Skansen

Everywhere, people are afraid that an irreversible and pervasive modernity has swept the world. People simply walk away from old ways of life, heading in the direction of the future, leisure and comfort. The things that get left behind are unloved for being old, it’s thought, and they crumble and fall in on themselves. This is the driving idea behind the “skansen.” Unlike clocks or tin boxes or rocking chairs, old houses often find themselves without a collector; the least loved of all are the small, hovel-like buildings that once covered much of the European countryside. Also unloved, many of the labor-intensive tools and machines that haven’t got much aesthetic value and take up more room than modern life affords them.
Skansens bring these buildings and things together in a kind of rambling museum. They crop up everywhere and have many different names – in America, “colonial villages” are a kind of version. Here in Rožnov pod Radhoštĕm, a little town famous mostly for its three skansens, relocated and recreated wooden buildings abound. They huddle like a flock of sheep clustered together by prowling dogs. Gas stations and hotels slink around the outskirts offering free wi-fi and coffee to go. There is a sense, here, that this museum world has been completely cut off from history and from the land around it – but that it also depends on a certain external benevolence to continue. This man obediently pounded at a horseshoe when the guide told him to, then sat and stared at us as we were urged to look at the display of iron objects for sale.
The three skansens are really part of one, big complex, so going through the whole thing is easy. The first and most visited is an orderly little town square, ringed mostly with replica buildings including a post office, butcher, mayor’s house and a functioning “hospoda,” or pub. People have set up stands where they sell carved wooden trinkets and lollipops. Unlike the wonderful Polish skansen in Ciechanowiec, which felt as though it were shutting down for the winter, this place had an expectant, springtime air. Though relatively quiet while we were there, the people were setting up for summer hordes. This is the interior of the church, which is one of the original buildings in that section and was ringed with actual graves.
We took a tour – conducted in Czech and accompanied by an English booklet for us – of the adjacent water mill skansen, which is closed to visitors not on a tour. This was definitely the most interesting of the three because most of the mills were functional and the guide proudly showed them off. An oil crusher, a felt mill, a sawmill and a flour mill and bakery all ran on a complex system of ponds and sluices. We were fascinated by the sawmill and loved this little box flourmill and sifter. It was much smaller than other ones we’ve seen, and especially elegant.
There were a number of these ancient beehives, carved from large tree trunks. Some of them, in a peculiar Wallach style, were decorated with human faces – the bees enter through the open mouths of the figures. It’s unclear how the honey is then extracted, but we’re guessing that it’s through the top.
The urge to compile these collections of buildings is spurred by loss, as the landscape of development and employment shifts. In some parts of the world, the change happened much earlier than it did here, where some of the structures were inhabited up to the nineteen sixties. The Czech countryside was kept as it was for a long time, and I think the people who visit Rožnov pod Radhoštĕm aren’t as impressed by the difference in lifestyle as the typical American might be. There are still folk festivals on many summer weekends, and they involve a lot of people. On Sunday, as we were arriving in town, busloads of teenagers milled about near the exit. Some wore traditional dress, some had already changed back into their street clothes. Last night, from the outdoor bar near our campsite, we fell asleep listening to a group of men sing folk songs accompanied by a guitar. A smattering of recognizable, modern tunes were mixed in, and we talked about how close the old ways seem here.
We never finished seeing the third skansen, which is where most of the oldest buildings are located and which features a complimentary collection of farm animals. It’s up in a nice clearing behind some trees, where the sound of traffic is faint and the schlocky souvenir feeling of the first museum isn’t so strong. As we walked we got caught in a downpour, which the sky had been threatening us with for hours. This is the porch where we took cover – dry, but held captive. It is part of a building built in the 1780's and was once home to a glass-cutter named Petr Jochc.

Czech Food

Pork, soup and smažený sýr (which I’ll get to in a bit) were basically the only things we ever saw Czech people ordering out. And, of course, pizza. However, most places had menus that included at least two other types of meat, most often chicken and duck, and there was always some liver on offer. Merlin ordered “liver and pancake” assuming that the meat would be served alongside small, dense potato pancakes. Such was the case with his goulash a few nights earlier. However, it came wrapped in an enormous version that we soon-after realized was the norm.
Bramborák are pretty ubiquitous in the Czech Republic and seeing them being fried up at every other stand of a street fair does not make them more appetizing. Unlike latkes, they don’t seem to be made with any actual potato, just potato flour and lots of spices and onion. Their name translates literally to "potato," but also used to be the word for "pancake." So, you can be pretty sure these are the original Czech flatcakes. Equally common were houkové knedlíky, bramborák’s dainty sister. They are white flour dumplings, boiled and sliced into thick discs. Apparently they're light and fluffy, but being as they always serve the purpose of sopping up thick gravy, neither of us tried them out.
A different sort of pancake, small fluffy buttermilk, was served at a vegetarian buffet where we lunched. It’s under the grey and dilly mushroom gravy on the right. Most people forewent the salads altogether, filling their plates with grains, potatoes and falafel. Something we’ve noticed a lot here in Europe: “vegetarian” definitely means the exclusion of meat more than the inclusion of vegetables.

