The_Dunedan

I spent Easter Weekend of 2007 in a tiny village called Smerzice, in Moravia; the south-eastern 1/3rd of the Czech Republic. Smerzice is a -tiny- place, with fewer than 1500 people; or, as my Czech roomate put it, "Two pubs, one church, no school." My roomies were both from this little place, and they invited me into their family homes for the holiday. I should have asked what I was in for.

We arrived by train on Good Friday, already intoxicated. A note for those who aren't familiar; Czechs drink. A LOT. In terms of beer consumption, Czechs lead the world at 600+ liters per person per year. Ireland is a close 2nd, with Germany a distant 3rd and nobody else even in the running. Couple this with a relaxed attitude towards social cannabis use and a distinct habit of celebrating every imaginable holiday by drinking/smoking/eating everything in sight for several days at a whack, and you have a recipe for some truly epic drinking. And so it went with us.

Naturally, upon arriving in Smerzice, we paid our respects first to the two little pubs. One served food, the other did not. In any case, all it took for the fun to start was for my roomies to mention that I was an American. All of a sudden, there was an unsolicited glass of beer before me, which I drank and immediately had replaced. This happened several more times, without the barkeep ever making a single mark on my ticket. When I tried to pay, he refused my money.

Odd. I thought. I'd heard of fellow Americans who'd had humbling and somewhat disconcerting encounters with oldsters who thanked them profusely, sometimes in tears, for WWII; this didn't seem like the case here. After stumbling our way to the second pub, where I was met again with free beer along with a free dinner, I began to wonder what was going on. I asked my roomies, and was informed that I was in fact the very first American to ever visit their little village. Ever. Oh dear. Said I to myself. This will go well and end poorly.

And it did.

A few hours and many liters of beer later, the four of us (Me, my two roomies, and an old school friend of theirs) staggered back across town (getting briefly lost while circumnavigating the church) to the first pub, and this is where things got nasty. This old friend of Z. and M.'s decided it was time to get serious. It was Easter Weekend, an American was in town...obviously, this situation required More Alcohol.

More Alcohol was provided in the form of a quadruple-round (4 shots apiece!) of a neon pink liquer which I discovered went down very easily with a taste like cotton candy and no burn. It was also very cheap, as evidenced by the fact that it was consumed in multiple rounds. I discovered later than this drink was known as a "Russian Agent" (because it is very beautiful, but -very- dangerous!), is 100-proof, and is a popular way to get socially shitfaced because, just as Tequila makes people mean, the "Russian Agent" makes people relaxed.

24 shots later, I somehow managed to stumble back to the home of Z. and M.'s high-school friend, who promptly made the situation worse by skinning up a joint the size of my little finger, liberally spiced with home-made hashish. The result was as may be expected; I awoke the next morning on the couch, in precisely the same position as I last recalled being, with reruns of "Letiste" ("Airport," a popular Czech comedic soap-opera) on the TV. My host, who -really- should have been more accustomed to such baccanale, was still asleep.

After a shower and breakfast, my host and roomies and various personages all over town simply kept plying me with drink. Homemade wine, regional beer spiced with cloves, various local liquers, and a thick coating of THC to keep me good an' hungry combined to ensure that I could celebrate the weekend in style even Jesus might have envied.

And then came Easter Sunday...and the horse.

In the course of all this chemical insanity, I was invited to attend Easter Brunch at the home of the Mayor and Deputy Mayor (a husband-and-wife team).The result was very nearly catastrophic. After several hours of very good food lubricated by several liters of home-made wine and plum brandy, the Mayor decided to ask a few questions about what I did for a living back in the US. I informed him that, among other things, my family owned a small farm and raised beef cattle.

Now, I should -really- have been smarter than to mention that. Czechs -love- American culture, especially "cowboy" culture. You wanna be everybody's best friend in a Czech pub? Throw some Cash, maybe some Hank Jr. or Conway Twitty or Loretta Lynn on the jukebox. The Man In Black is an especial favorite. What I should have realised was that this meant they were familiar with cowboys, and what cowboys do. When I mentioned that I, an American farmboy with an affection for firearms, also raised beef cattle...well...you can see where this is going, although -I- didn't see for several more liberally libated hours.

