0 comments/ 7595 views/ 0 favorites Oktoberfest Ch. 01 By: Bleedyearsnixon I was leaving Salzburg amidst one of the worst hangovers I have encountered. I remember laying down on my bed. I didn't remember it in the morning. My resuscitation was immediate and startling. My eyes slammed open and I became immediately conscious. My physical condition was my first observation. My throat was as dry and raspy as sandpaper. Filmy crud choked up my tongue and lips leaving an unbearable taste in my mouth. No matter how still I lie the room spun vigorously around. With my head throbbing the late morning sun bored into my eyes. Some heartless bastard had drawn the curtains. Whoever it was, they were long gone along with everyone else. An oppressive emptiness flooded the room as I got up. My room had been full of people when I stumbled in the night before, but now the other nine beds were vacant. I made it to checkout just in time to get my sheet deposit back. To combat most hangovers a greasy breakfast is in order, but in Europe this remedial solution is hard to find. Cold meat and cheeses would only upset my stomach further. My staple of coffee and cigarettes were my only solution to the pain. So I parked myself in the bar and tried to regain my composure. It was going to be a hassle to walk to the trains. I have strange luck at breakfast. In Amsterdam it was the breakfast waitress that gave me a ride to Cologne. Here some kitchen wench took a liking to me. She seemed nice enough, aside from her nappy dreads. Whenever I see dreads on a woman I always wonder what it would be like while I was making love to them. Would the dreads become waterlogged and issue forth a stench. I usually decided it wouldn't be all that pleasant. After she had cleaned up the kitchen she sat down and had a cigarette with me. Something about the German accent gets me hot blooded. "So what are you doing tonight?" I inquired. "Vell, I haf to come back in vor dinner." "Damn, double shifts suck." I hollowly commiserated. "Ja but later tonight I'm going to a jazz club, there's going to be a good show put on." which was quickly followed up with "wouldn't you like to come with me?" This illustrates how much capacity I have for blundering stupidity. I told her no. What would be better than seeing the local nightlife with a local, and perhaps getting my end in. I did repent. Of course I did, but mostly later that night outside the Spaten tent. I was ready to get out of Salzburg, my experience slightly flavored by the shitty night I had and the shittier hangover. After making it to the one of the hourly trains to Munich I collapsed in my seat. After thirty minutes into the voyage I determined we had made four stops already and traveled scant over twenty miles. A simple forty-five minute ride turned into a two hour voyage. The train stopped at any town with a stoplight. Sleeping was not an option, nor was reading, so I prepared myself and chose and plan of attack. Fellow backpackers told my stories of Oktoberfest, and all of them commented on the unavailability of rooms without a reservation. If I was able to find that elusive commodity I could expect to pay three times the normal price. Sixty dollars for a hostel bed. My budget, still reeling from Amsterdam, could afford either a room or a day of eating and drinking; not both. I decided to put my bags in a storage locker at the train station. From there I could go out exploring and drinking, then grab my bags and catch a night train to wherever my whims took me. To be sure I'd sleep all next day, but I'd of saved on a room for one night. When my train arrived at the platform in the Munich the station was swarming with people. Nondescript people left the trains to be replaced by people clad in Oktoberfest shirts, foam beer stein hats, and other tourist regalia. People with lederhosen, the green or brown knickers native to Bavaria, flew past me in their feathered hats. The women that accompanied them wore the traditional German dresses with their blouses squeezing out their cleavage. I had been to Munich two times earlier but I wasn't prepared for the bustle. Before my mind wandered too far I went down my checklist: Drop off bags Go to Oktoberfest Recover bags Board train Sleep! Despite the German's legendary efficiency the lockers were placed clandestinely. More shocking was the lack of an information desk. Once I did drop off my bags I felt invigorated. Normally I would lug my bags around till I found my hostel, check in and set up camp, followed by a powernap. Without this obligation I was liberated to do whatever I want without a worry. I could stroll around and whistle as I jangled my change. I didn't have a notion of which direction to go once I stepped outside. My recollection of my earlier events was foggy at best: I could remember a street here and a square there. And because of absence of the information desk I was deprived of any way to navigate. I decided upon sniffing out Oktoberfest. When the din and crowds got louder and thicker I was going in the right