Oktoberfest in Munich
Oktoberfest is one of those traditions that seems so crazy that it’s almost unbelievable that it even exists. For a couple of weeks in late September (yes you heard me right) the otherwise stately Munich becomes a heaving mass of lederhosen-clad beer-swilling hairy men and buxom wenches in dirndls, from all corners of the planet. Yes it’s possible to enjoy Oktoberfest elsewhere (especially if you ask Germans from other cities) but for the foreigner, there is no other experience like being at Munich Wiesn, in one of several beer drinking tents, dancing on the tables and having a right old laugh. It’s exhilirating and horrifying in equal measure.
My first challenge is to even get a ticket. After a conference in Frankfurt, I bundle onto a high speed ICE train to Munich with my business development manager Neil, close to retirement, who assures me that despite his earlier apologies, his Serbian mate Damir might be able to get me a ticket after all. I hadn’t really bargained on this- I thought I’d probably just go to Berlin and have a wander for a few days, but the allure of the event I’d wanted to attend in my early twenties but never quite made it to is too tempting to knock back. I decide to take the risk, figuring that there are enough friends and colleagues heading to Munich anyway that I’ll still manage to have a decent time.
My second challenge (or should that really be the first?) is finding a place to stay. In case you’ve never been to Oktoberfest in Munich, deciding on the spur of the moment to head there and hoping to score a hotel room is pure fantasy. These rooms book out months (if not a year) in advance. But in case you’re like me and planning a week, let alone months, ahead is unusual, then you have some options. You can either crash at a friend’s place, or hope to meet a new “friend” who kindly lets you crash at their place, or you use the inter-thingy to hang out with enterprising locals using sites such as airbnb.com or couchsurfing.org. I take the latter option, staying with a very nice guy named Tibor in the Steinhausen area across the river from the old town. Thankfully he turns out to be one of the least-likely axe murderers I’ve encountered and gives me all sorts of tips about exploring Munich, getting to the Wiesn showgrounds for the Oktoberfest and catching buses about town, and otherwise leaves me alone and to my own devices for the three nights I stay with him.
Neil calls up and joyfully informs me that he’s got me a ticket. “But I have two,” he warns. “They are 60 euro each and you need to take both. So decide who you want to bring.” Actually having two tickets is not enough, as pretty soon Munich becomes the place to be in spacetime, as people I know from all over contact me to tell me they’re coming and can I get them a ticket, a place to stay or preferably both. Mitch, a younger colleague of mine is here with some friends of his from Australia. Kristina, a very smart Bulgarian that went to my highschool in Sydney is here staying with her German friend Dora. Vince is coming, a terrific American guy I met on a long-tail boat in Thailand who could speak both Russian and Thai and travels the world subsisting on stock-trading. My cousin Georgia is here along with her best friend Georgia (yes you heard me right). A whole host of Australian colleagues from my workplace who were at the conference are coming. And then I get word that one of my best friends Fabian, a fellow scientist from Germany, has decided to forgo the celebrations in his home Stuttgart to party in Munich with us. I decide to sell the spare ticket to Fabian, though I am less impressed with his insistence that he needs to sleep in my room or on the street, especially as I only have the one bed and not only that, it’s in somebody’s private residence. I sneak him in there and later apologise profusely to Tibor who forgives me instantly and even writes that I am a very nice guy on my review on airbnb.
My third challenge is to get some lederhosen. I protest forcefully that I don’t want to costume up and am backed up by Fabian who is proudly non-Bavarian and therefore refuses to don the local garb. Nonetheless, I am persuaded by Aussie colleagues and lederhosen-salespeople around Munich that it would be blasphemy to not wear lederhosen to Oktoberfest. Now excuse me for my ignorance, but I never imagined that lederhosen would be particularly expensive, perhaps because I always thought of it as some kind of fancy dress costume (apologies to the Bavarians out there). As it turns out buying a nice leather outfit is not too dissimilar to shopping for a wool suit. It is taken very seriously and prices run into the hundreds, even thousands of euro. Neil himself has spent €600 on his outfit, and justifies it by his returning to Oktoberfest annually. As I am really not too sure I will ever wear my lederhosen again after this weekend, I opt for the lower quality stuff available from a large chain department store, spending only €90.