While carp was big in certain areas, trout was widely available. Here it is “grilled.” Fish was always served with slices of herb butter, which made sense in this case, but seemed strange alongside my smoked salmon salad.

The only street food we ate in Štramberk was the town’s namesake specialty štramberské uši or Štramberk ears. People walked around with what looked like vertical cannolis, brimming with whipped cream. Canisters of the cookies, long and skinny like pringles, were sold in vending machines. When we went to what seemed like the go-to place for fresh 'ears,' we ordered a “classic.” Somehow, this meant a plain one with nothing in it. It looked pitiful next to everyone else’s cone of festivity. The upside was that, unadulterated, the cookie’s flavor really popped out. It was intensely gingery and softer than expected.
Inside the “Little Wooden Village” skansen Merlin’s “dumplings with meat and sauerkraut” were pretty much what we both expected. They were a lot like Lithuanian cepelinai in that they were large masses of dough with meat at their center and more meat, cracklings, on top. This dough was much sweeter though and tasted like the lovechild of potato flour and polenta. They may look fluffy, but Merlin assures me that they were more “dense and sticky.” I had the below pile of food. Neither of us had any grains for dinner that night.
It was our very first menu that didn’t have a single fish option or some sort of broccoli dish. (Broccoli with cream, cheese or both popped up a lot as a non-meat main course). I felt lucky to be having kasha, as I knew what the other option would be. Smažený sýr, fried cheese, was available everywhere. When we first spotted it, we assumed it was fish. It resembles the golden sqaure in a Fillet o Fish from McDonalds. Nope. It was just a large, flat mozzarella stick. We successfully avoided trying one – focusing our cheese attentions in another direction.
As soon as we read one teeny tiny sentence about “stinky Olomouc cheese,” we made it our mission to search the stuff out. Our chase led us to a bar that was said to serve it. We were warned about the gaming machines inside, but apparently there was a porch out back. Neither of us could bring ourselves to walk through the black and fluorescent interior midday to investigate. When we saw a cheese shop, we figured that was a much better choice – but they told us that the only Olomouc cheese amongst their selection of mostly French, Italian and Swiss ones were a parmasen and some big bland one. We got both, wondering if “stinky” had been an overstatement. Then, at our last meal in the city, we saw “pungent Olomouc cheese” on the menu! It came sprinkled with paprika, plopped on a heavily buttered piece of rye and slathered with raw onion. Of course, we hadn’t brought out camera. Here it is from a package at the grocery store. It was definitely stinky, almost in a limburger way and had a bizarre consistency that could best be described as thick, gelatinous cheese on cold pizza.To cleanse your visual palate, I offer you this bowl of salad. Merlin would like me to mention that it was mostly leek, which is true. But being as I can still taste onion from something or other, it is a truth I would rather ignore right now. Let’s just bask in the summer freshness of this coleslaw, shall we?

A Fair in Štramberk

Fairs are the same everywhere - they are never attractive, they are spectacle and noise, they twist humanity into a strange mess and they almost never have anything to do with the town that hosts them. When we arrived in Štramberk, a town in the far eastern reaches of Moravia, it was immediately apparent that something out of the ordinary was happening. Cars and families on foot were streaming up the hill towards the center. We almost turned around, but decided to see what was going on.
The pretty, medieval town of timber houses and pretty churches had been converted into a playground of tinny music and whirling rides. We hoped, when it became evident that there was a fair in town, that there would be some flavor of the pretty surrounding countryside, or of the Wallach culture we'd read about. Instead, there was only the heavy smell of grease and a whirl of artificial motion.
The food was particularly unappealing. Deep-fried pancakes were plentiful, as was marzipan. There was no fresh fruit nor any green vegetables, but plenty of packaged sausages and a slew of stands selling alcohol. The local Medovina liquor presented itself in many varieties, and we should have tried it, but we are less brave about the zero tolerance drunk-driving law than most Czechs.
The local brewery was packed, of course, and offered us a nice respite - not from the crowds, but from the artifice. It was cool and dark inside, with a hushed clientele and nice (small) glasses of dark and light unfiltered brew. For a moment, it felt like any other Sunday, with only drunk locals for company.
From the top of the Trúba tower, a single pillar rising above the town, the crowds seemed even further away, though the music and amplified barking still drifted up from the carnival depths. It seems a shame to feel chased away from such an appealing place, but it's also not our town. Carnivals and fairs aren't for tourists, they're for the people of the place, who don't mind having their town transformed for a few days. The sleepy village is still there, of course, even if we didn't get to see it.

