one of my favourite movies, and my entire post-graduation voyage was motivated and shaped by it. I had to see for myself whether the men bathed shirtless from tubs of water on the sidewalks, residents hurled sewage from apartment balconies, and an American nickel could “open your own hotel!”

I arrived from Vienna by train at the newly opened Petržalka station, part of an urban development project. I had arranged to meet some local friends, Jana and Igor (yes, typical names), at the station – I thought at 18:00. In fact, it was 8:00 pm she’d told me, but in typical Keith fashion I was overly casual and assumed it was the European (military) time she’d emailed me. I am often careless before arriving at a new destination, such as taking one look at a map and thinking I know exactly where a hostel is. I then arrive weary from an overnight train ride in steerage, don’t know the language, can’t find a tourist officer who’s heard of the place, and waste three hours before I finally stumble upon it. This is precisely what happened in Prague, accompanied by cold rain and my laptop breaking – not a good morning.

So thinking I needed to be in Bratislava at 6 pm sharp, I rushed to Sudbanhof in Vienna to BARELY catch a train – after dealing with a particularly grumpy ticket girl – and rolled into Petržalka with no friends in sight. Naturally, there was no ATM at the station, and my Croatian mobile phone was broken – as it had been for at least 90% of the three months I owned it. It was a delightfully warm evening, however, and I happily took up a seat outside the main entrance and to take in the view of tall Slavic femmes, which I’d sorely missed during four days of withdrawal in Austria.

I’d gone to Vienna from Belgrade on an overnight train, with a slightly annoying 4 am stop in Budapest to change trains. Two entertainingly bizarre non-English speaking Hungarian women, perhaps mother and daughter, set up shop in my compartment and excitedly opened their laptop (as mine was open) to loudly watch some obscure Hollywood movie with Hungarian subtitles.

After three months in the former Yugoslavia, the wealth and elegance of Austria’s capital was jaw-dropping. I arrived at Westbanhof (“West train station”) with no itinerary whatsoever, so I hopped onto the U-bahn (subway) and shot for the station in the centre of the centre, Stephansplatz. When you come out of the station, you are immediately greeted above by the gorgeously iconic Stephansdom cathedral, where all Viennese roads lead. I fell in love immediately. The city’s absolutely sparkling streets and buildings, immaculate parks and gardens, and vibe of everything being exactly in place was an amazing contrast to the chaos and unkempt disorder of Eastern Europe. But even compared to clean and well-endowed American cities, Vienna was a cut above. Everything there was perfect.

I spent four happy days in Vienna and enjoyed every bit of it. Since I was a kid I’ve loved well-planned cities with modern amenities, and I found this one to be a perfect balance between preserved Old World charm and space-age luxury and expediency. I’ve always been an admirer of trains and mass transit as well, and the city’s tram and U-bahn system are second to none. Everything is practical and logically ordered in a typically Germanic way, but the city avoids any feelings of the grid-like uniformity and sterility that personify Berlin.

I visited the Sigmund Freud Museum, in the apartment where he lived before the Nazi occupation forced him to move to London; I marvelled at the utopian palaces and gardens of Schloss Schönbrunn and Schloss Belvedere. I trekked out to the graphic and ghastly Museum of Crime. I wandered the palatial pedestrian-only Kärntner Strasse and listened to classical street music on warm magical nights. When unsure of my next destination, I always headed to heavenly Stadtpark or Schwedenplatz, my favourite spot in the city for its subtly energetic vibe, upbeat outdoor cafes and pizza/kebab stands along the river, and the US Open (tennis) on TV.

Now I was suddenly thrust right back, with the scenery quickly reverting to the familiar grey Communist buildings as soon as the train crossed into Slovakia. I was amazed to think that such a grand and palatial metropolis lies so close, yet so far. Nonetheless, I was excited to see my friends, with whom I’d worked and frolicked at a beach club in Los Angeles the previous summer.

After waiting over an hour, I began to consider the possibility that I’d mentally recorded the wrong pick-up time...or that they’d forgotten/ditched me. Considering my non-existent faith in humanity, I considered this less agitating and more the beginning of a great story.

But at 8:00 pm sharp they arrived, and our jovial friendship was immediately renewed. Jana drove us to her apartment (in a very Eurotrip-appearing building), where I stayed for the weekend and was generously offered hearty portions of homemade food.

