Behind the name

Day 65 of the project, 
somewhere between Bratislava and Budapest

In the United States, Gbur is not a typical last name. Its unusual combination of consonants and lack of vowels trouble the tongues of most English speakers. There is usually the inevitable pause while someone decides how to vocalize those four letters. I am used to it...after all, I have had thirty years of corrections, spelling examples and references to Zsa Zsa and Ava.

But what is in a name? Language? Ethnicity? Geography? Social class? It can be some, all or none of these. Above all, a family name conveys a history. An artifact of those who came before you and the foundations of those who will come after you. Some people are well versed in the background of their names--ties back to castles, crests and pride. Other histories have been buried in the shadows of war, poverty and xenophobia.

In my case, the Slovakian Gbur is more of the latter. My great-grandparents arrived in the United States in the early part of the 20th century. My great-grandfather and his brother were army deserters fleeing the atrocities of war. They could only pay for their wives' passages, so they stowed away on the boats bound for America. When they arrived, Bubo and Zeda followed their fellow Slovaks to eastern Ohio. They were poor, working class people who felt it was better to let their story slide into the shadows of the past.

My grandparents spoke perfect Slovak and had a love for native pastries from the neighborhood bakeries. While the passion for sweets seems to be a genetic inevitability, my grandparents did not pass along their language. My father speaks only a few words. I speak none. Not that I didn't hear it. It was my grandmother's choice language when she chastised my grandfather. My artifacts from the past are immigration papers from Ellis Island and my name. Certainly not enough to search for distant relatives. But I wanted to see the place my family once called home.

Perhaps it was the lack of information that left me with no expectations of Bratislava. Most tourists skip this part of the Central/Eastern European tour, which contributes to its relative mystery.

What I found was a modest but delightfully quirky city with kind and dry-humored people. Bratislava is relatively small for a capital city--only 500,000 residents. When it was under Communist Czechoslovakia, the Soviets decided one city (Prague) should retain its architectural heritage. The other city should embody the modern socialist era (Bratislava). The majority of Old Town was razed and rebuilt in concrete squares. A city that hosted Hungarian coronations for hundreds of years was cosmetically remade in a few decades. To add insult to injury, the Slovaks are occasionally slighted in historical accuracy. For example, the Velvet Revolution is often credited as starting in Prague, but in fact protests began a few days before in Bratislava.

Despite this perceived inferiority, Slovaks have a fantastic sense of humor. If your tourist-drawing historical architecture has been demolished, why not commission a few tongue-in-cheek statues that garner a good laugh? Or invite your citizens to vote on a new bridge name, with the Chuck Norris Bridge emerging as the clear winner (80% of the vote)? Self-deprecation is a great salve sometimes. Its too bad the Austrians did not share the joke...it would have been great to invite the Texas Ranger for the bridge's opening celebrations.

Not that there isn't pride. The Slovaks are members of the EU and despite their lower income, are not contributing to the financial strife like larger and more famous countries. Bratislava is clean and safe, and the infrastructure is solid. History--recent and ancient--can easily be found. The food is amazing....I could become a very fat woman living in this city. The beers are on par with their sibling Czech Republic and the wines hold their own with the Austrian counterparts. And I am told the High Tatras are the mountains of National Geographic photography dreams.

I left Bratislava with no more specific details about the my family's past than when I arrived. Instead, I carried a healthy respect for a beautiful and proud small nation. An understanding of a long and storied history. Not to mention a belly stuffed full of poppyseed and nut pastries. Oh, and perhaps the only memory of not having to correct the pronunciation of my name.