The Wonders of Horní Náměstí

There are a lot of interesting things in Olomoac's main square, but two objects get the majority of the attention. Dominating the horní náměstí, or upper square, the Holy Trinity Column is the largest Baroque sculpture in central Europe and has become the symbol of this sleepy town. Erected between 1716 and 1754, it was built entirely by local craftsmen and features sculptures of eighteen Olomouc saints. There's a little chapel inside, even, big enough for four or five people to stand in.
Nearby, an elaborate, heliocentric astronomical clock occupies a nook in the side of the town hall. Built in 1420, it chimes out strange jingles on the hour and shows the phases of the moon and the progression of the sun and stars. At noon, the figures in the top recesses revolve and pound out the notes of the bell on a little anvil. There's a crowd at twelve o'clock, but it's probably not as interesting as people expect it to be.
The saints that used to populate the scene were replaced in the wake of WWII, when retreating Nazi soldiers destroyed much of the clock's face. Now, communist era volleyball players and workers represent diligence and the strength of the fatherland. I have absolutely no idea about the chicken.
In the nearby Archdiocesan Museum, a painting depicting the arrival in town of cardinal Ferdinand Troyer in a grand procession. The whole scene takes up a fifteen foot long chunk of wall, but this portion includes the cardinal's coach, the clock and the pillar in very stylized fashion.

Beating the Heat in Olomouc

It was hot during our stay in Olomouc. Very, very hot - at least for early June. It seems too hot for the peonies and roses to be so fully in bloom, as they are. We visited the botanic garden's "rozarium," bizarrely - sovietly? - planted in cement blocks. Two people sat in the shade and this woman toured the grounds with her summer umbrella. Before and after the garden, we drank iced coffees, cobbled together with ice and espresso by some particularly game baristas who had only ever made an ice cream variety.
As we sat at an outdoor table, under an umbrella, we saw a little girl leading her mother down the sidewalk wearing only sunglasses, a tank top, bathing suit bottom and crocs. "What pool is she going to?" we wondered allowed, sweating. When finished with our lunch, we walked to the square and saw the little girl, now wearing even less (tank top in mom's hand) splashing around in one of Olomouc's six baroque fountains. We felt it was more appropriate to post a photo of some more clothed children (in a more modern fountain).
Near the outdoor market, which was half closing and half closed, a few men displayed the sad effects of trying to cool down with too many beers. They sat slumped up against the train station turned casino, which touted slot machines and air conditioning. This little boy led us in the more admirable route of ice cream consumption. I'm pretty sure he's spooning his cone with a lollipop.
I guess the cool kids prefer grape to grain in this city. Groups of two, three or four, ducked down into the cooler climates for a glass of white. All around Olomouc are "vinotekas," which are basically wine shops with a table or two and a tap. Moravian wine is big here and the wine shop/bars seem to attract the college aged crowd.
We decided to do the honorable thing and escape the heat by visiting a museum. The Archdiocesan Museum was a labyrinth, which we were directed through by seated older women in each and every room. They would put down their crosswords, stand and point us in the correct direction. The more suspicious or bored ones would follow us around as we checked out the impressive collection (which included this completely over-the-top bishop's carriage). It kept us out of the heat for a good long while...but we still envied that little girl in the fountain.

