I learned this while on a recent trip to Munich, because I experienced a
situation that English was ill-equipped to handle. Specifically, I
needed a word that described the feeling one gets when accidentally
fulfilling what should have been a lifelong quest. For the record, that word for
is Scheisseporn, and I encourage you to
Google it as thoroughly as possible. Especially if you’re at work right now.
Trust me.
You see, it occurred to me that it would be worthwhile to travel around the
world, looking for the single best drinking experience that life had to offer. I
could go to
titty bars in Thailand, wine harvests in Tuscany, and frat parties at {insert
your school name here}. But the whole idea was moot, since I was having it
smack in the middle of the obvious winner, anyhow: Oktoberfest.
"I was in real danger of passing out and drowning in a
random beer puddle.
Ah, Oktoberfest! The legendary event so often
imitated, but never duplicated. If you take the time to understand
her, she’ll welcome you in and show you the time of your life. For a
modest price. She’s like a whore with a heart of gold who’s also
your best friend. And her nipples squirt beer. There’s no drinking
venue on planet Earth that can measure up.
How did I reach this conclusion? Take a peek through my Oktoberfest diary,
painstakingly transcribed by a team of experts who specialize in decoding
drunken, nonsensical, beer-stained texts written in mustard on the back of
coasters.
DAY 1
I traveled to Munich with a couple I’ve known for years, Sylvia and Jason.
They’re great fun to drink with, and all the logistics of the trip were taken
care of. Which suited me, because I planned to mortgage my entire capacity for
thought. Left to my own devices, I’m sure I would have ended up sleeping under a
bridge like a fairy tale troll. Fat German children would wander past and poke
me, en route to their candy houses.
10:10am
We arrived at the gates, not really knowing what to expect. And what we saw
was…a carnival? There were kiddie rides, cotton candy booths, and a midway full
of games, run by inscrutable Bavarian carnies. I admit it, for a brief moment, I
panicked. This was Oktoberfest? But as I walked through the grounds, the
enormous beer tents soared majestically into view. The canvas swayed, almost as
if to reassure me….
10:25
Even
though we were a solid 90 minutes early, the crowds around the doors
did not look promising. We originally had planned to visit the beer
tent(s) that most interested us; we soon realized it would be a mad
dash for wherever we could get in. Jason spoke a little German, but
he was flatly unwilling to create a diversion by yelling “Look! It’s
David Hasselhoff!”
10:40
Our coordinated assault on Germany would not be deterred. We split up, each
armed with a BlackBerry, and within 5 minutes, Sylvia found a way in and texted
us. That’s pretty much how the Allies won WWII, by the way. We met up in the
Hacker-Festzelt tent. I couldn’t exactly pronounce the featured beer, but as
long as I could pantomime drinking, I could make my intentions clear enough.
10:45
The tent was filling up fast, and without a seat, you couldn’t get served.
People who showed up late were doomed to shuffle around like painfully sober
ghosts. We were about to try our luck at a less popular tent (there’s apparently
one sad area that served only wine—but that would be like going to the Red Light
District to enjoy the architecture). I suggested we take one last look at a
loft, high above the main floor.
10:51
To our general dismay, we saw that all the tables were either taken or
reserved. Except...one wedged in right behind the waitress station. It was a
crappy table, but then again, there were literally thousands of people wandering
around aimlessly. We sat, feeling triumphant. At that moment, no force on heaven
or earth would have been strong enough to pry my mighty buttocks from yonder
bench. The hard part was over.
10:52
We were soon joined by some strangers. Italians, as it turned out. I was
hoping for some icy Teutonic beauties with blonde hair and blue eyes, or at
least a
stereotypical German fatso in his best lederhosen, but no such luck.
10:55
Safely ensconced, I could now take a minute just to appreciate the scope of
everything. This tent was enormous, and stuffed to capacity. No word of a lie,
there had to be over 10,000 fellow beer-lovers in that tent. Moreover, it was
lavishly decorated, and, despite the fact we were sitting next to five sweaty
Italian men, delicious aromas were wafting all over the place.
11:03
Just about every girl in the place was dressed in the traditional Oktoberfest
costume. We called it a Fraulein outfit, and unless you were some kind of
cleavage-hating extremist, it was easily the sexiest thing Germany has ever
produced. These outfits could make the most flat-chested, mustachioed hildebeast
into a $5.99-a-minute fantasy come to life.
11:10
Under an hour away from start time, and the anticipation was building.
Meanwhile, there was plenty of other stuff to be had. A pretzel vendor, for
example, was hauling her enormous basket of baked goods to each table in turn.
Oh, I like pretzel day. We enjoyed some with a kind of a lemony cola. Soon, I
thought, my head would feel like that pretzel—salty and twisted.