direction. The more foam beer stein hats I saw the better. Unfortunately things are never so simple. I explored the city and got rather intimate with the street names and such, but no Oktoberfest. My wanderings ate up three hours too many so it was time to suck it up and ask for directions. I asked a few peddlers where it might be but their directions were both contradicting and complicated. My saliva was thickening and my patience running out. Bag or no bag, searching around fruitless for hours is disheartening. The U-Bahn station was where my luck appeared. I finally stumbled across Marienplatz with its big Glockenspiel and went underground to the subways there. If the German's directions were confusing the subway plan was discombobulating. Twenty lines crisscrossed, converged, twisted and took on the characteristic of a plate of spaghetti noodles. A dozen Italians surrounded me as I was looking at the map, pointing franticly at the different routes. Do they know how to get there I inquired, there being obvious. Only one of them spoke enough English to answer me, some euro trash whore who must have been putting out for the group. I wasn't really answered in English though, it was more of a tug on my shirt and a "follow." We climbed into one of the subways and crowded the compartment. En route to the fair grounds I learned that the older guy owned an irish pub in some obscure hamlet in Tuscany. He was enthusiastic to visit the Spaten tent to pay homage to his beer tap back home. This was of course translated. How and why would someone own an Irish pub, the roach motel for Anglophones, without speaking any English themselves. (I quickly dismissed my scorn when I remembered the Italian restaurants back home with people named smith or cooper running an "Ristorante" that served ketchup based marinara gravy). The conversation shifted between the others. One would say "Hey dude" and I'd say "mamma mia." After exchanging our knowledge of each others language and a couple of snickers at my expense I was itching to lose them. The opportunity came when we were entering Oktoberfest and a group of Clydesdales hauling a beer wagon loitered around for vacation photos. Completely distracted, I slipped into the crowd. Fuck saying "nice to meet you Fredo, Vito, Tony, Michael, Bruno, Fabio, Giorgio etc... It was exhilarating to enter such a maelstrom. Lights were flashing all around me, smells were wafting all over the grounds, and screams and shouts and excited laughter hummed. Among the excitement megalithic beer tents dominated the skyline. I felt like a cosmonaut shot into space. Giddy. The most interesting thing was all the people. Being an inveterate people watcher I was on cloud nine. Italians, Americans, Russians, Czechs, Germans, Bavarians, English, Irish, Hungarians; all swarming around as thrilled and ecstatic as I was. It reminded me of the bastard offspring of a state fair and Las Vegas. There was a lewdness to their grins that hinted at the festival being two steps from an orgiastic Saturnalia. I had been told a handful of colorful ante dotes about Oktoberfest, but like Amsterdam they failed to sink in properly. I created my own vivid image of these places. Even after visiting these places I can summon with clarity the mental panorama I had and compare it with the memories that took place. It some parallel universe they must exist. So I was let loose into this raucous orgy of booze lights smells sounds and people. Once the awe loosened up I decided to enter the beer tent. Hofbräu München was the one, the "state beer" of Bavaria. I have my doubts whether Bavarians touched the stuff, as the Hofbräu Haus, the beer hall where the beer is brewed, is somewhat of a tourist beacon. I heard around the same time they opened one up in Las Vegas. I normally seek out the locals no matter how vain a quest but I'd heard the Hofbräu tent was the most rowdy. That appealed to me well enough. Sensory fucking overload. The kind that's self-destructive and turns the night into one big eraser mark. The awe inspired once I entered the threshold gave the landmarks of Europe a run for their money. Threshold is the perfect word for what I did cross. It implies entering into a separate world, a microcosm. The hot air, smells, music, and view all hit me simultaneously once I set one foot inside. The place was bigger than a football field, and with the exception of a walkway that wrapped around the tent it was packed full of benches packed full of people. The fucker was two stories as well, with a large number of patrons partying up top. Beer banners the size of Persian rugs hung down from the rafters. The middle was dominated by a massive paper mâche pig. I remembered the pig from earlier stories, where panties were supposedly thrown on it. I didn't spot any. On the balcony of the second story a sizable brass ensemble was belching out polka and German pop tunes while bar maids scurried to and fro carrying ten colossal beer steins. Texas can eat its heart out, everything was bigger in that tent. The only down