I'm in New Agony, but this video documents "A Train Ride to the Czech Republic."

It kills me to watch videos like this. There are so many of my favorite things, rolled into one: train travel, Germany, beer with dumplings, the Czech Republic ... it yields a melancholy ache.

A train journey through the Elbe Sandstone Mountains between Germany and the Czech Republic. Peculiar rock formations and the river Elbe shape this beautiful region. Since the mid 19th century, a railway line has been meandering through its valleys.

In 2014, a new rail connection was completed: the National Park line connects the Czech Republic to Germany. It runs from Děčín to Rumburk via Bad-Schandau, Sebnitz, and Dolní Poustevna. The train conductors are all bilingual and happy to answer passengers’ questions about the area and its people. This film takes viewers from Dresden to Dìèín. It makes a detour on the National Park line through the rocky landscapes of Bohemian Switzerland. See the enchanted valleys that inspired romantic-era painters, and discover Edmundsklamm gorge on the German-Czech border, and its protected wildlife. The documentary also digs deep into the history of brown coal, which once brought the region industry and prosperity.

ON THE AVENUES: When it comes to beer, less might yet be more.

ON THE AVENUES: When it comes to beer, less might yet be more.

A weekly column by Roger A. Baylor.

Last week's open letter to Harvest Homecoming by Cisa Kubley of Sew Fitting quickly became the most read column of the year to date. Harvest Homecoming officials have been offered the opportunity to reply in this space. 

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I remember being in Prague in the mid-1990s. We’d wander through downtown neighborhoods hunting beer – sometimes hopping trams, other times the subway, but most often on foot.

The objective was to find drafts from as many of the Czech Republic’s breweries as possible, and having identified these beers, to drink them straight down.

In retrospect, it isn’t clear to me what sort of legal framework for beer distribution existed in the Czech Republic at the time. Something akin to a “tied house” seemed common, in that a pivnice (piv-nee-tsuh, or tavern) generally would serve beer from only one brewery.

These days, we’d probably decamp to a multi-tap and be overwhelmed by sheer choice. I’ve read that Prague now has such establishments boasting bountiful selections, as well as WiFi to enable the inevitable postings at Untappd, but this approach strikes me as tantamount to the king’s gamesmen running the animals past his shooting stand.

It’s also no way to conduct a drinking tour of a city, especially when traveling overseas, where there’s so much else to be learned.

20-odd years ago, many of Prague’s pubs served beers from one of the city’s “big three” breweries: Staropramen, Braník or Mestan, the latter two apparently long deceased as independent entities.

Other breweries were well represented, too, and it seemed the closer their home cities to Prague, the better chance of finding them. Pilsner Urquell was a given. Gambrinus, Velkopopovický and Radegast also were around, though at the time, the epochal Budvar not as much.

Intriguingly, it remained possible in the mid-1990s to find watering holes in Prague that had hooked up with smaller breweries, or even larger ones further away from the capital. There’d be occasional appearances by Ferdinand (from nearby Benešov), Hostan (Znojmo), Regent (Třeboň) or Starobrno (Brno).

The trick was finding the places serving them, as they didn’t always correspond to familiar addresses amid the prevailing tourist routes. We'd forage down back alleys, through obscure archways and below street level in dark cellars.

An obscure brewery called Herold became an obsession for my band of beer explorers. It was founded in the countryside in 1506, surviving the threat of closure in the waning months of the Communist period only because its stubborn plant manager refused to do what the authorities told him.

These authorities soon were gone, and the plant manager remained.

We traipsed over what seemed like half of Prague one evening trying to find the sole pivnice that we’d been told poured Herold, and stopping frequently for directions at other establishments along the way. These wayfinding tips generally came accompanied by beers of thankfulness, which might explain our ultimate failure.

Resolving to locate the Herold brewery itself, eventually we were able to do so in 1997 with the help of a savvy travel agent in Prague, who secured a minibus and driver for a day’s journey deep into the Bohemian hinterlands.

First we visited the town of Velké Popovice for a Velkopopovický Kozel tasting, then Vysoký Chlumec (home of Lobkowitz), and finally the tiny town of Březnice, where a farmer on a tractor pulling a wagon overflowing with manure slowly guided our careful man at the wheel to the Herold brewery gate.

