is now a museum of local history going back to Celtic times.rnThe museum guides were very kind, but when they discoveredrnthe limits of my Slovakian, they left me to wander, until an olderrnman tricked me into revealing that I understood his German,rnI am glad he did, because as he took me through the rooms devotedrnto Austro-Hungarian Pressburg, he gave me an insight intornthe Slovak national experience.rnI had read, of course, of the Hungarian attempt to suppressrnthe Slovak identity by a program of forced Magyarization morernsevere than that inflicted upon Croatia, but as he showed mernthe relics of the few scholars and writers who kept the flamernalive (the only one known at all in the West is L’udovit Stur), Irnrealized how different the Czech and Slovak experiences hadrnbeen. The Austrians were never the freedom-loving federalistsrnthat their modern apologists have described—their militaryrnand police forces apparently learned a thing or two about torturernand oppression from the Turks—but they were also comparativelyrnindifferent to the survival of the “barbarian” culturesrnwithin their realm, preferring to rely more on the attractivernproperties of their superior civilization. The Hungarians, in originrneven less Western than the Slavs, had to try harder, and theyrnoutlawed the teaching of the Slovakian language and made arnvery earnest attempt to convert the Slovaks into Hungarians.rnThe proper name for this is cultural genocide.rnThe golden )’ears of Bratislava had been the period when Budapestrnwas in Turkish hands, and Pressburg served as a Hapsburgrncapital and coronation. Protestants were tolerated, andrnthe suppressed Slovaks were allowed to drift along in theirrnSlavic rustication. With the resurgence of Hungary, the Slovaksrnbecame the target of Hungarian expansion. My guidernpointed out the telling difference. Before the Magyarizationrnprogram was really enforced, Slovak students and intellectualsrnhad gravitated to Budapest or Bratislava; afterwards, theyrnsought refuge in Vienna, which paradoxically became home tornSlovak nationalism.rnCut off from civilized Europe for centuries, the Slovaks whorndid not assimilate to Austrian or Hungarian models fell back onrnfolk traditions that are in many respects superior to the KmartrnThe only serious hitch was that they could not authorizernpayment of my bill at the Slovan (which now includedrnthis verv expensive telephone call). Fortunateh,rnan American professor at Presov University was kindrnenough to pay my bill with his Diner’s Club card (Louis,rnI hope my check cleared!), and we set off on Friday forrnBratislava. When we arrived, the manager of Hotel 16rnassured me that Tatratour was closed until Tuesday andrntelephoned the office to confirm that no one was there.rnCalling American Express again and listening to 20 minutes’rnworth of “Thank you for being patient,” I reachedrna sympathetic clerk who promised to have a card deliveredrnwithin 24 hours. Just to make sure, I gave her thernhotel’s telephone and fax numbers, and she promised torncall if there were any hitch.rnI spent the next day, worriedly returning to my hotelrnevery hour or so, to see if the card had arrived. After 26rnhours, I called again and this time 1 got a most uns} mpatheticrnJennifer, who told me there was no way theyrnwould send a courier, and if they did, DHL could notrndeliver until Wednesday. In that case, I can just wait forrnTatratour to open on Tuesday. “If that’s wliat you want,”rnshe sniffed. “What I want is my card,” I told her. “Well,rnwhat do you expect us to do about it?” she asked. I toldrnher that thev could begin by not lying or breakingrnpromises. “We oiilv have your word for that,” she scoldedrnme. “That’s right,” I explained. “I had myself robbedrnin what is still a police state just because I am arnmasochist and a sadist who wants to see what the militaryrnpolice will do to me and my 17-year-old daughterrnwhen we cannot pay our bill.”rnBefore getting off the phone, I extracted a promisernthat she would fax me a copy of the instructions tornTatratour and would also have someone in authority callrnme. Neither happened, of course, but I was happy tornpick up the card on Tuesday, even though it proved to bernimpossible to get out of Bratislava until Wednesday. Myrnhappiness suffered a setback that night, when I tried tornpav my hotel bill—which included $200 of telephonerncalls—and the manager was informed that my new cardrnwas a stolen card. Fortunately, we reached an AmericanrnExpress clerk in Prague—the one decent person fromrnthe company I have so far dealt with—who authorizedrnthe charge after asking the usual name, rank, and serialrnnumber questions. She also warned me that I wouldrnhave to do the same thing to pay my hotel bill in Munich.rnI explained all this to the kindly German hotel managerrnin Munich, who was really quite sorry when thernmessage came to confiscate my stolen card. Ordinarily,rnhe would have to call the police, but he believed my story,rnespecially when I used some of my last real mone’rn(which 1 had been hoarding) to pay the bill. He evenrnfound a cabdriver to take us at a cut rate to the airport—rnfor the honor of Munich, the cabby explained.rnAmerican Express had not, however, exhausted its capacityrnfor mischief. Arriving safely home, I tried torncheck my c-niail only to discover that m’ CompuServernaccount was blocked because the American Express accountrnthrough which I paid for the service was no longerrnvalid. I sent a blistering letter to a v.p. in charge of smallrnbusiness accounts, and after tvo weeks I heard nothing.rnFinally, I tried calling the usual number, and this timernthe clerk promised delivery of both cards by April 23.rnLate on the 23 rd, one Linda called to warn me that therncard would not arrive until the 24th—by 11:00 A.M., andrnit is now 11:25 and still no card.rnI have one piece of advice for travelers. Unless you’rernJerry Seinfeld, don’t count on American Express. If yourncan’t leave home without it, then you had better notrnlea’e home at all.rn—Thomas FlemingrnJULY 1997/13rnrnrn