Czech Forts

In the Czech Republic, it seems impossible to drive more than half an hour without running up against some castle or chateau. Because of a plethora of border conflicts at the margins of the Austrian empire, along with Bohemia’s wealth and prosperity during Hapsburg rule, this part of the world built and kept a huge number of defensive fortresses – many of them later turned into country seats for affluent families. Most of these buildings were enlarged versions of earlier relics, left over from the times of Germanic, Swedish, Lithuanian, Polish and Russian conquests in the region. The Thirty Years War also spurred a rush of construction, and today it seems that there aren’t many places in Europe with more historic defenses than this country. Here’s magnificent Zamek Bitov, which we just happened to be driving past on our way to Telč.
Close to the border with Austria is this confoundingly elaborate fortress cum palace, Vranov Nad Dyji. We didn’t take the tour, but spent a few minutes marveling beside the road. In Telč, we did take a tour of the castle, but weren’t allowed to take photographs. Because there are so many buildings like this in Moravia and Bohemia, the tour was small and the rooms felt disused and dusty, opened up just for us. Requisite fixtures in any building like this: family heirlooms of questionable value, dented suits of armor, glass cases of collected weaponry, portraits of forgotten aristocracy and a few threadbare tapestries. Also, there’s always a ghost story.
Another castle we visited recently, Pernštejn, offered all of that – plus amazingly intact defenses and a still-surviving medieval air. Again, like most tourist sites in the Czech Republic, photography wasn’t allowed inside. Making things more difficult, the castle is surrounded by thick woods and was very difficult to take pictures of. Still, we fell in love with its towers, halls and blunt walls.
Built and extended in many stages between the 1280’s and the end of the sixteenth century, the castle is still very much a stone monument to the wartime periods that birthed it. Instead of rebuilding it when rock walls and old ramparts fell out of fashion, the family that owned Pernštejn ran out of money and let it be. Still, it was lived in until the beginning of the twentieth century, and was never allowed to become derelict or fall apart. Some of the interior rooms are actually quite strikingly appointed, though it doesn’t feel nearly as grand as some other homes.
The defensibility is largely reliant on two factors: the elevated foundation of the main keep and a series of interior passageways built to control access to the building. Resting high up on a rocky perch, the central stronghold features only one small door, set off a balcony about thirty feet above the ground. Attacking the entryway was made difficult by this strategic location, and the stairs leading up to it are vulnerable from above and easy to hold. Inside, a narrow, spiraling staircase leads from the door up to the main floors, forcing enemy soldiers to fight their way upwards one at a time. The steps winds clockwise, which made fighting with a weapon held in the right hand awkward on the way up, but advantageous for the defender. At the top of this staircase, the doorway is low and must be ducked through – which provides a last moment of vulnerability.
The advent of gunpowder weapons caused the owners of Pernštejn to enlarge the crenelated walls and to add a second tower complex further along the ridge. The idea was to make it more difficult for enemy ballistics to reach the main castle. This new, round defense was outfitted with lower and more open firing positions so that canons could be used from within. Steep embankments drop into the woods on either side of this point, which could be navigated on foot, but not with any kind of heavy equipment or larger weapon.

A Strange Name Phenomenon

I’ve had a strange name ever since I was born. Usually, I don’t think about being called Merlin unless I’m introducing myself, which can be an uncomfortable experience. In the US it prompts a lot of jokes, which – of course – make me unendingly happy. Over here it’s just another foreign name, which is refreshing. We’ve seen it a lot in the Czech Republic, though, making me curious.
Excuse the glare and the reflection in the picture; this was the first “Merlin” sighting of the trip (other than Leroy Merlin, a popular furniture store franchise, and Dino Merlin, a Bosnian singer who was competing on the Eurovision song contest), and we didn’t think much of it. Playing at a left-bank theater in Prague (with a disturbing looking lead), the show seemed unappealing. Apparently, it's a production of a 1981 play by Tankred Dorst, a German Playwright. The full title is "Merlin or The Wasteland." The drama, apparently, is about Merlin, the son of the devil, who becomes a secret stage manager and commits many bloody acts.
We saw this hostel in Cesky Krumlov. It still seemed like a coincidence, and not worth much energy beyond what it took to laugh about it and snap a picture. Recently, it came to light that there is also Hotel Merlin and Guest House Merlin, both located in Prague. Furthermore, there's a Merlin Irish Bar in the capital, which I wish had been brought to my attention earlier.
But there’s a beer, too, which really took me by surprise. It’s a dark beer with a bitter taste and was only served in bottles, which the bartender seemed to think was somewhat offensive. The “černy” designation simply means that the brew is dark, as opposed to the normal “pivo,” which means beer in Czech and generally refers to pilsners. The brewery is in Protivin, in southern Bohemia. I was unjustifiably proud that the product had received decent reviews on ratebeer.com, a website that I'd never heard of before.
The back of the bottle reads (this is a translation): "Merlin is cooked according to a special recipe. Three kinds of malt, roasted barley, spring water and a magic combination creates strong bitter taste, reminiscent of the stout, which was appreciated by a true connoisseur."