After brunch and a few bottles, it was decided that the whole family (me included) should go for a drive. I got the impression that I was being set up somehow, but not speaking very good Czech (a devilish language to learn) I wasn't quite sure how. After a while of driving around seeing the local sights, we stopped at an open-air BBQ stand and beer-garden in the middle of a pine wood. We had a nice dinner of ribs, roasted chickens, sausages and, of course, more beer.

And then I was informed that this was, in fact, a Dude Ranch. My hosts had generously decided to give me, the doubtless homesick American cowboy, the chance to ride a horse. They wanted to watch, and besides (they reasoned), I must be homesick for my old life. An afternoon on horseback, no doubt, would be a balm to my expatriated soul.

Now, I -had- mentioned that I could ride horses. I can. However, I had also been very careful to mention as well that I was -badly- out of practice. I was. My hosts, however, seemed at the time to have misconstrued this as false modesty, because they promptly ordered up a horse for me to ride. However, they made a crucial error of omission which I'll get to in a moment.

The horse himself was magnificent. 16.5 Hands or more of jet-black pure muscle, an uncut Stallion with a look of intelligence in his eyes that I liked. I swung up into the saddle with a slightly drunken self-assurance that, out of practice or not, Stallion or not, I was at least enough of a rider to handle a Czech dude-ranch horse.

I was wrong. Badly. And here's where that little omission came in.

I gave the horse his marching orders, and he marched. Then he sped up. Then he sped up some more, so I gave the reins a gentle tug backwards: "hang on a second, fella, let's you and me figure each other out before we start tearin' all over Hell and half of Moravia" was my intent. The horse, inexplicably, sped up even more and made for the hurdles in the middle of the riding rink. I pulled backwards again, at which the horse broke into a head-down gallop, plainly intending to take the jumps which now lay before him. I, half in a panic, tried reining him in and managed to steer him around the first hurdle, but only just. As he headed for the second hurdle, I yanked down and to the left, HARD, on the reins and finally managed to head-brake him and turn his charge. In the space of just one lap, I had nearly managed to kill myself; if he had -not- stopped when I head-broke, my plan was to bail out with my tongue in the roof of my mouth, my teeth together, my arms crossed and fists clenched under my chin, and pray.

It was only after I got the bloody horse stopped that I was informed, by the slightly panicked and very impressed mayor of Smerzice, that this was in fact a Steeplechase horse. A horse trained for racing over hedges and fences, for the hunting of foxes, and the entertainment of people who's underwear is worth more than my own sweet life. The problem this created was this:

A normal horse, -any- normal horse, regards a pull back on the reins as a "slow down and stop" signal. A Steeplechaser, on the other hand, is trained to interpret a pull on the reins as a signal to speed up, since the rider is "shortening" the reins to prepare for the coming jump...a jump for which the horse will need lots of speed. Hence, every time I pulled back, the horse thought Oh cool, we're going jumping! and both accelerated and turned for the hurdles.

I was terrified. My hosts were both terrified and impressed; I later discovered that they thought the entire episode had been a performance for their benefit. My shouting, the head-braking, all of it; to them, there was no way a gun-toting American farmer could possibly be doing any of this in any way other than intentional.

I spent the next 36hrs as the toast of Smerzice, despite the fact that I had no idea why. My near-manslaughter at the hooves of a confused racehorse had confirmed my Cowboy status with the locals, and I was -still- not allowed to buy my own drinks, food, or admission to Plumlov Castle. In fact, the situation was so bad that I spent all of Easter Monday recuperating at the suggestion of my bosses. Word of my exploit reached the office before I did, and when I called into the office on Monday to check on the status of my work, I was told to stay home, drink lots of water and beer, and recover.

I had several more such exploits while living in the Czech Republic, which I shall have to type up tomorrow. I gave up both cannabis and truly excessive drinking upon return to the States, where such things are frowned upon, bu have more than a few such stories squirreled away. Tomorrow maybe I'll write up the birthday party in Letna Park; the difficulties of drinking with Gypsies, the honor of drinking with Russians, and why one should always have the route home written down.