11:30
It was time to risk the dreaded meat coma. First we tried Leberkase, which
Sylvia helpfully described as “Fancy German Slab Dogs.” It’s only a matter of
time before that catches on stateside. We also tried Weisswurst, a kind of white
sausage that seemed to defy the laws of physics. I mean, the innards of cows and
pigs are presumably not fluorescent white. But no matter...beer soon!
Noon
The moment has arrived! The Mayor of Munich walked in, escorted by an
Oompah-Band. That’s exactly the kind of perk
I wish my job provided. The Mayor ceremonially tapped the first keg to
launch the event. I don’t know this man, but I have to assume this and this
alone was the reason he got into politics.
12:35pm
Patiently waiting to order our first beer. That’s OK, we were in an
out-of-the-way seat, and the place was really coming alive. Those waitresses
were amazing. They carried a dozen or so heavy, full steins at a time through a
densely packed crowd. I don’t know how they did it, but I bet the grope-factor
was pretty high.
12:56
To pass the time, I wrote a rhyming couplet: Still waiting with a powerful
thirst; things were taking a turn for the wurst. Also, every 10 minutes or
so, the band played what must have been the Oktoberfest anthem. It was a catchy
melody, perfect for swinging a beer stein back and forth. If only we had some...
1:20
Still waiting, and getting increasingly frustrated. I thought if I heard that
damn song one more time, I’d stuff schnitzel into my ears. Those asshole
Italians next to us were not helping, either. Every time the waitress came by,
they would wave her off. We just couldn’t get her attention, and our moods were
starting to seriously darken. Even though I was trying to pass as a local, I was
one sour Kraut.
1:44
Finally,
finally, FINALLY! We have been brought beer! Life has become, as
Sylvia and Jason put it, “sunshine and kitten tails.” We sang: Ein
Prosit! Ein Prosit! Der Gemuetlichskeit! I don’t know what it meant,
but it was a happy song for us once again. Also, it seemed to clear
out a lot of my phlegm.
1:45
Surely this beer was brewed by angels. I’m usually happy enough drinking
whatever swill
my local will serve by the pitcher, but this was enough to make me into a
bona fide beer snob. I swore to give up all those inferior non-German brews with
the palate and character of a scab-infested whore who enjoys walking into
manure-caked walls. See, I even got the lingo down pat!
2:21
Even though the service picked up, we started ordering two at a time for
ourselves. For all we knew, our entire table could have been annexed at any
time. And the three of us did share Polish ancestry. Anyway, the beer was going
down way faster than it had any right to. Especially since it was served by the
liter.
2:42
After
beers number two and three, a buzz started setting in—the kind of buzz one can
only get from downing an insane amount of booze while surrounded by an enormous
party containing cleavage-flaunting teens. I wonder what the German word for
that is. As I got my drunk on, I started taking some great photos of, ahem, the
German Alps.
3:49
After the fourth liter, it was time to break the seal. I saw the sign for the
delicately-named “pissoir.” This is apparently an actual word, but the drunken
10-year-old in me couldn’t help but giggle. Pee-logistics could have been a wet,
embarrassing nightmare, but those efficient German minds really came through.
There were no urinals, but a wall-to-wall metal trough with just enough of a
water flow to keep it sanitary. Since I had to piss like a racehorse anyway, the
trough was just fine by me.
4:30
Number five, and the Oompah band was still tootling away in the center of the
tent, when more musicians sat down right in our loft. I didn’t really understand
their purpose, but I called them Horst und der Glockenspielers. (That’s German
for “Horst and the Glockenspielers.”) They played a happy set, and sat right
down to enjoy Oktoberfest. This is the point where my memory starts to get a bit
hazy, but I think they were wearing funny hats as well.
6:45
By this point, I had consumed six liters of Hacker-Festzelt’s finest and
eaten more sausage than a lapsed Catholic girl making up for lost time. On top
of that, I was still fighting jet lag. In retrospect, I was probably in very
real danger of passing out and drowning in a random beer puddle.
It was time to pack it in for the night. Jason and Sylvia managed to smuggle
out souvenir beer steins; I knew I was way past the point of inconspicuous
larceny. Back at our hotel, we crashed, hard. I didn’t even have a bed, but (I
think) some kind of leather collapsible S& M bench. And I was either too drunk
to notice, or else I kind of liked it.
DAY 2
9:30am
Older, slightly wiser, and not all that lucid, we made sure to go early on
our second day. Having made a large deposit in the German National Bank of
Karma, seat-wise, we were more than ready to make a withdrawal. We bustled into
the Paulaner tent, and found a place right in the middle of the action. We would
be close enough to see each drop of beer trickle down our neighbors’ mustaches.
