Czech Republic: Chasing the Soviet Sunset (cont.)

Staré Mêsto is designed like a bicycle wheel, with streets stretching out like spokes in every direction. At the center is Staromêstké nám, the old town square. Here the architecturally incongruous Tyn and St. Nicolas churches compete for attention with the astronomical clock (built in 1410), which dazzles tourists with ringing bells and dancing effigies on the hour. To the west runs Karlova, a crowded, winding avenue flanked by cafés and pubs that leads to the river.

The Vltava is a dark old mistress; her wide black waters run peacefully at times along the city walls before spilling suddenly over several locks and dams. The river separates the Nové Mêsto and Staré Mêsto on the eastern bank from the Malá Strana (Little Quarter) on the west, where glorious Prague Castle rests high on the hillside, looking down with benevolence on her city below. Linking the two banks is a series of granite bridges built at various times during the city’s history.

There is none more famous – perhaps in the world – than the Karluv most, or Charles Bridge, a wide, elegantly bowed walkway that connects the heart of the Staré Mêsto directly to the castle district on the far bank. At its eastern edge shutterbugs congregate to capture a breathtaking view of the castle rising above the sea of red tile roofs of the Little Quarter. But it is the bridge that is the main attraction, and this morning it buzzes with life. The bouncing melody of a polka band is heard among the shouts of travelers and tour guides. Vendors set up shop selling paintings, souvenirs, and trinkets under the watchful eyes of some 30 saintly statues that grace the bridge’s columns.

On the western bank the Malá Strana is just as crowded. Cafes and shops open their doors to the throngs of sight-seekers that wind their way – huffing – up the hundreds of stairs leading to Prague Castle. But the ascent is well worth it. From its lofty perch the castle offers a view that stretches for miles, across the city over the river and well beyond. The fortification itself boasts of little more than room after stuffy room, with a high-ticket price to boot. The real gem is outside in the gardens that lie in shade along the castle walls. I saunter through meticulously crafted flower gardens, the trickling of water guiding me between granite statues of Prague’s most famous citizens. On the other side of the hill I walk down yet more stairs, where peddlers continue to bombard breathless tourists with more souvenirs.

Back in the winding streets of the Malá Strana, I’m bombarded with the luscious aroma of the midday meal. Prague boasts thousands of tiny eateries and pubs, many of which are housed in the cavernous cellars beneath the city, with nothing but a small sign advertising a local beer to attract diners. Regional fare is hearty – rich, flavorful goulashes and stews made to stick to the ribs during harsh Bohemian winters. Local specialties include roasted pork, bread dumplings, fried cheese, and any number of sausages. I’m drawn down a side alley by the inebriating smell of roasting meat, and duck into a small café. Prague, despite all its splendor, is a godsend for the budget traveler. Although the city caters heavily to the tourist industry, great deals for food, shopping, and most importantly drink, can be found just off the tourist trail (a mouthwatering 500cl of frothy Pilsner can cost as little as $0.75 American). The portions are generous, the proprietor happy and helpful, I gorge myself on a scrumptious dish of roast beef in a sour cream and cranberry sauce, a local favorite. And to wash it all down, no meal would be complete without drowning the senses in that most essential of Czech arts: beer.

If Germany is the Louvre of the Beer World, then the Czech Republic is the artist’s studio. It is here in the late 19th century that Pilsner, the world’s most famous and highly consumed brew, was born. But in order to learn more about this sparkling achievement of Czech culture, I have to head southwest to Prague’s sister city, Plzen.

More Candyland than Kremlin, Prague is a gorgeous portrait of the lavish Empire that once covered modern-day Czech Republic, but I still find myself craving a more visceral view of the Eastern Europe of my imagination. So the next morning I find myself again rumbling through the Bohemian countryside. To the left and right a grey fog hangs low over dark green fields that stretch to the horizon. This is the mother lode. This is where the absolute finest variety of hops in the world, the Noble Saaz, can be found. Tons of these precious little buds are exported to breweries around the world every year in an attempt to recreate the signature taste of the Czech Pilsner.

