Slovak Nation

Dearest readers,

Life has been grey recently. And not the New England grey that settles upon the cobble-stoned streets of Boston for a few hours, only to dissipate moments later when the sun splatters golden rays upon you or a nor’easter sweeps by and blankets the town in white; I’m talkin’ that always-wet-yet-it-hasn’t-rained-in-weeks grey that ensnares you like a billowy straight-jacket. And like mist, it settles quietly and without spectacle, until one day you awake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, only to realize you haven’t seen the sun or changed out of your oversized sweat-pants in seventeen days. 

As a result, I’ve been cranky. And a bit disgusting. I haven’t done laundry in a few weeks and bottles of wine have left burgundy half-moon circles on my kitchen counter and desk and the floor next to my bed (judge not lest yee be…). 

So I went to Bratislava this weekend (the Brat, as I have taken to calling it) in order to refuel with Christiana. Or, at the very least, to implode with her, to let the velveteen grip of the November season entirely overtake us as we spend the weekend bitching, whining and wine-ing. 

But then, of course, weekends with Christiana seldom go as planned. 

“We’re going to see Dea’s band,” she explained when I spilled across her doorway. I have seen Dea’s “gastro-folk” band three times by this point. In fact, I have seen all but one of their performances to date. I suppose you could say I’m their biggest international fan.

That sounded fun. A low-key night watching ukelele players coo sweet melodies as I sipped some cheap Slovak beer. What could go wrong?

“Oh,” mentioned Christiana as we escaped the warm confines of her basement dungeon apartment: “she’s opening for an Animation Karaoke battle, if that’s cool.” Having no idea what the shit she was talking about, I agreed, like a fool. A sassy American fool. 

For those of you unaware, Animation Karaoke is an event in which clips of (old Slovak) cartoons are played sans sound, and we, the unsuspecting audience, must act as voices for the voiceless (much like my academic ambitions, eh?). In any event, we arrived at the bar with some time to kill (and by “we,” I mean Christiana, Mike and Don, American Fulbrighters of various ages and animation sensibilities). Sufficiently liquored, the emcee began hailing audience members up on stage in what I would imagine is slurred Slovak (everyone had a beer gripped fiercely in their hands). Then he spoke in English. English! My sensitive ex-pat ears perked up immediately at such a melodic sound, my eyebrows summersaulting on my forehead in animated glee. And before I knew it, I was standing on stage, the spotlight shielding my eyes, hearing the crowd echo in my eardrums. “Hmm,” I reevaluated, “Um, what the fuck just happened?” 

What the fuck indeed, dear reader. There were ten of us on stage: two Americans vs. eight Slovaks. Four people in the audience were equipped with score boards asked to rank our performances on a scale of 1-5 (five being the best, one being the “you-should-be-so-embarrassed-of-yourself”). For the first round, I had no idea what to say. I may have blacked out. My clip involved some sort of claymation penguin in a nurses outfit running frantically around a room as an egg was about to hatch. Yes, I am certain I blacked out. When I came to twenty seconds later (or perhaps it was thirty seconds, or maybe five hours, I cannot be sure), I heard the applause. I had officially received the second-highest score of the group. And then, upon handing the microphone over to the emcee, my stomach dropped. I was sweating profusely, and was doing a less-than-stellar job at hiding my ever-growing pit stains. 

The first roll-in-the-animated-hay was thrilling. When I discovered there was to be a second (and third and fourth) round, however, my hunger for the spotlight had all but dissipated. “My American novelty has gotten me this far,” I thought to myself. “I should push that further.” For the second clip (a black and white cartoon with two cats just, well, sitting there), I started singing the American anthem. Not such a great idea. I was met with silence. A deafening, all encompassing noiselessness enveloped the room. “Holy shit,” I think I thought. I wanted to throw-up. Lots. My solution, then? Start singing louder. Hmm, that doesn’t work either? I know! I’ll start again from the beginning. Maybe they just didn’t understand… “OH SAY CAN YOU SEEEE?!” I may have shed a lone tear as I reached the finale, not quite out of nationalistic pride, rather out of shame, misery and dehydration. I was no longer playfully engaging with Slovak culture: I was on an expedition to the gates of hell. And the audience was not within my hand basket. 

While the grip of embarrassment held me close as I left the stage, a wave of relief washed over me. “Fuck it,” I thought. “At least I’m done.” Would that I could say such was the case. I thought my low score would disqualify me from moving on to the third round. I soon came to discover, however, the judges added your scores from the first and second round together to determine who would move on to third-round glory. I had the second highest in the first round and the second-lowest in the second round (some poor soul had actually managed to get a lower score than me as she merely stood there, microphone gripped in hand, pleading with the judges to let her sit down. I will forever empathize with this young lady’s unanswered plea). And so, unbeknownst to me, I was asked to move on to the third round.

What’s worse: we had an hour long intermission in which to listen to Dea’s band. What had started as a night of hopeful relaxation and ukeleles swiftly turned into one of anxiety and soft whimpering in the bathroom. 

When called up for the final round, two more drinks in, I was told to just “go for it!” by one of my Slovak adversaries, a vigorous (and slightly violent) slap on the back accompanying his words. “OOOH,” I thought to myself, “just go for it!” Drunken Jon took this advice to heart. (Although in hindsight, I’m not really sure what that means. Was I running away from it before? Not striving for “it,” rather some other illusive goal? “Whatever! Just GO FOR IT.”)

So I did. I went for it. And two rounds later, I won. That’s right, I won animation karaoke. In front of a crowd of seventy Slovak artists, I was the champion. I won 50 euros, a handmade wallet by an artist community in Slovakia, and a Japanese comic strip (did I mention this event was put on by artists in support of the annual animation film festival held each summer?). The rest of the night was spent accepting free drinks from various Slovaks who spoke limited English. It was fantastic.

I will never, ever do animation karaoke again. I will, however, indulge in my momentary fame. What better way to meet Slovaks than to butcher the meaning behind their childhood, communist-era animated films in American English? The answer: there is none.