I’d contacted the manager, but he had an untimely emergency and wasn’t there, so his second in command made a hasty phone call, ran out the door, and soon emerged with a local schoolteacher in tow to serve as interpreter.

Our Herold brewery tour lasted all of 20 minutes, yielding to a considerably more intensive two-hour survey of the lagering cellar. By the end of our seminar below ground, we had absorbed so much knowledge that the ancient stone staircase leading back to the top began wildly undulating to the beat of non-existent music.

The magical motion very nearly kept us subterranean, which would have been just lovely by me.

Two decades later, much has changed in the Czech Republic -- and everywhere else in the world, too. Many of the old-school Czech breweries are gone (Herold perhaps survives), and a new crop of “craft” brewers has arrived.

Granted, the range of beer choice in Prague used to be far narrower, but it was a beer paradise nonetheless, and while it may sound as though I’m waxing nostalgic for a bygone era – one I devoted a full quarter-century of my professional life to revolutionizing – it’s very important to understand that yes, you bet I am … unless of course, I’m not.

Just as trudging eight miles robed in primitive bearskin through six-foot-high snow drifts helped transform a previous generation of mid-20th century schoolchildren into improved parental units, hunting beers the hard way had its merits.

Beer tastes better when you work for them, and breweries, too; we’d follow a canal or rail line, sniff the unmistakable aroma of a boil in progress, and follow our noses to the goal line. The biggest problem was finding our way home.

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The real reason I’m bringing all this up is because, as a consumer, there exists a little-known, positive connotation to the tied house: If it’s a Fuller’s pub, you know there’ll be Fuller’s served there. No guesswork is involved, and at times, this can be a good thing.

In the present era, unceasing “guest” tap rotation has morphed into something that’s incredibly diverse, but also no longer comes moored to any system or routine. It’s wonderful and chaotic, all at once.

Rotating guest taps made for a refreshing trend when acting as the changeable component alongside a non-revolving core selection, but we’ve long since settled into the rigid orthodoxy of a daily (hourly?) spin-the-flavor-wheel approach. Accordingly, fresh ideas for marketing and retailing a profusion of better beer choices have steadily diminished.

When the only constant is dizzying change, then surely for some establishments in search of a noteworthy market niche, resolving to give the pendulum a nudge in the opposite direction is merited. Either a semi-permanent selection of classics, or a single brewery’s popular range, would make for a distinctive strategy.

Naturally, I’m not sanctioning tied houses if by “tied” we mean contractually narrowed choice, especially via a swillmonger. And, of course, the tied house isn’t exactly legal in America – even when it happens, which is lamentably often.

Rather, I’m suggesting the veracity of a voluntary "self-tie" of sorts, and as always, I’m insistent that any beer and brewing knowledge base emanate from behind the bar, as reflected by an intelligent and coherent (if narrowed) selection, and mirroring the conceptual contours of an establishment’s wine and spirits program.

After all, everyone knows that a bar simply must have a core selection of liquor, but how does this not apply to beer styles?

Conversely, many bars in metropolitan Louisville proudly feature Brown-Forman wines and spirits. So, why not follow suit with an exclusive selection of Falls City’s genuinely independent local drafts?

Wouldn’t it make sense for an eatery on the Indiana side of the river to feature all Sun King drafts? And isn’t it true that if one did, Sun King’s three flagships – Sunlight, Osiris and Wee Mac – would be the biggest sellers?

There are many ways of cultivating loyalty. My contention is that more customers than we tend to think actually like the idea of “their” favorite brand or style of beer, and when it comes to better (“craft”) beer, the merits of continuity are being vastly undervalued.

Accordingly, there’s a case to be made for making the process of choosing a regular beer easier for those who might become regular customers just because they know what to expect when they drop in for a sandwich.

If there were a pub pouring draft Guinness, Pilsner Urquell and Fuller's London Pride all the time, with just one or two guest taps on seasonal rotation to round out the lineup, would it be suicidal or innovative?

