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Chilling out in Slovakia
 It’s
not every day you get to experience first-hand what life was like in the
old Eastern Bloc but in Slovakia you’re only a Stasi guard away
from the Cold War circa 1975.
It wasn’t just the menacing security staff at Poprad Airport which
alerted me, nor even the meticulous examination of my passport on leaving
the country so painstaking that my photograph was prodded loose and I’ve
since had to apply for a new one.
Neither was it the toilet attendant who chased me along the streets of
an ancient village for not leaving a tip.
With no Slovakian money on me, I had shrugged an apology. I was genuinely
sorry, because normally I’m a reasonable tipper and appreciative
of the valuable work toilet attendants do.
But my mumbled remorse did little to mollify the young Slovakian woman.
Reaching for her stout brush handle, she hissed some choice Slovak invective
at me including the word ‘Britissccherrr’ more than once.
I felt that it wasn’t the time to explain that a Co. Down accent
doesn’t necessarily make you British.
All these things certainly indicated that I could be in for an authentically
rigorous Eastern Bloc themed holiday in a country that is now in the EU.
However, it was the sight of an enormous concrete hotel a cross between
a huge gymnasium and a factory which manufactures breeze blocks that gave
the game away.
The hotel was, in fact, surrounded by many bona fide factories set in
a concrete tundra, adjacent to a huge railway marshalling yard. And it
wasn’t even as nice as it sounds.
Now lest you think this was some huge industrial city, I have to tell
you Poprad is a small town surrounded by the spectacular Tatras mountains.
It should have been idyllic and to be fair there are postcard-grade
villages further up into the mountains (or ‘the interior’
as the hotel reception darkly called it.)
But Poprad itself is unremittingly drab. A place without poetry or soul.
The surroundings were to some extent reflected in the people.
The taxi driver from the airport to the hotel was almost comically sullen.
In the pursuit of my personal award Biggest Gobshite of a Taxi Driver
in the World he made extraordinary progress in a very short-time.
The heat was definitely on for the Cockney cabbie who dropped my bags
in a puddle in King’s Cross.
Events did take a turn for the better on reaching the sanctuary of the
monolithic hotel.
Enormous, certainly, but comfortable and well-run, with only the odd vestige
of a traditional Eastern Bloc welcome.
The entirely satisfactory four-star rooms of the AquaCity Hotel offer
a terrific panorama of the Tatras Mountains and nothing beats the combination
of a great view, sumptuous bed and decadent bathroom (I always say, if
it isn’t bigger and better than the one at home, then move.)
The facilities are similarly impressive a selection of spas, thermal
baths, jacuzzis, saunas, swimming pools and water slides are all available
within the hotel complex.
These diversions were most welcome, because I seriously doubted the
wisdom of my mission to the Tatras namely, freezing my body down to
-120 degrees C.
The process is known as cryotherapy developed in East Germany (unsurprisingly)
during the 1970s to treat the stresses and strains of high-performance
athletes. Cryotherapy has since established itself as the latest in health
spa treatments, based on the idea that being reduced to very low temperatures
for short periods can promote physical healing.
The reasoning seems to be that cellular metabolism is suspended which
allows the cells to regenerate internally.
The treatment is available in Co. Wexford for
€40 a session; but to freeze
yourself in Poprad is only €14 a pop.
My fee duly paid, I stripped down and prepared for the ultimate in chilling-out.
Wearing a stylish combination of headband, breathing mask, mittens,
shorts and clogs supplied by the cryotherapy centre, although I expect
you’d be welcome to bring your own I presented myself outside the
chamber.
A definite Logan’s Run atmosphere pervaded the place the futuristic
sauna room was a ringer for the perfect 23rd century world where the one
thing you couldn’t have was your 30th birthday.
Still, my 30th birthday is a dim memory, so I decided to give it a lash.
The process consists of spending 30 seconds at -60 C in a chamber the
size of a lift, then two minutes at a decidedly parky -120 C in a slightly
bigger ante-chamber. For those two minutes, our party was assured, we
would be in the very coldest place on earth (with the exception, presumably,
of the cryotherapy centre in Co. Wexford.)
Being reduced to -120 C for two minutes shouldn’t be taken lightly.
If you hung-about after time-up, consequences would be quite serious.
After four minutes, you would enter a euphoric, trance-like state, closely
followed by death.
Two minutes, on the other hand, would be grand, we were assured.
Before entering Brass Monkey Land we were given a (compulsory) medical
test by a qualified GP.
Somewhat unfortunately he looked for all the world like Dr Hackenbush
in A Day At The Races.
In fact the cryotherapy centre had now taken on the air of Groucho Marx’s
sanatorium, rather than Loganworld.
My heart sank as Dr Quackenfish pronounced me healthy enough to continue.
My anxiety levels mounted as the temperature readings on the doc’s
computer reached maximum warp factor.
As the dials touched -121 C, a lever was pulled and three of us entered
the -60 preparatory chamber.
To be honest, it wasn’t much worse than being caught out on a winter’s
day in Derry with a brisk northerly whipping in off the Atlantic.
But soon we were being herded into the -120 degrees chamber.
Now that was cold.
A cold brutal enough to give you an instant ice-cream headache.
We were told that if at any point we wanted to leave all we had to do
was wave our arms and the door would open.
But danger and delight, they say, grow on one stalk, so I toughed it out
in the name of journalistic rigour.
After two minutes an agonisingly long time the chamber door opened and
the sanctuary of a balmy gymnasium beckoned.
We were meant to be invigorated and for 20 minutes went through a gruelling
schedule of cycle machines, running belts and rowing machines.
The full Slovakian, in fact.
By the end of my course I had sampled most of what Poprad and surrounding
area had to offer.
For spa, aqua and health treatments you could scarcely do better at the
price and you need never leave the hotel complex.
My taxi for the airport was waiting for me as I had one last look at the
glorious Tatras.
I hoped it would be the same chap that brought me in I was interested
to see if he was serious about taking the coveted title.
Regrettably it was a perfectly polite chap who dispatched me to the airport
with maximum flourish and minimum fuss.
He even told me to be sure to come back.
But do you know I’m not certain if I will.
▫ AquaCity Resort for booking call 00 44 1582 748840 www.aquacityresort.com
Rooms in the four-star hotel begin at ?180 for a double room. Price includes
breakfast, dinner and all aqua facilities including cryotherapy.
▫ Sky Europe has direct flights from Stansted to Poprad. |