side was the smell coming from the kitchen, making my stomach jealous. I didn't have enough money to eat that day, just drink. Beer has got carbohydrates in it anyways. I'm sure it'd be enough to propel me to the next city. Oktoberfest Ch. 02 The whole day had been on barrage on my nerves and senses, so I was ready to drink a few. The hard part proved to be finding a seat. I had to lap the building a couple of times till I found one. All empty seats were either reserved for later guest, taken, or just not for someone like me. It was a group of young Italians that I conned into letting me sit with them. They were as dazzled as I was to the point of not having the stomach to refuse me. I sucked in my gut and squeezed into the bench. The seat was so narrow I had no room to maneuver my arms save lifting a beer or smoking a cigarette. If I needed to leave I would have to muscle my way back in. How the larger revelers managed was a mystery. I hypothesized they promptly gave themselves an enema once they woke up, taped a 5 gallon catheter bag to their leg, and remained in that one spot for the whole day. Once I got comfortable I introduced myself and smiled. We sniffed butts, but I don't think they liked what they smelled. They seemed ill at ease. It might have been their lack of comprehension for English. Whenever I talked they merely flashed me a lewd toothy smile. The best medicine to cure such awkwardness is alcohol, so I flagged down a bar maid and got "ein mass," or a liter stein of beer if you prefer. The beer was good. It was free too, so it tasted better than normal. Somehow the barmaid forgot to strong arm me for the tab. In a European bar you always pay your tab when you leave. I got use to this custom but observed at Oktoberfest she was asking the Italians to cough up the euros as soon as the beer hit the table. Despite what the people in high school said about the utterly uselessness of learning German, I managed to get myself a free beer. Actually free beers, food, women, and information. Because I ordered in my haphazard German, which in a beer tent with a nice steady roar deafening everyone sounds like the Führer's German, I got a "pay later beer" which I of course didn't. I scanned around me once the conversation switched to Italian. All around me people were having the time of their lives. From fifteen to seventy everyone was happy. They were toasting each other with a backlash of a beer shower after every clank. I learned this bad habit of spilling a little beer after a toast that my friends back home don't seem to appreciate as multicultural. Unfortunately the alcohol didn't do its job. Things became more unintelligible and awkward between me and the Italians. The only memorable thing I got out of them was the worst Italian phrase one could say: Bocca Dio. It means god is a pig. I tried it out a few weeks later and it's potency was not exaggerated. Their grins were getting more weary. I was sitting next to one of the guy's girlfriend and he appreciated it none. It was my cue. I was about to brave the crowd and grab another table when some girl approached me and said I looked familiar. We solved the mystery, she was one of the brigade of backpackers I accompanied the previous night to the Augustiner beer hall in Salzburg, ala the mornings debilitating hangover. She invited me to join her group of other people who had stayed at the YoHo. When I asked where she pointed to a group standing up amidst the vortex of people I gulped my beer and went to empty myself. My bladder had become like a boiler from hell. I rushed to the bathroom to get relief but was disappointed by a line. Everyone slowly shuffled, although I was dancing, and waited for a section to open up. The urinal was one big trough that wrapped around the room. Relief at last, the kind of piss that a horse or a cow takes. Pure ecstasy filled my creeping grin. After the initial pleasure I took in the disorder of the bathroom. People were playfully shouting at each other from opposite sides of the room as sighs and loud streams echoed off the stainless steel urinal. Shameless. It left a vivid impression on my mind. After zipping up a lumbered over at my table, ordered a fresh beer and did the "nod" to the Italians. I thought it was going to be easy finding the YoHo guys but I make miscalculation an art. The center was big and I was drunk. It was where's Waldo all over again. When I did find them they were merrily partying away. There was about eight of them or so, but I only recognized half distinctly. I remembered labeling some of the guys twats the night before. Meh, I was up for some change of scenery. It was good that I found them when I did since the alcohol was hitting me harder than before. My vision fogged up, my nerves felt coated in cotton, and time was being manipulated like hot taffy. After no time at all things got uglier between them and me. I was being my usual arrogant yet oblivious drunk self. The guy's hostel hookups were fair game for me to slobber all over. I managed to spill beer all