As I walked down Karlov Street in Prague, I reflected on my mission. I had been charged by several people to find authenticity. My mother wanted a handmade marionette, one that she could pass on to future generations, all of whom hail from Czechoslovakian origins. My sister wanted “real” absinthe, the kind with wormwood, not the cheap, watered-down substitute. But I wanted to find something not many people have seen in America: fine Czech wine.
I began my search down bustling boulevards and then moved to side streets and back allies. Despite my distance from the country’s famous landmarks, I felt surrounded by touristy abominations: shops with “Czech Drinking Team” T-shirts, cheap plastic Pinocchio puppets, glitzy Bohemian crystal and expensive neon green absinthe alongside vodka infused with cannabis. Frustrated, I passed store after store with bright lights and blaring American music. Yelling to be heard instead of the Jonas Brothers, shopkeepers singled out tourists and begged them to enter their shops, swearing that they had authentic wares or food. I felt like Anthony Bourdain. Where could I find handicrafts made by eastern European peasants? Where was the absinthe that made Coleridge and Van Gogh see the infinite? Where was the real Prague?
But the more I wandered, perused shop after shop and heard the invitations of countless proprietors, I realized that I was in the real Prague. After nearly a century of Nazi and communist oppression, the Czech Republic, as well as other eastern European countries, is relishing in a free capitalist system and wants the Western dollars that it was denied in the past. The real Prague is wrapped in a capitalist veneer.
Throughout history, Czechs have lived between two worlds: one of creative authenticity and one of imposed political and economic strife. Dominated by the Hapsburgs, the Nazis and the Soviets, Czech people learned to engage in the world of the mind, only sporadically letting personal opinions surface in anonymous graffiti, underground literature or quickly quashed political protest. It’s possible that the Czechs love marionettes and other sorts of automatons because they allow them to direct and control, two things that they have been denied historically even in their own lives.
In the novel “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”, author Milan Kundera captures the Czech mind perfectly and its intertwining worlds of oppression and meaning. He explains how humans lack the ability to repeat history and correct blunders or even to relive horrors, which, in turn, creates a lightness of existence, a carefree attitude to the randomness and uncertainty of the world. Kundera argues that meaning stems from oppression and difficulty. “The heavier our burden,” he writes, “the closer our lives come to the earth, the more real and truthful they become.” In other words, there is meaning to be found in the suffering and plight of the Czech people, a type of drama that we all seek for to make our lives significant.
While in Prague, I felt the unbearable lightness of being in a city that could not adequately decide how to define itself without oppression. In a quote that could easily describe walking through Prague, Kundera writes, “The absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into the heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real.” On the one hand, Prague is proud of its history and culture. No one disputes that Czechs can forge great crystal, handcraft interesting marionettes and make adventurous spirits like absinthe. On the other hand, several stores entice Westerners — especially Americans — by blaring Western music and offering shoddy versions of cultural artifacts as affordable souvenirs.
This is the real Prague, but not the only Prague. Behind the capitalist veneer lies the good stuff.
I managed to find hand-carved puppets and real absinthe with wormwood. By the way, I must inform that, despite its reputation, absinthe lacks any hallucinogenic properties. Sorry, folks. Still, the mixture of 70 percent alcohol and herbs, which include many natural stimulants, has a significant effect.
But where absinthe was plentiful, wine was hard to locate. The Czech Republic is not known for its wine and rightfully so. Some regions of the world have great difficulty producing quality wine. Not only does the Czech Republic lack the technology and knowledge for winemaking — because the Soviets demanded that vineyards were uprooted to make way for grain fields — the region’s climate lacks the requisite weather to adequately ripen grapes. Czech wines, both white and red, are extremely high in acidity. Adding sugar, through a process called chaptalization, is not just common — it’s a way of life.
Tasting after tasting, I was given indigenous grapes or hybrids that just didn’t cut it. Red wines made from Modry Portugal, Andre, Dornfelder and Cabernet Moravia had a light body and no flavor or aroma. It was like drinking watered down cough syrup.
A few of the white grapes, however, showed some potential. Rulandske Bile (Pinot Blanc), Irsay Oliver (Muscat) and Muller Thurgau make dry, highly acidic wines in the style of Alsace, France.
In place of fine wine, the Czech Republic offers extraordinary beer. Pilsner Urquell and Eggenberg are the real deal. If you visit Prague, be sure to order up a huge frosted glass of local beer and enjoy it with sausage and horseradish or the national speciality: beef goulash with potato dumplings.
Prague has been the up-and-coming city of Europe since the 13th century. Anticipating its position in the Holy Roman Empire, King Charles constructed an impressive bridge over the Vltava River and a grand cathedral in honor of St. Vitus. Yet, Prague has never become the next Paris or London. At the hands of both royal and ideological oppressors, Czechs only realized such greatness in fictional worlds of the mind. Now that it can control its own destiny, the Czech Republic must ironically embrace its culture of past oppression and subtlety. Those burdens made Czech culture interesting. Even today, true authenticity in the Czech Republic hides behind a thick forest of capitalism.
Jeff’s column runs biweekly Wednesdays. He can be reached at j.katra@cavalierdaily.com.
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