Aside from the absence of representative beer localism, itself a correspondingly viable strategy for a half-dozen largely fixed taps, I'm voting for innovative. In fact, there’d be something I personally like on tap, all the time. The deciding factor would be if the pub were a comfortable place to drink and converse. If so, six well-tended faucets might well be preferable to fifty-six.

And there's only so much time in the first place, and it would help weed out the beer rating narcissists.

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Recent columns:

November 2:
ON THE AVENUES: A downtown business owner's open letter to Harvest Homecoming.

October 26: ON THE AVENUES: Could that be David Duggins paddling across Jeff Gahan's putrid cesspool? On second thought, I'll take the blindfold.

October 19: ON THE AVENUES: I'd like nothing more than to go for another ride.

October 12: ON THE AVENUES: The Orange Occupation is here again, and as a precaution, we’ve baked a handy file into this cake.

THE BEER BEAT: I'm curious about the origins of the smooth, crisp and milky Pilsner Urquell pours.

Czech for Pilsner Urquell; a 1987 teaser. Photos to come.

The last time I had the pleasure of visiting the Czech Republic was 2006. That's a long time.

My most recent visit to Plzen, home of Pilsner Urquell?

Probably 1999; almost two decades. As I've been digilizing my 1980s-era slides, there has been plenty of opportunity to ruminate about the incredible changes that have occurred in a place like Plzen since 1987.

Back then the country was called Czechoslovakia, and it was Communist. In spite of this, or maybe because of it, the beer was out of this world. Pair it with pork and dumplings, and repeat as often as possible.

In July, 1987 Barrie and I took the train to Plzen from Prague, found the brewery, and enjoyed a leisurely afternoon with multiple portions of the nectar, first in the former brewery tap outside the factory gate, then a few yards away in another pub long since supplanted by a roadway improvement project.

To me, it seems like yesterday. At the first stop, the coat check attendant told us she remembered the arrival of Patton's 3rd Army in Plzen during WWII. At the second, we were joined by a cab driver, who had chucked work for the day and was ferrying his buddies from pub to pub, drinking with them. None of them spoke English, and we spoke no Czech.

Rather, beer was spoken.

I watched quite a few Pilsner Urquells being poured that day, and would continue to do so in the years to come, hence the point of today's digression.

I've been vaguely aware that the Pilsner Urquell international distribution effort of late has been emphasizing the "three pours" draft approach. I'm all aboard, and want to learn more.

If my pub sanctuary project-in-development gets off the ground, this will be my daily classic house lager -- and make no mistake, Asahi as Urquell's new owner ranks nowhere near AB-InBev's level of multinational swinishness.

Besides, there'll be just a few changeable taps, and frequent excuses to pour Prima Pils, Goodwood's Louisville Lager and other beers in a similar range. What there won't be is a spinning wheel rotational approach.

As ever, I digress.

All I can ever remember ever seeing during all those times traveling in the Czech lands are were faucets pulled up, down or sideways to full bore as numerous glasses were filled with half-beer, half-foam, and then topped off. It seemed a reflection of having just one or two beers on tap, and numerous thirsty customers.

It occurs to me that I may be be missing something. Most readers already know that while I was in the beer biz for many years, it's been a while since I paid very much attention to a topic like this, even though there was a time when the Public House was the top Pilsner Urquell draft account in Indiana (if memory serves).

In this ongoing process of rediscovering bits and piece of life that were shunted aside during my should-have-known-better, trench warfare craft beer phase, I'm curious how long the Pilsner Urquell three-pour approach has been a factor.

Twenty years, maybe? Ten?

Or was it always a fact, just honored in the breach during Communist times, perhaps owing to the overall degradation?

Maybe I wasn't paying attention at all. It wouldn't be the first instance. If you know anything about this topic, please share it with me. As noted, it is my earnest wish to pour Pilsner Urquell again some day, hopefully soon.

Enjoy these two videos ...

 ... and two articles about the same.

Mastering the Pilsner–And Drinking Pure, Delicious Foam, by Nate Hopper and Eric Vilas-Boas (Esquire)

THE 3 PILSNER URQUELL POURS + WHEN YOU SHOULD DRINK THEM, by John (The Everyday Man)

No seals in Czechia: Last night while you were sleeping, we changed the name of our country.

Just one mayoral nod was all it took ...

Where have I heard this before?

