Dunajská Streda, a Parallel Reality

🖋️ Sdkfz251 · 📅 November 15, 2025 · 🏷️ Austro-hungarian tales, Experience / Story, Western Slovakia

If you’re expecting a classic travel guide, Dunajská Streda might surprise you. After exploring the city’s darker layers in the previous chapter, this piece follows a simple, everyday walk — a quiet Saturday outing with my son. Small observations and personal moments reveal a calmer, more livable town. In the next chapter, I’ll look at what the city chooses to show — and hide — from its own past.

It began as a simple Saturday trip: a father, a son, and Dunaszerdahely. Sights to see, stories to uncover, museum curiosities, a bit of history — and a few child’s questions that somehow manage to shake all of Central Europe. By the end, one thing became clear: the past is often complicated, but shared adventures are always simple.

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Dunajská Streda, a Parallel Reality

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Secrets of Western Slovakia

2025-11-15

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How shared adventures begin

During the summer, on long drives, I often listened to podcasts about Dunaszerdahely.
The city’s stories — half-lit legends, the lingering shadows of the 1990s, and the older historical layers of the Csallóköz region — slowly merged in my mind into a very particular Central European image. I assumed this atmosphere would fade as summer passed. But a few days ago, on our way home, my son suddenly said:

“Dad, it’s been so long since we went to a museum… shouldn’t we go sometime?”

And just like that, everything stirred again. Why not go, then. Let Dunaszerdahely be the destination. He looks for statues and the quiet glow of museum display cases; I search for the subtle vibrations of the past — and somewhere halfway, we meet.
That’s how shared adventures usually begin.

Coat of arms of Dunaszerdahely (Dunajská Streda)

On the road to the city: children’s questions, adult answers

Saturday arrived, and so did our departure. We had barely settled into the car when the first question came:
“Dad, what kind of people live there? Are they nice?”
“Mostly Hungarians live there — and yes, I’m sure they’re nice.”

“But why do Hungarians live in Slovakia?”
“Well,” I began, “a long time ago we lived together in the Kingdom of Hungary. Then new borders were drawn, new countries appeared. Some made fewer mistakes, some more, and people ended up in different states without ever moving away.”

The child thought about this for a moment, then asked:
“So… are Slovaks bad people?”
“No, not at all. The past was complicated, but people today are kind. And they cook really good food.”
“I don’t like Slovakia anyway,” he said at last — then smiled.
“I love it. They cook such delicious things.”

Street scene

First impressions of the city

We arrived in Dunaszerdahely — and our plan immediately fell apart. We hadn’t checked in advance that the museum closes for lunch. So we improvised and headed instead toward the MOL Stadium.

In the training park next to the stadium, every weight had to be lifted. My son was so enthusiastic it felt like we had arrived for some kind of physical assessment. In the foggy late-autumn air, every movement seemed to echo.

The city revealed a quiet, well-kept face. You could sense that it had experienced a period of prosperity in the 1990s — the façades still carry that subdued confidence today.

On the main square, my son suddenly exclaimed:
“Dad, look! A plaque!”
We stepped closer: it was a memorial plaque to Imre Makovecz, one of Hungary’s most influential architects.
Despite the fog, the light caught its surface — as if the city itself wanted to tell a story.

The stadium

The secrets of Fontána

Walking past the Kék-Duna Department Store, we eventually ended up in front of the Fontána restaurant. It only opens in the afternoon, so we couldn’t go inside — but we did take a selfie.

“Dad, why are we taking a photo of this? What is it famous for?”

For a moment, everything I had written about local legends ran through my mind.
“Well, you see, my son… when Dad was a child, this place was one of the centers of the Hungarian mafia in Slovakia.”
“What’s the mafia?”
“A group of grown-ups who agree with each other to do bad things together.”
“Like when we agree on something at school?”
“Well… sort of, only you usually get into harmless mischief.”
“If we agree, then yes!”

“But don’t worry,” I added. “The bad guys were arrested a long time ago.”
The child nodded, reassured.
And the city quietly continued to guard its past.

The Fontána restaurant

Lunch: the grey cattle moment

We quickly covered the city’s main sights, so it was time for lunch. That’s when the day’s small disappointment arrived: the restaurant didn’t have bryndzové halušky (the famous Slovak potato dumplings) that day. My son’s face darkened for a moment — then suddenly lit up.

“Then I’ll have this!” he said, pointing at the grey Hungarian cattle stew.

I ordered duck leg with braised red cabbage. In the end, we both leaned back, satisfied.
“Dad, this was even better than halušky!” he declared.
The disappointment vanished, leaving only the pleasure of lunch.

Grey Hungarian cattle stew with rosehip

The museum’s quiet wonder

After lunch, we headed to the museum. Luckily, we had some euros with us — payment was cash only.
As soon as we entered, my son started taking photos: every object meant another click, another “Dad, look at this!”

The museum staff were exceptionally kind, almost every single item came with its own story, patiently told just for us.
Although the building is still waiting for renovation and much of the collection remains in storage, the experience felt special nonetheless.

To this day, I can still hear the sound of a late-19th-century music box they started especially for us.
The Hunyadi March began to play, and my son looked around as if we had just stepped through a time portal.

The Csallóközi Museum

In the end, everyone gets tired… or at least one of us

After the exhibition, we headed back toward the car. My son still wanted to return to the sports field.
“Dad, I’m not tired yet!”

But I had already seen the signs — the voice, the steps, the look.
“We’re not going back now,” I said. The attempt at tantrum-based negotiation was short-lived.

By the time I pulled out of the parking lot, he was already fast asleep. He snored like someone who had fought an all-day battle in Dunaszerdahely.

Another shared adventure had found its way into my son’s memories, while on the old map of the former Austro-Hungarian world we quietly drew another small pencil line — discovering a fragment of a world that no longer exists, yet somehow still invites further journeys.

Perhaps this is what remains of an empire: not borders or flags, but the shared days a father and his son carry forward across the quiet map of Central Europe.