Easter is a man’s holiday. Countless generations of American men have missed out on the greatest holiday tradition on post-crucifixion Earth. I celebrated this past season for every man back at home still hiding plastic eggs in tailpipes and storm drains.
We left for the city of Most in an economy-sized Czech-mobile. The landscape outside of the city is defined by a series of volcanic bulbs, pimples on the dusty Bohemian terrain. These peculiar mounds are the beginning of the story of Most, the Czech Republics most tragic city. This is how it goes: under the protective shadow of these unique hills lie some quaint little towns. Under some of these quaint little towns lies some coal. When the communists in the former Czechoslovakia found the coal under Most they leveled the old town and moved the population into concrete towers on the outskirts of one of Europe’s largest environmental hazards: the Most coal pit. Here is an old chateau overlooking the new designer terrain.
In this toxic hole, we drank plum alcohol at 6am, ate a pile of raw flesh, made and used whips out of willow reeds on neighborhood women, and ate Easter bunnies and eggs until we couldn’t stand under our own strength. When I say we I mean me, a 50 year old AK-47 wielding coal miner and a Czech soldier. The women were painting eggs all day and cooking. May I introduce my host, Petr:
The tradition is to go door to door as a team of masculine marauders, singing a poem that is literally a demand for alcohol and eggs. When you see a woman you whip her butt with your willow switch until she feeds you and gives you booze. Most people in Most brew their own slivovice, which is basically turpentine made from plums or pears, and they are all very proud of it. It would be a great insult to turn down a shot of this delicacy.
I was dizzy on my feet by 9am, my stomach was convulsing by 11am, and I was incapacitated on the couch by noon. This is actually a perfect schedule because if a girl catches you out whipping after noon she has the right to pour ice water on you.
Drinking like a Russian cadet, slurring words in a foreign language and chasing women I have never met with a toy sword: this was one of the most hilarious experiences of my life. God help my neighborhood in the States when I move back, I am not going to let this tradition slip away.
On a more personal note, spend more time appreciating the lining of your stomach and esophagus; they are only one Easter away from being lost forever.
Naz Dravi!PS
We also visited some castles and chateaus in the region. Check out the new pictures on Picasa.
Ahoj!(pronounced a-hoy as in "ahoy mate-es, arrgh!")
(the little girl is Ivankova. I didn't understand a word she said but children and drunk 20-somethings have a peculiar bond that transcends spoken language.)