A sudden "rebranding" without consultation, without a vote or referendum, followed by unmitigated economic  dishevelment malarkey about temporary "marketing" emblems -- and within months, the unofficial official seal is on every street sign in town.

... to swap seals real quick like.

I'm telling you, if they can change the city seal and saddle us with an anchor in the mud flats, they can change the city's name itself, overnight.

Why do you think I keep referring to New Gahania?

Meanwhile, far, far away in Central Europe, in one of my favorite countries anywhere, it's time for another of these grand rebrandings. The news story is here, but the opinion piece is better.

Changing our country’s name to Czechia won’t solve the problems we face, by
Jakub Patočka (The Guardian)

Rebranding the Czech Republic without consultation has only increased the estrangement between the people and the government

Quite fittingly, the Guardian’s story on the Czech Republic’s attempt to rebrand itself as Czechia opened with a reference to the writer Franz Kafka. For when citizens of the country awoke on Friday morning, they found that things had changed. The announcement that the country’s name was to change came as much as a surprise to the citizens of the Czech Republic as to the rest of the world.

You would think such an important decision would be the result of a broad public debate (just think of the long and complicated process New Zealand went through trying to change its flag) – but this couldn’t be further from the truth.

In a poll conducted by the newspaper Mladá Fronta Dnes in 2013, 16,845 people said they didn’t like the new name, compared with 6,160 who did. The fact that officials think they can impose something like this shows how little respect they have for those that they govern. Even those in favour of the name change feel embarrassed by the way the government has bypassed the public.

But it’s an attitude the people of the Czech Republic will be all too familiar with.

OMG: Prague artist beats me to the punch ... I mean, the finger.

Back on October 9, with Downtown Displacement Days approaching and a mounting sense of annoyance, I posted a Facebook update.

If I mounted a statue of a middle-finger salute the approximate size of the Colossus of Rhodes atop Bank Street Brewhouse, would that qualify as public art? Because it's sounding mighty appealing right about now.

There were some extremely witty replies. Now I learn that someone else already has done it, and in Prague, one of my favorite cities in the world.

Photo by the New York Times

Here is the whole sad story of how we missed our chance.

I want one, damn it. Come to think of it, I have one ... a photo will appear at an opportune time in the future. After all, a council meeting is never very far away.

Angry at Prague, Artist Ensures He’s Understood, by Dan Bilefsky (NYT)

PARIS — “The finger,” said the Czech sculptor David Cerny, “speaks for itself.” On that point, at least, everyone could agree.

Mr. Cerny is not known for understatement or diplomacy, from depicting Germany as a network of motorways resembling a swastika to displaying a caricature of a former Czech president inside an enormous fiberglass rear end.

But on Monday, Mr. Cerny, 45, took his political satire to new heights — or depths, depending on your perspective — when, on the eve of Czech general elections this weekend, he installed on the Vltava River a 30-foot-high, plastic, purple hand with a raised middle finger. It is a symbol, he said, that points directly at the Prague Castle, the seat of the current Czech president, Milos Zeman ...

 ... He said the sculpture, which he gave an unprintable title, was also aimed at the country’s Communist Party, which could gain a share of power in the coming elections for the first time since the revolution that overthrew communism more than two decades ago ...

 ... The sculpture is part of a Czech tradition of cultural rebellion dating to communist times, when artists, writers and musicians like the Plastic People of the Universe used subversive lyrics or gestures to revolt against authority.

Finally, some good news: "Tattooed composer polling strongly in the Czech elections."

Amid worries about propriety voiced primarily by professional politicians, it should be self-evident that Vladimir Franz, an artist and composer, would be a far worthier successor to the spirit of former dissident, playwright and president Vaclav Havel than any number of party hacks.

The post is largely ceremonial, anyway. Just imagine the symbolic properties of Franz's state visits with Angela Merkel, Hugo Chavez and Mitch McConnell.

Excerpts and photo courtesy of the Associated Press, via The Guardian.

Vladimir Franz: tattooed composer polling strongly in the Czech elections ... University professor's pro-education, apolitical stance wins significant popularity in presidential campaign – although he has spent little and is also distracted by the premiere of his new opera

Vladimir Franz, an opera composer and painter, is tattooed from head to toe, his face a warrior-like mix of blue, green and red. He's also running in a surprising third place ahead of this week's Czech presidential elections ...

