Oktoberfest

Imagine yourself in early nineteenth century Bavaria during the month of October. You were lucky enough to get your name on the guest list for Prince Ludwig's marriage party and now you are sitting on a cushioned chair in a lovely garden area outside of Munich and having a pretty good time. People in frilly starched outfits and powdered wigs are sitting around listening to latest works of Beethoven and complaining about how Napoleon has turned a progressive democratic nation into a neoimperialist power. "I have heard rumors that France is going to invade Russia," someone says, "supposedly they have intelligence that the Russians are destabilizing Europe." "Disgusting," you say, but with little conviction because your attention is really focused on the peasants in the nearby field who are are trying to set up for the big horse race tomorrow but keep on getting their utility wagon stuck in the mud. A servant comes around with more wine, so you refill your glass and wander over the to ballroom where the noblemen and noblewomen are mincing around with clasped hands aloft, their bodies rotating mechanically in predetermined steps like music box figurines. One of Ludwig's second cousins lurches out from the middle of the dancing crowd and leans out over the marble railing, convulsing in a fit of gutteral expulsions that sound to you like Dutch. He wobbles back into the ballroom a few minutes later with watery eyes, straightening his wig and dabbing the corners of his mouth with a silk handkerchief. Someone rings a bell and all the guests slowly make their way to the dining hall, and you hope that you don't get stuck sitting next to the random couple from out of town that nobody knows. Still, this party is a pretty good time and maybe even ranks in your top five. Who knows, there may even be another one next year?

Now fast forward to modern times. You emerge midday from the tightly packed subway car and ride the escalator up towards the light, arriving in front of an archway announcing "Wilkommen Oktoberfest!" You walk through and find yourself in a sea of people on the giant parking lot known as the Wiesn. To your left are rows of amusement park rides and carnival games, and to the right are rows of massive white beer "tents".

Deciding on a large clockwise loop, you stroll past rollercoasters and vendors selling shots of vodka and check out the other festivalgoers. Lots of guys in red checkered shirts, lederhosen, and feathery caps. Women in dresses that range from the conservative length traditional peasant wear, to the more common strappy sexed-up miniaturized dirndles. Gangs of teenagers in oversized mad hatter party hats pass by every few seconds, with their arms linked and singing "ole ole ole ole..." Most everyone is standing upright or at least propped up by a friends, except for the guy sprawled out in front of the phone booth, who is wearing a commemorative Oktoberfest/movie t-shirt that reads "300: Tonight we drink in Hell".

Feeling brave, you and your friends wait in line in front of one of the larger beer tents. After 30 minutes, the security guard lets in a group of you, plus the guy in the wacky hat that has been pleading non-stop. Inside is a massive room of wooden tables and benches with people, mostly Italians and Australians, standing on them. A band is leading the beer drinkers in what sounds like a Mexican Ranchero music sing-a-long. This looks like interesting, so you wander the aisles looking for an open space at a table. After combing the entire tent while silently cursing the no table no beer rule, all you can do is sigh and head though the haze of tobacco smoke to the door. Too bad, even the guy dressed up in a women's dirndle got a place at a table.

You are back out in the sunshine, but it could be worse. Prospects for getting a spot at other beer tents are looking slim considering the long lines just to get into the places. You overhear someone say that only the people there before 9 in the morning had a shot at getting a seat. Still, the carnival stuff was fun and you tell yourself that with some proper planning, next year's trip will be more successful. Feeling wiser but with twinges of disappointment, you sidestep a puddle of vomit and cross under the archway that says "Auf Wiedersehen Oktoberfest!" and head for the subway.