My Oktoberfest Memory

200 hundred years ago, Crown Prince Ludwig I and Therese of Sax-Hildburghausen organized a horse race in Munich, Germany to publicly celebrate their marriage. Somehow, this translated into filling liter-sized mugs with lager, and squeezing enough bodies and picnic tables into circus tents to give any fire marshall a heart attack. Combine with oompa music, stinky un-washable lederhosen and a carnival to make any mid-western mayor envious, and you've got Oktoberfest.

Yes, it usually starts in September (though the original did indeed start in October). And yes, thousands of sweat bodies in a near-suffocating tent dancing on picnic tables with bier-steins in each may not be your idea of a good time, but there's something about it that draws you in, splashes your teeth with beer and makes you dance with total strangers.

Actually, the one time I was in Oktoberfest, I wasn't even able to get into the tents. The lines were too long for the evening. I wasn't even planning to go. I ended up at the Oktoberfest celebration only after a botched attempted to take the LSAT. (don't laugh)

Let me explain. It was the fall of 2004, and I wasn't sure what I would do with myself after my second year in Germany. (Anyone out there sure of what to do with yourself? Please explain to me what that is like. Feel free to use the comment section.) Law school seemed as good an option of any. I crashed near Munich's university with a contact given to me through my organization the night before, ate the cheesy noodles he gave me, and got up early to clear my head. When I arrived to the test location, I found about thirty livid American 20-somethings standing before a door alternating between the two most celebrated curse words. With no prior announcement, the test had been postponed two days. I didn't have the cash to change my train ticket, so I viewed that as God telling me law school wasn't my best option. What to do with a free evening in Munich in late September?

I arrived at Oktoberfest intending to drink an enormous consolation beer. As I implied above, it is not just one tent or beer hall, but rather an enormous carnival with several beer tents sponsored by Munich's beloved beer establishments. And all of them were full, and the countless people in line looked like they had been waiting there since Ludwig's horse race.

But the Bavarians would not allow that to prevent a beer-sale to a tourist. There were plenty of outsider benches, the NIT of picnic tables, the merry planks for those of us who have not been consuming beer and weisswurst since breakfast. That's when I discovered how few Germans are actually at Oktoberfest (or at least they knew to show up early and get their lederhosen-covered bottoms in the circus tents). I set at a table with some very friendly Italian men, where we shared jokes and travel stories while clinking the enormous beer steins.

Sudden, from our left came an angry shout. A short, red-faced Australian man wanted to fight my new Italian friends. He accused them of stealing his hat. The Italians threw their hands up (just like their soccer players) and pleaded their innocence (just like their soccer players). I decided not to take sides (and made sure my wallet was safely in my front pocket). The Australian's voice grew louder, even as his voice grew hoarser. I noted that one of those liter-sized steins would make an effective weapon (or shield, for my purposes). The alpha-Italian, his beautiful brown eyes flashing at the Australian's purple face, insisted we were all friends here and we should enjoy our drinks.

Thankfully, and anticlimactically, the Australian staggered away, his grumbling unprintable (mainly because I couldn't actually hear what he said), and I wondered how many empty beer steins he had left behind him. He did look at me and said not to trust "these guys" (the Italians), because they were "thieves."

From inside the nearest tent, pop music, rock standards and traditional German folks songs played intermittently. I walked away, ignoring the smell of puke by focusing on the pleasant aftertaste that only a Bavarian lager could bring, happy to cross another cultural experience off of my list. Somewhere, Ludwig must have been smiling, however ironically.