 ... He is tipped to win around 11% in the first round on Friday and Saturday – not enough to make the runoffs. But he may end up a kingmaker, as the leading candidates – former prime ministers Jan Fischer and Milos Zeman – would be eager to pick up his supporters if the vote goes to a second round ...

 ... Franz says his tattoos are simply body art and that the election is not a beauty contest. "A tattoo is a sign of a free will and that does not harm the freedom of anyone else," he said ...

 ... As the campaign approached its end on Tuesday, eight candidates were busy on the stump. The ninth – Franz – had other matters to deal with: a final rehearsal of his work War with the Newts at the State Opera. Torn between art and politics, Franz cut short his appearance at an election debate to return to the opera house that is part of Prague's national theatre.

ON THE AVENUES: The best beer ever.

ON THE AVENUES: The best beer ever. 

A weekly web column by Roger A. Baylor.

Last week I found myself in the highly peculiar position of agreeing with Charlie Papazian, founder of the Brewers Association, in reference to the great "craft versus crafty" controversy of 2012.

Given my rhetorical history with Charlie, which began in 1994 with (shall we say) differing opinions of the longstanding brand name dispute between the two Budweisers, Czech and American, this occurrence left me a wee bit disoriented.

As if on cue, the Internet promptly disgorged evidence that the Bud War rages on, eighteen years after Charlie refused to discuss it with me.

Talks collapse in fight over Budweiser name (USA Today)

CESKE BUDEJOVICE, Czech Republic (AP) — They've been arguing about a name for 106 years. A small brewer in the Czech Republic and the world's biggest beer maker have been suing each other over the right to put the word Budweiser on their bottles.

The dispute appears likely to continue a while longer now, because settlement talks between state-owned Budejovicky Budvar and Anheuser-Busch, a U.S. company now part of AB InBev, have collapsed, according to Budvar's director general, Jiri Bocek.

I was compelled to unearth "Anheuser-Busch, Gone Home," an essay from 1997, to illustrate that I'd been right all along, and Charlie wrong, which got me thinking about Ceske Budejovice and the great times I've had there, which in turn reminded me that those three lagers from Kout na Šumavě that we're pouring at the Public House now are quite good ... and boy, could I use some good, old-fashioned Boemian pork and dumplings with a side of head cheese, vinegar and onion.

And to wash it down, Pilsner Urquell -- the way I remember it. The story of why I remember it like I do is one of my fondest travel memories.

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The times of one’s life, the places, and the people. To be as precise as possible, the best beer I’d ever tasted (at the time) was consumed at two o’clock in the afternoon on Monday, July 13, 1987. The beer was draft Pilsner Urquell, known in its native Czech as Plzensky Prazdroj, and the setting was an old tavern in that great brewing nation’s lovely capital, Prague.

In June, 1987, I joined my good friend and longtime drinking companion Barrie Ottersbach for a group tour of the Soviet Union that began in Moscow, passed through Leningrad (now St. Petersburg), Latvia and Lithuania, and ended in Warsaw, Poland. As evening approached on July 12, Barrie and I stood alone in the shadow of the monstrous Stalinist Gothic Palace of Culture in downtown Warsaw, having concluded the tour in appropriate fashion with a session at the hard currency bar of a nearby hotel. We bowed to the edifice, and set off by foot for the central train station to hop the sole overnight non-express to Czechoslovakia.

We’d been dazed by an afternoon of inexpensive Bulgarian cabernet, amazed at having uncovered a few bottles of Austrian-brewed Kaiser Bier at the Hotel Forum’s foreign currency bar, and largely felt unfazed at the prospect of the trip ahead.

Of course, these being the days of waning Communism, our jovial mood couldn’t have lasted very long. Although our essential documents – passports, train tickets and couchette reservations – were in order, we had neglected to pack food and drink for the journey. It was Sunday. All stores were closed, and mini-marts were in short supply in Communist Poland in 1987; in fact, so short that they had yet to be written into the five-year plan.

