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The train pulls into Bratislava at almost exactly two o’clock in the morning. The station’s quite impressive, an odd mixture of old Eastern bloc and modern glass. My first thoughts on leaving the building are that I’m actually pretty disappointed. It looks just like any other town or city: bus stops, zebra crossings and what looks to be a shopping centre on the other side of the road, almost completely made from glass. I don’t recognise any of the brands, but I presume one of them to be a gym. Tatra Banka, presumably, is a bank. Other than that I haven’t a clue.
I turn left and walk a little further down the road, crossing over onto the shopping centre side of the road. At the end of the building is a familiar sign that leaves me chuckling: Tesco Express. My light chuckle becomes a ch
