Ostrava, 1989.
For me, drinking beer is not a performative exercise, even if cameos are allowed. Rather, my enjoyment of the brewer’s art tends to the contemplative. It’s an ongoing conversation, as well as an extension not only of reading, but learning itself, in its many varied forms. Beer is history, geography and culture, and a good pub is the place where they all come together, as was the case for me 32 years ago in then-communist Czechoslovakia.
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A few beers in Ostrava in June, 1989
In the summer of 1989, the city of Ostrava was the old-school, coal-fueled, factory-filled Pittsburgh of Communist Czechoslovakia, and an extremely unlikely tourist destination.
However, my Czech émigré friend Ivan’s parents lived there, and they graciously consented to host me for two weeks. I arrived from Prague to find their house situated quite literally in the belching shadow of smokestacks rising from the Nové Hutě Klementa Gottwalda, a sprawling...
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