An Epic Pilgrimage: The Beer-Drinker's Hajj

"Worthy travelers bow, chanting, 'we're not worthy, we're not worthy'"--direct quote from our travel guide. Not kidding.
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Throughout the ages of this plane, males of every height, shape, size, tribe, and religion have united in one love that eclipses all others: that’s right, beer. Not women. Not dogs. Not even football. Beer. And, being a male raised in the Midwest, I am no exception. I, quite frankly, love beer.

And so, one of the more momentous parts of my trip to Prague involved an epic pilgrimage to the birthplace of pilsner. The fourth day of our stay there, Val had gone home to Belgium for her sister’s wedding, and Justin and I were left to decide how to spend our last day in the Czech Republic. There were several galleries we had yet to visit, and we hadn’t been to the infamous Jewish Quarter of the city, but there was one option that trumped them all. We could visit the original pilsner brewery. Ask just about any man, and he’ll choose the same thing. Gallery, or brewery? Brewery wins every time.

Ask just about any man, and he’ll choose the same thing. Gallery, or brewery? Brewery wins every time.

You see, a little under two hours’ train ride west of Prague is an ancient little Czech town by the name of Plzen, (pronounced “PIL-zen”). And, amazingly enough, this is where “pilsner” comes from. In 1842, the town’s first Brewmaster (America has mayors, Bohemia has Brewmasters—go figure), Josef Groll, began selling his brand of clear lager, and the world has never been the same. Oft-imitated, never reproduced, the original Pilsner Urquell (Urquell means “original”) was something of a novelty to the rest of the beer-drinking world, and has remained a brewing standard throughout the years.

But back to the pilgrimage. We arrived at the train station that morning, eager to begin. We knew our train left somewhere around 9:15, but that was about it. Sure, it was 9:12, but luckily for us, everything at the train station was in Czech. Including the conductors. You’d think that after nearly five centuries of culture-crushing imperialism and some serious effort at world domination, England or at least the English language would’ve made it’s way just about everywhere. Apparently the Czech’s didn’t get that memo, because their train stations are indecipherable.

Well at some point we found someone who spoke the three or four words necessary to point us in the right direction. As we came trundling up the stairs to the platform, we quickly realized that the very train we needed was currently more that half-way out of the station, and picking up speed. Fast. Next train, two hours away. Not good. By the time we reached a full sprint, it was two-thirds gone, and by the time we wrenched open the doors and leaped inside, piling one on top of the other, we hadn’t an eighth of the train to spare.

Laughing and back-slapping ensued as we snaked our way towards the Mecca on this holy hajj of hops-brewing. The western Czech countryside reminded me a lot of Wisconsin—rolling fields, quaint farmhouses, cool forests, and the occasional small town. It was great. And I was reading Hemingway, which always makes for a great train ride.

When we arrived in Plzen, we made our way straight to the brewery. Greeting us was the famed double arched gate, an Arc de Triumph devoted to beer. The brewery founder stands atop it, next to a giant keg, his hand raised in blessing to the masses. As we approached, an angelic chorus raised their heavenly voices in song, honoring the heavenly liquid we were about to partake in…okay, not really. But the whole double-arched gate thing did seem a little over the top to me. Awe-inspiring, but a little over the top.

The brewery itself was pretty cool. There’s a restaurant, gift shop, and outdoor bar, where you can drain your pocketbook and your stein at the same time. And there’s a giant chessboard. I bet you can’t guess what the pieces are…you can? That’s right, the pawns are beer bottles, the knights are horses mounted on a keg, the bishops are taking an eternal draught from a large stein, and the king has an enormous pot belly and sits atop a barrel throne. Simply stunning. After we got over our reverence, Justin and I actually played a game (C’mon, wouldn’t you? It’s a giant chessboard! At a brewery!), where, I’m sad to say, my drunken forces failed to triumph.

We enjoyed the tour, which was both informative and, again, a tad bit over the top. It exalted beer above war, diplomacy, free trade, and peace treaties. Hey, it’s outlasted both Nazi occupation and Soviet tyranny, so it deserves some exaltation, right?

The obvious high point of the tour, for both us and the tour guide, was the opportunity to fill not one, but two glasses straight from a barrel within which eight to ten illegal immigrants could comfortable make the journey to America, located in the brewing tunnels forty feet underground. Talk about an ice-cold beer, that stuff was delicious. I began to see more clearly how beer conquers governments and all that.

After the tour we walked through the rest of Plzen, enjoying the town square and the third-largest synagogue in Europe, which, judging by the pictures on the wall, shared a strange connection with Scandinavian explorer Thor Heyerdahl, of ‘Kon-Tiki’ fame. Don’t ask me, we tried figuring it out, but to no avail.

As I looked out the window on the ride back to Prague, the Czech countryside flitting by in the twilight, I felt, deep down, the satisfaction that any true Packer fan no doubt feels after their initial pilgrimage to Lambeau. I feel like now, beer and I are better friends, and every time I sip a cold one, I’ll think of those double arches and remember that beer triumphs over fascism. I’ll smile, and keep on sipping.