finding prague

Finding Prague

“I hate the Russian Beer!” one of our tablemates slurred in a heavy Czech accent.
“Yes. Russian beer. No good. Russian vodka better.” I agreed.
“NO! Not beer. BEER!” he countered.
“Yes! More Beer” I agreed again.
“NO! Beer. Grrrr. Big Russian beer!” Our irate new friend stood up and reached his arms over his head, growling and stamping and violently swiping at the air with his claw-like hands. “Grrrr. Beer!”
“Oh! The Russian BEAR! You hate the Russian bear! Yes, we too hate the Russian bear.” I nodded, finally comprehending what he was trying to tell me.
“Na zdravi!” the table erupted into a cheer and we toasted the downfall of the big Russian bear with another pitcher of beer. Delicious Czech Budvar beer.

My travel companion and I had arrived in Prague earlier that day, a few years late to the post-velvet revolution party. Instead of discovering a charming old world city, we found an Old Town Square full of American, British, and Australian ex-pats and a Starbucks on every corner. Disappointed and chagrined, we fled the city center in favor of a working class neighborhood where we could still find cheap beer, rustic goulash, and affordable lodging. We found a small local hospoda (pub) just blocks from our lodge. It was warm and cozy with paneled walls, stone flooring and long family-style tables spanning the length of the bar.

We were joined at our table by four young men, all wearing black jeans, black leather boots, and tight t-shirts. Using a combination of broken English (them), terrible German (us and them), a Czech language dictionary, and the international language of pantomime, we tried to communicate over our beers. I asked them what they did, half convinced that they were neo-Nazis or thugs. One of the men drew his finger slowly across his throat, stuck out his tongue, and dropped his head to the side, miming death. Murderers! I knew it! Thugs and Nazis. The rest of the men laughed and one of the better English speakers gestured for my English/Czech dictionary. He found the word “reznik” and showed me the translation. Butcher. Not Nazis, butchers. They worked at a slaughterhouse.

We passed rest of the evening with the Czech butchers, disparaging both Russian beer and the big Russian bear and arm wrestling over the tab. Point of interest, never arm wrestle a butcher. They are crazy strong. My friend and I stumbled back to our nearby hotel, drunk and laughing, and we didn’t pass a single Starbucks along the way.