Bratislava is no tourist mecca, and is fairly thin on attractions (especially compared to Vienna which is basically an endless museum), but Jana and Igor were the best hosts one could imagine. They took me to Bratislava Castle at night and a hilltop cemetery offering a panoramic view of the city view, then we went for drinks within the walled Old Town (Staré Mesto) on a lively pedestrian-only street filled with fashion and head-turners (a recurring theme in Eastern Europe).

On Saturday we visited Devín Castle, perched above the confluence of the Danube and Morava rivers. It was a hot day, so I asked Igor whether people swim in the river; to this he laughed and said you’d drown in five minutes from vortexes. After our stroll we sat outside under some shady trees and drank kofola, the Czech and Slovak national non-alcoholic drink which is similar to Coke but with a gingery spice flavour. I loved it.

We went to the Slovak Pub (great name) for lunch, a charmingly traditional wooden-interior establishment in the Old Town. Here we enjoyed more kofola on tap, and I got to try halušky, the delicious national dish of potato dumplings with sheep’s cheese and bacon.

We then headed off to Jana’s family cottage in the hills, of which I’d heard and idealized since the summer before. The cottage was tucked away in an overgrown forest of sorts, and her parents were there to greet us – her dad without a shirt. Being of the older generation, they spoke very little English as they’d been taught Russian under Soviet rule, so Jana served as my invaluable translator.

Jana’s dad holds a place as one of my absolute favourite characters from a year in Europe. When I ventured into the cottage to use the latrine, I nearly tripped on what I realized to be his gun sitting casually on the stairs! We spent the afternoon sitting around the picnic table under the canteen on the deck, with repeated offers of pivo (beer) and borovicka, a strong spirit resembling gin made from juniper berries. These two words required no translation. We also drank and toasted to his homemade concoction of locally-picked blueberries mixed with sugar and dark rum*, another wonderful treat that remains fondly in my memory. While sitting and watching Jana’s brother and mother compete in a playful game of table tennis, I remember being happy as ever to be travelling and having these unforgettable experiences, subtle as they may be.

I feel an obligation to address the portrayals/myths/expecations of the city as seen in Eurotrip. We visited Igor’s apartment on Saturday afternoon, which was the closest image I got to the unslightly apartment blocks in the movie scene. A nearby group of five residential buildings, known locally as “The Pentagon” because of their collective shape, contribute to that image. I did not see any dogs holding human hands in their mouth, nor did I meet any bearded men who “lowe Americaaa” and “just get Miami Wice on telewision.”

The cheap prices in Slovakia are a bit less exciting than the film, in which the protagonists pessimistically ask what their collective $1.83 can get them, followed by a cut to them basking in a five-star hotel with cigars, spa treatments, and a catered gourmet banquet. They tip the caterer five cents, to which he slaps his boss and quits on the spot, pledging to open a hotel with his new riches. In reality, $1.83 did get me a tasty and greasy sandwich at the popular late-night take-away shack, Richman’s. The country switched from the Slovak Koruna (SKK) to the Euro at the beginning of 2009.

I won’t speak of the movie Hostel, also set in Slovakia and also instilling fictional fear in backpackers, because it’s one of the most irrelevant and awful movies ever produced.

As evening dawned, we walked to the house of Oto, another friend who’d worked at the beach club and whose fauxhawk I’d admired longingly. Igor explained our need to detour around a local gypsy locale, and we were trailed for a good ways by a blacked-out drunk local trying to guide his bike home and slamming into walls on the way. We made it safely to Oto’s and shared jokes over vodka and other formidable spirits, then got a ride home from Jana’s brother, the worst driver in Slovakia. I comically uttered every Slovak obscenity in my arsenal.

In the morning we returned to the cottage, where I was offered pivo and borovicka at 10 am by a shirtless father, and we enjoyed a scrumptious homemade lunch. We then set off for Vajnorské Jazero, or “Bratislava Beach,” as I called it. The lake is next to a freeway in the flatlands outside the city, and is delightfully funky, with old cars and unkempt little spots of sand beach surrounding the warm placid water. We spent a lazy and lovely few hours there, before I was forced to accompany the crew to McDonald’s, where I refused to purchase a thing. We ended the night in a café atop the tall TV tower overlooking the city from a hill, as a warm but torrential rain began to fall. Jana took me to the main train station, I thanked her for being an amazing tour guide and having such memorable parents, and scurried off to catch an overnight train to Kraków – a journey that went terribly astray – but that’s another story.

*As Jana later explained, the spirit was forbidden to be called rum when Slovakia joined the European Union because it does not come from sugar cane, and is now humorously marketed as “Um.”