I loved the Czech Republic and Slovakia because people there drank wine. People in America drank wine, sure, but they were snobs about it - “This is an aromatic blend, containing hints of peaches, oak wood, almonds, rose hips, and bullshit,” “You’re drinking SAUVIGON BLANC with a STEAK DINNER?!” “I only sip organic charcoal filtered grape juice made from the finest of seedlings - only brands that throw away at LEAST 40% of their harvested grapes,” “Look at these cute wine charms I bought! Don’t you just love how flip flops remind you of summer?!”
No.
Czechs and Slovaks drink two kinds of wine - red, and white. They are not stingy with their liquid ounces. When you order a glass of wine, it’s filled to the brim. Most times however, you need not even order anything; a bottle of something will be waiting for you on your table for you to enjoy. From a plastic cup. No one cares. Everyone drinks it.
That night, I drank a full bottle of red wine. I couldn’t understand the conversations or demonstrations that were going on - something about 1968, a group of classmates getting together and reminiscing about “where they were” when Prague Spring occurred. It seemed nice. But it was all in Slovak. My Slovak was not as proficient as my Czech. Everyone spoke so fast. I couldn’t keep up. I just kept sipping red wine.
My lips turned a splotchy violet. I felt warm inside. Dušan took my picture.
It’s one of my favorites, I think.
