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I will confess at once: I did not like Czech beer. Don't
misunderstand me-I have nothing against the Czech water or hops used
and nothing against Czech brew meisters and their illustrious
tradition and of course no bone of contention to pick with the
millions of Czechs and other beer connoisseurs around the world who
even with eyes closed could distinguish among the multiple varieties.
I am an equal-opportunity non beer lover. Mexican, Indian, Belgian or
American beers also leave me cold. Whether produced by the
multi-nationals or by tiny micro-breweries, whether laden with
chemicals or consisting only of non-GMO ingredients, I am not a fan
of any earthly beer, and if beer were produced on Mars I would
probably not drink it, even if it had its planet's luminous red
glow.
It wasn't always like this. As a child in Israel, at family
gatherings I imbibed "Black Beer" (Malt). I liked the taste as
well as the chance to partake of an adult ritual. The Bottle's cool
shape and the finely etched image of a soaring eagle (the brand's
name) on its label added to the enchantment. As family celebrations
became less frequent, my love affair with the drink dissipated.
When visiting the Czech Republic I decided, as is my custom in new
lands, to sample local foods and drinks including the country's
internationally known beers. For the next 8 days, in restaurants and
hosts' homes, I delighted in new found delicacies, such as plum
Palacinky, a tasty concoction that a vegetarian like me could enjoy,
and tasted some of the local spirits, with Rulandske, Burcak, and
Silvovice fast becoming favorites. From beer however I kept a safe
distance.
It was not easy to avoid beer. As soon as we sat down, our gracious
hosts would invariably ask what kind of beer we desired, and declining
their invitation was a breach of etiquette threatening a diplomatic
row. Explaining that I harbored the outmost respect towards their
countryâ?Ts pride and joy, a result of my childhood immersion in the
tales of the Good Soldier Svejk who when not fooling a beauraucrat,
chaplain, or army officer, was downing a few of his favorite dark
black beers at "The Chalice," kept me from being banished before
the steaming dumplings with their glorious homemade plum jam were
served. Along with the food I was treated to a long lecture on the
history of Czech beer, with King Wenceslas revoking a Papal law
against brewing, the archeologist Bedrich Hrozny and his deciphering
of Mesopotamian tablets referring to beer, and the role pubs played
during the communist era, among the highlights of the long treatise.
The day before departure, we made a pilgrimage to the Sedlec
Ossuary. Three decades earlier, I saw Jan Svankmajer's film about
this church and made a teenager's vow to visit it.
From a sunny day we walked into the damp and chilly air of a crypt
and were startled to see the large chandelier. At first it looked
festive, with its swags of vertebra and spot patterns of tibias and
fibbias. As we descended, the full impact of thousands of bones
(containing every bone in the human body, as the nearby sign
announced) confronted us. Next to it, many bones and skulls stacked in
pyramids stared at us. A marker indicated that the chapel and its
nearby graveyard became a pilgrimage site in the 13th century after
earth from Christ's Jerusalem Crucifixion site was brought here. I
grew up in the "Holy land" and have been to the Church of the Holy
Seplucare many times so I remembered those visits.
On one of the walls I saw a skull with an arrow imbedded in its
eye. The marker revealed that the unfortunate soul was a Turkish
soldier who lost his life in a 16th century battle near the village of
Raab. My ancestors walked from that village to Jerusalem 300 years ago
and we are named for that village and river.
I suddenly felt weak. The recent deaths of two young friends, my
parents' advanced years, a major operation scheduled upon my return
home and the Holy land/Raab/ossuary connection were too much. I walked
into the nearby cemetery and sat down beneath a tree. I meditated upon
the briefness of our earthly journey. We strive, toil ceaselessly,
know disappointments and pain (and if lucky also love and joy,) take
things to heart, get upset and obsessed, lose sight of the big
picture- but at the end we all end up in the same place. I remembered
the Biblical saying- "For dust you are, and to dust you will return,
" and some people also end up as part of a chandelier in a Czech
church. We are remembered by some loved ones, but too often our death
is marked by its anonymity. Will I be remembered? Will I remember to
live every moment to its fullest, as if it was my last? I wanted to
promise that to myself.
When we left the grounds and headed towards the town of Kutna Hora
we passed a pub. "Now I'm ready for a cold beer" I announced,
surprising Rachel. We entered a wood paneled establishment adorned
with beer emblems. I scrambled through my pocket dictionary. "Pivo,
prosim" ("a beer, please") I ordered, hoping that I did not
mispronounce the words and accidentally insult the bartender's
mother. He smiled and indicated a wall tablet listing dozens of
varieties. I pointed to a name next to a dark frothy image. He turned
to a spigot and filled a large stein. The foam rose. "Na Zdravi!"
("Cheers, to your health") he said. It was good. Very good.
Excellent. Superb. I slowly drank it, savoring its taste. I ordered
one more, this time the words rolled from my lips. It was good to be
alive, with the nourishing Czech beer coursing through my bones, my
very alive bones.
Alon K Raab, Oregon, USA
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