The Pretty Town of Telč

We wanted to experience life in the Czech Republic outside Prague or a campsite. So, we spent two nights in absurdly pretty Telč - whose newfound "tourist hot spot" status, midweek at the start of June, amounted to nothing more than six Asian tourists, a French daytripping couple and us.
Through the "Great Gate" we drove. Actually, we walked first, to find a place to stay and make sure it was legal to drive in. You never can tell with cobblestones. Inside was a spectacularly colorful square, lined with Renaissance facades. Each and every building would be worth a photograph - no two were alike. The original Gothic architecture was severely damaged by a fire in 1530 and the facades were added to spiff up the place.
The view out our window, in a pension above a toy store, was Stepnicky Pond. The town square is surrounded on three sides by Medieval fish ponds that also acted as protective moats. Stocking your moat with food is a pretty brilliant survival strategy. The fourth side is protected by the arched gateway (a smidge wider than a Subaru Outback). Beyond it is the modern world, the rest of Telč.
Kids ran around the fountain constantly. Older ones set off some fireworks one afternoon as we sat at an outdoor cafe and others rang the bells outside a bellshop every time they passed by. Shopowners, including the man who owned our toyshop/pension with his wife, stood outside talking to each other. The small town buzz of activity succeeded at counteracting the souvenir shops, which sold cowboy and conical bamboo hats alongside traditional Moravian puppets. For all its postcardability, there was something about Telč that felt very authentic.
Like the locals, our world revolved around this building at the foot of the Church of the Holy Spirit. It's "Pizzerie," the only place people seemed to eat. Granted, there were only two other options in the square, but Pizzerie's popularity was clearly unrivaled. This is one of the moments you sort of hate yourself for wanting to 'do as the locals,' for wanting to reach beyond your campstove and the continental cuisine of big cities. When I referred to my dinner as 'bad pizza,' Merlin correctly stated that maybe it was really good Czech pizza. "Czech pizza" is made with ketchup instead of tomato sauce, according to Pizzerie's recipe (proudly listed on the menu). I can say that the place was really hopping - and that's all you can hope for, right?
Next door, down a flight of stairs was this bar. It smelled strongly of mildew and its fabric bench cushions had the expected dampness of a 500+ year old cellar. Our first night there, we were joined only by a singing group. A young man strummed a guitar and led the group of seven or eight older people in song. He had a book in front of him, but everyone seemed to know all the lyrics by heart. Every now and then, a teenager would come in to order a drink and take their wine glass or beer mug back outside to sit on the stoop next door. I think they felt quarantined by the folksiness of it all. Our second night there, we brought a camera. The crowd was similarly aged but not musical.
When it finally got dark, around 9:30pm, we would stroll "across the park" - the strip of tree lined grass next to this amazing column - back to our room.

The Original Budweiser

In Europe, Anheuser-Busch is prohibited from marketing their beer as "Budweiser." Yet, especially in the southern part of the Czech Republic, there are Budweiser signs hanging in front of many pubs and the beer is frequently found on tap and in stores. Why? It's not the same beer.
In fact, there are currently two beers using the "Budweiser" trademark that aren't made by Anheuser-Busch. The name is actually meant to describe the style of beer, made in the Bohemian town of České Budějovice - Budweis, in German - where it's been brewed for centuries. One beer, made by Budweiser Bürgerbräu, was the first to use the term for marketing purposes. Production began in 1785, and the beer was first exported to the United States in 1871. Soon after, in 1876, Anheuser-Busch began using the name and filed a trademark request. At the time, Budweis was a town in the Austria-Hungarian empire, and the American company was seeking a name that would evoke some of the cachet of Austrian brewers, who were considered the best in the world.
Nowadays, though, Budweiser Bürgerbräu plays second fiddle - at least in the Czech Republic - to another beer: Budweiser Budvar. It's a state owned company, begun by a collection of farmer-brewers in 1895. The town of České Budějovice is dominated by the brewing business, and the headquarters covers a huge area on the outskirts of town. We went, hoping for a tour, but were turned down - they don't do as many tours as we thought.
Visible through the gate were stacks of bottle crates attended to by a fleet of forklifts. The third biggest brewer in the Czech Republic (after the ubiquitous Pilsner Urquell and Staropramen), Budvar makes about forty million gallons of beer per year, most of it produced right there in town.

I'm certainly not a beer expert, but it's my opinion that the Czech stuff tastes surprisingly similar to the American version. Maybe the taste is a little stronger, and the beer is a little less alcoholic, but not much different otherwise. That opinion, of course, is probably blasphemous here.

At the local Flop mini-mart (isn't that a strange name?), it sells for twelve koruna per half liter bottle, which includes a three koruna deposit. Twelve koruna is equivalent to about seventy US cents, which is a pretty good deal.