My lingering tastes of Moravia (the eastern region of Czech Republic) are wine and potato pancakes. In Olmouc, I sat with Czech students and practiced the language over fried cheese stuffed into potato pancakes. They called me "almost a real Czech girl" and I was flattered, digging in with no nonsense into my greasy food, attempting sentences, laughing and enjoying the college town atmosphere, the flush of youth and possibility.
In Mikulov, the potato pancakes were equally plentiful, all of us stuffed in a dark wine cellar, the crystallized sexism of the vinter awkwardly translated to a room of tipsy, angry women. The wine with dinner was nice, but I was too claustrophobic to go in for the tasting. I heard screams at flaming drinks, peals of drunken laughter, and felt the fuzziness of a countryside wedged into a bygone time.
We learned about a painting in art class called In Chlumetsky's Wine Cellar, which was considered revolutionary for its fuzziness, for its emphasis on something mundane, friends meeting for drinks. I felt like I was in such a painting, something lovely especially for its mudaneness. Moravia felt like a place where people lived -- sometimes extraordinary, but often just relishing the oily and the sweet, crude jokes, good food, and good company.
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