And their husbands’ mustaches, too!
10:10
Killing several hours in advance of a drinking binge was a formidable, and
some would say, unproductive challenge. But Sylvia, ever the thinker, ran out to
buy us a German card game called Skat. And if you actually followed my earlier
Google instruction, you’ll know to be weary of anything German with a name like
Skat. But this seemed to be a standard card game, only with instructions we had
no hope of understanding.
10:21
The security at Oktoberfest was somewhat baffling. They wore identical
uniforms, and marched around in packs of four, giving stern warnings about this
and that. Now, normally I’d avoid an easy Gestapo joke…and this is no exception.
But in an effort to keep it lighthearted, their “uniforms” were actually red
shirts that read “Fashion Police.” That’s probably hilarious to the refined
German sense of humor.
10:29
The Fashion Police have put a stop to our game. With unruly men in tight
lederhosen climbing on tables to deal with, you’d think they wouldn’t be so
concerned with three inoffensive Canucks. Especially since there were dozens of
people playing Skat all around us. Maybe it was because we were making up our
own rules, and they involved the wagering of sausage morsels.
11:31
We were joined at the table by another group of sweaty men, this time from
Croatia. I wanted to make conversation, but the only thing I really know about
Croatia is that one of their members of parliament is also an
Ultimate Fighter. I’d love to see something like that happen in the U.S.
Senate. This topic ate up about 12 seconds, and then it was back to stony
silence, punctuated with random muscle-flexing.
Noon
Drinking on the second day began with a great deal of fanfare, though Mayor
Von Kegtapper was nowhere to be found. Once again, the featured beer was
delicious, the tent was full of action, and I found myself wishing it would
never end.
12:45pm
Beer two went down more easily than its predecessor. Meanwhile, the Croatians
were still making noble attempts at conversation, and, as the only one of us who
could even locate Croatia on a map, I was translating for my friends. From what
I could tell, they were time-traveling bodyguards who also happened to hate
Italians. Well, I may have been projecting a little, owing to the events of the
previous day.
1:38
On my third beer, I noticed that there was a family sitting at the next table
over. It’s nice how Oktoberfest can straddle the line between wholesome family
fun and drunken debauchery. It’s even nicer when that line gets mashed into
strudel; the son, a kid no older than 10, was enjoying a beer and there were a
few empty steins in front of him too. I was horrified. Not at the morality of
allowing a minor to drink, but that he appeared to be on pace with me. I vowed
to either pull ahead or else call the Fashion Police.
2:39
More
beer came, and the party started picking up. We ordered a mountain
of food, which came served on a 6-foot plank. Aye, it was a
beautiful plank-feedin’. All kinds of breads, meats and cheeses were
artfully arranged, along with a shitload of radishes. I think they
were meant as some kind of festive garnish, but we still shared them
with the Croatians. It’s probably more than they got in the
communist era.
3:15
There were a few bombshells walking around with sashes reading “Mamarazzi.”
At first I thought this must be a German word meaning “show me your bratwurst,”
but I eventually figured out it was a play on “paparazzi.” These unbelievable
women were photographers. Fully aware it was just a way to fleece the public, I
happily allowed myself to be snapped, along with Jason and Sylvia. I got a
souvenir, and the chance to chat up a camera strumpet. Best 10 Euro I ever
spent.
4:41
With my liver signaling an unconditional surrender, I set out to remind that
organ just who was in charge. We said goodbye to our neighbors and set off to
another tent. Everything was still packed, but it was possible to find seats
without waiting too long. The band in this tent was playing more popular music.
Which, for the Germans, equated to a 70’s medley. You have to be a special kind
of wasted to enjoy polka arrangements of YMCA, and Copacabana.
5:21
We finally landed some tablemates who spoke English. Naturally, they came
from China, and they were spending a semester in Munich learning German. This
little UN reenactment nearly brought a tear to my eye, or maybe it was two days
worth of smoke, not all of which was tobacco. Of course you were permitted to
smoke in these overcrowded, flammable tents! It’s Oktoberfest!
6:30
Drunk, exhausted and sweating pure alcohol, we knew our time at Oktoberfest
had drawn to a close. With a great deal of sadness, I tried to take it all in,
so the memory would last forever. One last pretzel, one last song, one last
beer. I had experienced what was, arguably, Earth’s biggest party. And that’s
when I realized English lacked a word to describe my feelings at the moment.
There were ups and downs, but the brain cells that managed to survive the
great beer flood of ’07 will surely remember Oktoberfest fondly. And here’s
looking forward to ’08! Ein Prosit!