Oktoberfest crowds swell on the three weekends of the festival, and this Saturday is likely to be one of the biggest days. Kristina, Dora and I dance to pumping house music as we get ready, and as we hit the streets for the walk to Wiesn showgrounds we are joined by hundreds of festival goers. There is a nervous excitement in the air. None of us are sure we’ll like what we see, and the girls are quite sure they’ll hate it. Our walk is interrupted by what appears to be a Nazi parade. As it turns out, it is a parade of Anti-Nazi’s, but a man tells us they are marching in opposition to a Neo-Nazi parade which is planned for later that day. Apparently the Neos also descend on Berlin to deliver their message of hate on the biggest weekend of the year in Germany. We continue on our way.
Wiesn is already in full swing, and the atmosphere is not unlike that of a country fair or the Royal Easter Show in Sydney. There are rollercoasters and sideshows and people eating fairy floss. But there is something of a sinister vibe in the air. I am reminded of the evil theme park in Pinocchio and it sends chills up my spine. Everywhere I look are drunk revellers. There’s a German guy pissing in a corner in broad daylight. There’s a group of fired up Englishmen chanting something obnoxious but funny. At first we are appalled. And then we join the chaos- or at least I do. The girls remain appalled and leave after an hour.
On each side of the concourse are huge multi-hued tents. All the major brewers are represented. My ticket is for the Lowenbrau tent (whether I like it or not) and I fight my way through the crowds to reach an entrance and get my wristband. Then a period of chaos ensues trying to contact Fabian who has not yet arrived but who cannot reach me because all the mobile networks are jammed. Finally I find Neil and my other Australian colleagues. Fabian shows up soon after and I hand him his wristband as he argues with the security guard on the door of the tent. Inside the tent is pure mayhem. Sixty euros a ticket might sound like a lot, but it includes 4L of beer and half a chicken. If you’re like me and mathematically inclined, you might be shocked that that represents 12 standard bottles of beer. There are plenty of people inside for whom that much beer isn’t a problem; as a result the atmosphere is pure bacchanal. Debauchery of the highest order is everywhere you look. The beer flows freely. The crowds sing mightily. A band on an elevated stage in the centre of the tent plays such anthems as Fun’s “We Are Young” and Bon Jovi’s “Living On a Prayer”, along with traditional German folk songs that everyone seems to know. People dance on the tables. There are people hooking up everywhere. The din is deafening. And I don’t see the outside world again for 8 hours.
Mitch, Fabian and I descend into the hordes to dance on the tabletops. We drink stein after stein. Fabian manages to knock 8 steins of beer onto a hapless moustachioed gent sitting at the table we are dancing on. His jeans are saturated and he looks crestfallen as Fabian apologises profusely. Broken glass is all over the floor. Some big American dude from Atlanta begs me for my wristband to get a girl he knows in, and crazily hands me his wallet full of cash and ID cards as collateral. He doesn’t return for an hour, by which time all of my friends have moved on leaving me alone in the crowd and close to claiming the wallet as my own. Finally he returns. “It’s so packed outside with people trying to get in!” he says. “This place is crazy man!” The night turns into a blur, we claim our chicken and line our hungry stomachs and then spill out into the night. Outside, the evil Pinocchio theme park is in night mode. There’s still debauchery everywhere I look but it seems normal now. Conversely, there’s families about, parents and small children on family outings which now seem more bizarre to me than the chaos. In the streets outside people are vomiting into bushes and there are police lights flashing everywhere. And yet strangely, oddly, everyone just seems to be having so much fun. Even me. It’s amazing what a bit of Bavarian craziness can do.
