The Party at the End of the Rainbow


As we walk into my uncle’s house, we are greeted with instructions according to appetite. “Ham and roast beef in that corner, potato salad, stuffed peppers and dips on that table over there.” My aunt works like a traffic cop, sending people to the delicacy of their fancy. “Beer and wine are in the fridge and there is more in a cooler in the garage.”

I say a quick prayer for my rising LDL cholesterol and load up a plate. I am not the only one who sheds a tear of joy.

It’s Saturday and my grandmother’s 88th birthday party. Since I am heading back to Prague on Tuesday, it’s the perfect cap to a month of complete comfort and moderate hedonism. Still, I am dealing with the depression that always comes right before heading back to Prague from the U.S.

I take comfort in the fatty meats and well-stocked liquor cabinet of a pediatric dentist.

The party continues with tubular meats and loud conversation, progresses into cakes and chocolates and loud conversation. Every corner is filled with food to satisfy any urge or desire and loud conversation.

My family is wonderful, but they are family. I don’t have to explain the dichotomy between the love one has for their family and the extreme aggravation that the simplest interaction can cause. When I see headlines about people who go nuts and murder their families I always wonder what set them off and I am certain that it wasn’t anything big. Someone probably asked them to pass the mustard and they pulled out a hatchet and went to work. Anyone with a family knows that this scenario is not that far-fetched.

Within this context, I wonder why it is so hard to leave.

We bring out my grandmom’s birthday cake and we all sing to her. Afterwards, as if reading my mind, she looks at us and says, “I can’t believe that I caused all of this.” We all laugh and then she opens her gifts and we pass around birthday cake.

Then it dawns on me, the reason it’s so hard to leave – my family and friends are sirens.

They lure me back to the U.S. with red meat, cakes and whiskey. Every home I visit features a platter of food that is going to put me on medication. Everyone is nice to me, people tell me lies:

“You look like you’ve lost weight.”
“I like your blog.”
“You look skinny.”
“That shirt looks nice on you.”
“You look like you’ve slimmed down.”
“Your hair looks nice, no I can’t see any grey at all.”
“Cheesesteaks are healthy.”

So, for a month a year, I go to a land where everything is perfect, I don’t have to work and I am fed my favorite meats, meals, sweets and sandwiches by a loving group of Gastro-sirens. Going back to Prague is going back to responsibility, healthy eating and the truth.

As I am packing and sorting things out, I get a reminder on Facebook that a friend’s birthday party is Saturday. We’re having a roast pig in a pub.

I Guess healthy living can wait til next Monday.

  1. #1 by Emma on August 15, 2011 - 6:01 pm

    i promise to tell you all of the above things when you get back. also, maybe pick up a few duty free cigars on your way…

  2. #2 by angela galeone on August 15, 2011 - 7:01 pm

    Dame—I love it!!!!

  3. #3 by angela galeone on August 15, 2011 - 7:03 pm

    this is hilarious!!!

  4. #4 by Veronika on August 15, 2011 - 8:48 pm

    Well I guess you can be little irresponsible, eat unhealthy and avoid the truth at least for a while even in Prague. :0)

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