Our backpacks bulged with Soviet black market booty, and we strained to lug them along while desperately foraging for victuals in the vicinity of the rail station’s platforms. Even with handfuls of colorful Zloty, there was nothing to purchase except grainy licensed Swiss chocolate and returnable bottles of imitation cola. The final whistle blew. We boarded hungry, and did the best we could to sleep in the stifling summer heat.

Twelve hours later the marathon rail crawl finally ground to a halt, and we stumbled into Prague’s Hlavni nadrazi station looking like bedraggled refugees from a war zone. Stomachs audibly growling, poorly rested, filthy and quite thirsty, the sodas having long since been drained, we dragged our belongings to the baggage storage check and lightened the load.

Departing the station, we were treated to our first glimpses of Prague’s timeless majesty and the city’s then-current reality: Standing in front of the museum at the top of the long, gentle rise of Wenceslas Square, against a backdrop of the old city sparkling in a bright morning sun, a taxi driver sidled over and asked us if we’d like to change money.

Several minutes later, one of the three official room finding agencies placed us for three nights in an athletic club dormitory on the outskirts of the city. It would be several hours before we could check into the room. Starving and parched, we were cast into the mysterious, gorgeous, crumbling city to fend for ourselves.

Exhilaration temporarily overcame fatigue as we ventured into the winding streets, over cobbled roadways and through strange arches. Soon, to our growing excitement, we found that the city boasted more than spires, spies, stucco and scaffolding – beer was all around us, and pubs were in abundance!

After two weeks in the Polish and Soviet lands, where vodka reigned supreme, we were at long last in Bohemia, the Euphrates of European lager brewing tradition, and the home of the original Pilsner beer. We resolved to walk a bit more before finding a good place to enjoy a draft beer – preferably Pilsner Urquell or Staropramen, or another Prague brand if necessary.

Armed only with an inadequate tourist map, Barrie and I crossed the Vltava River on the famed Charles Bridge, ascended Castle Hill, wandered down the other side, crossed the river again at a second bridge, and finally were devoured by the twisting alleyways that we knew eventually led back to Wenceslas Square. At length, having paused briefly two hours before for a sausage dispensed from a tiny streetside window, we glimpsed the familiar green script of Pilsner Urquell adorning the façade of a faded, orange-painted building.

The final steps were the hardest. We passed through the stout wooden doors of U Dvou Kocek, where Pilsner Urquell indeed was the house beer, the daily beer, and in fact the only beer available.

Blissfully unaware of protocol, we slumped heavily into wooden benches in an interior hallway. Unconsciously drooling, our beleaguered senses slowly were revived by the cozy, smoky, conspiratorial warmth of the main room, where clusters of Czech workers, students, soldiers and officials sat conversing.

Huge platters of pork and dumplings sat before many of the customers, but to man, each and every patron cradled an indescribably lovely mug of beer – and make no mistake: They were glass mugs, not the more stylish half-liter glasses that supplanted them not long afterward. It seemed too good to be true … and almost was.

Alarmingly, the waiters completely ignored us.

We opted for direct action. I limped to the long, imposing counter where a brawny, mustachioed man stood next to a pair of matching taps, both pouring the exact same nectar, and with a wheeled cart filled with clean mugs. Mustering my courage, I flashed four fingers and muttered, “Pivo, prosim,” having miraculously recalled the proper words without stealing a glance at the guidebook buried somewhere in my day pack.

He looked at me quite seriously, then smiled and complied, relieving me of roughly $2.00 while pushing four half-liter drafts across the slick countertop.

The brilliant golden liquid was cool, not ice-cold; frozen beer only numbs the palate, and though appropriate for Pabst, it certainly isn’t necessary for anything as grand as Urquell. The noble hop aroma was evident and enticing, fighting through the billowing white head to reach my nose even at arm’s length. Everything about the beer itself and the venue in which it was about to be consumed spoke of quality, respect, tradition, and the sheer, unbridled joy that one feels to be an adult and to think, feel and understand what is good about life.

When Barrie saw me approach, he bolted from the wooden bench and fell to his knees in a spontaneous demonstration of faith and appreciation that I’ve seldom witnessed in any church – such was the genuine, heartfelt intensity prefacing his gesture of supplication. Seconds later I spotted his eyes, wet with unrestrained tears, his cheeks flecked with beer foam, all visible through the thick base of an empty upturned mug.