over everyone too. Whenever the band played a song called "ein prosit," everyone lifts up their steins and sways them back and forth. When the song ends steins are clanked and beer is swallowed. Every time this song played, which was every fifteen minutes or so, I tested the strength of my stein by hitting it as hard as I could against all the others. Beer splashed out copiously on peoples shirts and shoes. Not to mention the amount of beer I swallowed each time. When I lifted that stein up to my lips there was a hopeless animalistic abandon that consumed me. I would become euphoric from this self-destruction. It's an exhilarating experience but its hard to turn off. I slipped on my sunglasses that fully hide my eyes. The glasses help me feel at ease when I'm aware I am making a fool of myself, however dimly I perceive it. I never like standing out, and I felt I had made a quite the name for myself in less than an hour. Three beers, four beers, things were snowballing into the obscene. I was practically frothing in the mouth. I understood, but they didn't. As time started speeding up I found myself less conscious of my actions. So I made a thoughtful decision and ducked out. No goodbyes, just a beer chug and I walked casually away. It was the goodbye I am suited for the best. It was after I left that I was throttled in the balls by a feeling of aloneness. I was in maelstrom three sheets to the wind, no bed, nobody that knows my name within a few thousand miles. The contrast of hanging with a group of people, no matter how ugly the scene, and then leaving with the snap of a finger has a quieting and disheartening effect. My solitude was rubbed in my face by the joviality of everyone. Everyone was merry, hugging and kissing each other, some dancing with grins from cheek to cheek. It made me meditatively sober. Not that I was sober, but a clear appraisal of my situation was under the microscope with precise clarity. I stumbled outside the tent and emerged into the world of lights and screams. With startling abruptness I was in another tent. The Spaten tent if I recall correctly. Things were not kind for me there. I must of not been speaking coherently because of everyone's confused head shaking when I solicited them for a seat. Sneers were all I got. They must of smelled me as the incoherent spewing drunk that I was. But all I wanted was a friend! Well I found a seat but not a friend. It was by some icy cold bitch. Friendly banter in either German or English was not welcome. What was welcome was the flirting with some douche across the table. He wasn't friendly either. How I got stuck with the most antisocial people in Oktoberfest I do not know. So I resigned drinking my stein by myself with my head running around my neck. My brain wasn't processing everything that was happening to me at this time, but it had decided the night had spoiled. My antisocial condition was starting to kick in the afterburners. People were getting uglier and uglier and I was getting more and more cynical. I should of abandoned my beer and caught the next train out. I finished that damn beer though, and with that my stomach started churning it around for me. My eyelids flickered, my eyes glassed over, my pores oozed stinky beer sweat, and my face was as red as a tomato. The pressure beating down on my was becoming unbearable. My vision was foggy with slippery roads at best. I could feel the vibrations of the night gaining momentum to a bitter end. After two false calls I crawled outside and toppled over unto the gravel. Vomit rained upon the ground and formed a coagulated lake of bile. It took twenty minutes to empty my stomach and taxed the remainder of my energy from me. Beady strings of puke clung to my mouth and reverberated while I whispered curses. I shielded myself from the cruel craziness of the night by curling up in the fetal position. There my consciousness drifted. If I wouldn't of been sick I would have been amazed. With another snap of the finger if awoke, as if a minute had passed. Two hours had I lain there. Just like a dream. I was groggy and sore as hell, but a lot more aware of myself and my surroundings. All I could remember was drowning in vomit and self-pity, and a group of merry revelers joking with me while I moaned for them to have mercy and leave me be. Whew, no puke made had made it on my clothes. Undoubtedly I reeked of sweat, cigarettes, and beer with a hint of human waste. The blur of earlier that night revisited me when I took my first step towards the train station. Consciousness asserted itself when I was sitting next to a train with a greasy Döner Kebab in my hands. With every bite my Kebab shed lettuce and globs of sauce all over the platform. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. For the first time in the eternity of one day I felt relaxed and confident. The ordeal was over for one, and I knew I had a whole day ahead of me to compose my nerves. I fell asleep that night on the train to Berlin as a serene landscape of sleeping villages rambled past me.