Beer retains a very simple recipe: a combination of pure spring water, carefully malted barely or wheat, yeast, and the spice of the beer, the hops. For hundreds, if not thousands of years, the system of brewing changed very little--that is until a warm spring day in 1838, when the 260 independent brewers of Plzen gathered in front of the town hall to witness 36 hectoliters of their ‘poor-quality’ beer being poured into the street. The town’s brewmasters decided then and there to work together with the purpose of creating the world’s single finest beer. By employing a young innovative brewer from nearby Germany, the Pilsners began crafting a totally new kind of brew, utilizing a secret strain of Bavarian yeast, their local Noble Saaz hops, and a revolutionary fermentation technique. The result was a beer amber in color and crisp in taste – a far departure from the heavy, dark German ales that were the standard. They dubbed the lager Plzensky Prazdroj (Pilsner Urquell in German), which translates as ‘original source’ or ‘fountainhead’. A sensation was born, which would be studiously copied for generations; and the town of Plzen was on the map.

As the train lumbers into the platform, I realize I’m in a world far different from the storybook castles of Prague. Immediately those static images of communist Europe come flooding back in. If Prague is a time capsule of the lost days of Empire, than Plzen is a living artifact from the days of the Bloc. I leave my pack in a storage locker that resembles a piece of Sputnik and venture out into the city.

The words industrial, stark, mechanized, gritty come to mind. The handprint of the Soviets lingers strongly here. Dirty asphalt streets run at right angles along barbed wire fencing, dilapidated factories, and smoke-stained block housing. Transition is slow in Plzen compared to the high-octane financial center of Berlin or the tourist dollars of postcard-ready Prague. This is the mechanical heartland of Czechia, where the bread is buttered and the industry is churned out. An independent country for a mere 13 years, the Czech Republic has had an uphill battle returning to free market capitalism. Finally inducted into the European Union in 2004, the country still has strict financial limitations imposed on it, including the continued use of its own highly inflated currency and controlled resident-work programs. And yet the gears of progress are turning – no matter how slowly – and nowhere else is this more apparent as in Plzen.

A few minutes walk from the station stands an intimidating modern complex surrounded by 12-foot brick walls and crowned by a sparkling bronze gate. This is the Pilsner Urquell brewery, the heart and soul of Plzen and a shining symbol of Czech ingenuity. Inside these walls lies a Willy-Wonka-esque world for the beer connoisseur. This is the house that beer built – a stunning complex of fin-de-siècle brick buildings, meticulously clean cobblestone walkways, and a technologically-advanced brewing facility. I join a tour group led by a mouse-like lady of eighty-six years, who speaks with a heavy German accent and harbors a taste for the finest brew in the world. “It is my medicine,” she assures us, holding a sparkling glass to the light and then downing it with an expert gulp. I begin to believe this Pilsner does hold medicinal properties as I try to keep up with the sprite octogenarian as she bounds down the underground tunnels cut deep in the sandstone. For centuries the local brews were stored in these chilly caverns; and the brewery still retains a small amount of traditionally crafted Pilsner down here, stored in half-ton oak barrels. We sample the golden liquid and watch our breath form in little white clouds. The taste of the original source is clean and sharp – it’s easy to understand why the people of Plzen are so proud of their most famous son.

Back up in the warm summer daylight I thank our tour guide and head back out through the gates into the bleak city streets. Another few block west sits the small but historic old town, centered by the gothic church of St. Bartholomew and the wide nám Republicky, the largest square in Bohemia. Here, hundreds of people congregate in the sunny outdoor biergarten. The scene is a cheerier version of the days of the Velvet Revolution, when thousands of Czech citizens flocked to this square in protest of the crumbling Communist regime. It’s at this moment that I realize I’ve finally reached the heart of the Eastern psyche – where the bitter aftertaste of the Soviet juggernaut is cleansed by the sweet flavor of a new beginning. I sit down to a cool liter under the hot eastern sun as the iron bells of St. Barts chime twelve times and the ghosts of a bygone era mingle with the revelers of today.

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