Needless to say, my reaction was comparable. I’ll never forget this moment of triumph and revelation, of this sense of beer ecstasy that will never be understood or truly appreciated by anyone who defines beer by the number of calories it contains or the volume of advertising revenue it commands.

Cherish. That's the word I use.

The gentle embrace of a Velvet Divorce.

20 years ago next year, there was a Velvet Divorce.

Before that, there had been a Velvet Revolution. It occurred in 1989, and was a largely peaceful process wherein the central European nation of Czechoslovakia disengaged from Soviet hegemony. The world looked on in admiration as bloodshed was avoided … and then its attention was diverted to other matters.

Meanwhile, as communism was being deposited into history’s dustbin, subsequent events within Czechoslovakia illustrated that merely escaping the clutches of the Warsaw Pact would not be sufficient to resolve cultural and structural deficiencies inherent to the Czechoslovak state. A second discussion began.

Hence, the Velvet Divorce in 1993. The marriage had lasted more than seventy years, through very troubled times.

Czechoslovakia had come into existence only after World War I as one of the new countries created from the collapse of Austria-Hungary. To better make a case for independence, leaders from Bohemia and Moravia (the Czech lands) and Slovakia forged an alliance and pushed for one inclusive state, concluding that self-determination according to the ideals of Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points might occur among separate cultural entities so long as the parties agreed to the union.

In spite of a prevailing view of Czechoslovakia as a model interwar democracy, there proved to be numerous snags between Czechs and Slovaks. Both are Slavs, and they speak languages that are similar, though not entirely the same. They’re much alike, and also not. As indigenous populations within the Austro-Hungarian empire, Czechs and Slovaks might be said to have been raised quite differently. The Czech lands were administered by Austria’s ruling ethnic Germans, and the Slovaks by Hungary – and Hungarians are neither Slav nor German, and came late (late 1800’s) to the power-sharing game within the empire itself.

Bohemia and Moravia became industrialized early in the 19th-century, and were the empire’s manufacturing hub. Imperial rule was bureaucratic, and yet more relaxed there. Concurrently, Slovakia was rural and agricultural from the start, and the Hungarian administration considerably more restrictive.

Even after World War II, when Slovakia was belatedly industrialized, the Soviet-model factories built often were outmoded at birth, serving mostly to produce heavy armaments for East Bloc military use. The Slovaks were dealt some bad hands, and played some hands badly. The point is that formative experiences among the Slovak and Czech peoples were quite different.

In short, when the Wall came down, fissures in the Czech-Slovak marriage became visible and bubbled to the surface. Unity against a common enemy no longer sufficed to inculcate togetherness. Throughout the country, there were high emotions ranging from regret, sadness and disappointment to hostility, chest-thumping and bravado. The situation among these peoples in a formerly united country genuinely might have been said to resemble the atmosphere of a crumbling marriage.

There was a desperate need for cool heads, counseling and compromise, lest the split become final. There were dire predictions of disaster.

No one stepped forward. The Czech lands and Slovakia went their separate ways.

And almost nothing bad happened.

In fact, many good things happened.

The divorce?

It really was Velvet.

Two decades later, the Czech Republic and Slovakia are doing as well as most European countries, and better than several others. Of course, political, social and economic issues within these two nations are many and varied; Czech politics can be comically Italianesque, and Slovak relations with Hungary tend to be strained. Neither country does particularly well with its minority populations of Roma (i.e., gypsies). But significantly, these Czech and Slovak problems have next to nothing to do with each other.

At the time of the Velvet Divorce, it often was asked why Czechs and Slovaks would ignore the superior economies of scale afforded by national unity. Why would they duplicate governmental and economic functions when there were only 10 million people altogether living in Czechoslovakia?

Because: The overlay of unity was shown to have been artificial, and the combined functions of one state never adequately addressed the regional difference and needs of two. Czechoslovakia proved to have been a shotgun marriage all along. Now it is not, and since the divorce, the formerly married parties generally get along just fine.

Amazing, isn't it? It makes you think separation might actually work the same way in other places, too.