A Journey Through Oktoberfest – A Sex Tale of Revelry and Adventure
I was on my way out of Salzburg with one of the worst hangovers I’ve ever had. I can still picture myself lying in bed. It escaped my memory in the morning. My recovery happened quickly and shockingly. My eyes snapped open, bringing me to instant awareness. My initial observation was my physical state. My throat felt like sandpaper—dry and scratchy. My lips and tongue were clogged with a filmy filth that left an unpleasant aftertaste in my mouth. No matter how motionless I lay, the space violently rotated. The late morning sun stared into my eyes as my head pounded. The curtains had been drawn by some cold-blooded scoundrel. Whoever they were, they had long since vanished along with everybody else. As I stood up, a heavy emptiness filled the room. The previous night, when I had staggered into my room, it was full of people, but suddenly the other nine beds were empty.
I arrived at the checkout promptly to receive my refunded sheet deposit. A greasy breakfast is the best cure for most hangovers, but it’s difficult to get in Europe. Meat and cheese that were cold would only make my stomach feel worse. My go-to comforts in coffee and cigarettes were my only means of easing the agony. I parked myself in the bar and made an effort to calm down. Walking to the trains was going to be a pain.
I’m having weird breakfast luck. The woman who served me breakfast in Amsterdam gave me a ride to Cologne. Some kitchen ladies here seemed to like me. Aside from her fear of diapers, she seemed quite pleasant. I constantly imagine what it would be like to make love to a woman who looks terrified of me. Would the fears get soggy and release an odor? Usually, I concluded that it wouldn’t be that enjoyable.
She sat down and shared a cigarette with me after tidying up the kitchen. I get hot under the collar when I hear a German accent.
I asked, “So what are you doing tonight?”
“Well, I have to come back in for dinner.”
“Damn, double shifts suck.” I offered a flimsy apology.
“Ja but later tonight I’m going to a jazz club, there’s going to be a good show put on.” It was immediately succeeded by the phrase “Wouldn’t you like to come with me?”
This demonstrates my propensity for making foolish mistakes. I declined her request. What could be more enjoyable than exploring the local nightlife with a local, and maybe even winning me over? I did express regret. Of course, I did, but mainly outside the Spaten tent later that evening.
With my time in Salzburg tainted significantly by a bad night and an even worse hangover, I was eager to leave.
I fell asleep in my seat after boarding one of the Munich hourly trains. Thirty minutes into the journey, I calculated that we had covered just twenty miles and made four stops thus far. What should have taken 45 minutes to complete became a two-hour journey. Any town with a stoplight was where the train would stop. Reading or sleeping was out of the question, so I made a plan of attack and got ready.
When I shared my memories of Oktoberfest with other backpackers, they all mentioned how hard it was to get a room without a reservation. I would have to pay three times the going rate if I could locate that elusive good. A hostel bed costs sixty bucks. Still reeling from Amsterdam, my money could only support lodging and a day’s worth of eating and drinking, not both. I decided to store my luggage in a locker at the train station. From there, I could explore and have a few drinks before packing up and taking a night train to wherever my fancies led me. Well, I would have saved on lodging for one night, but I would have slept all day the following day.
The Munich station was packed with people when my train pulled into the platform. Unremarkable individuals departed from the trains, to be replaced by those wearing foam beer stein hats, Oktoberfest shirts, and other tourist accessories. People with their feathered hats flew past me wearing lederhosen, the traditional green or brown underpants from Bavaria. The women who wore the traditional German gowns with their blouses revealing their cleavage accompanied them. Even though I had visited Munich twice before, I wasn’t ready for the hustle and bustle. Before my thoughts straying too far, I ran through my checklist:
Drop off your bags
and Visit an Oktoberfest.
Retrieve your bags.
board a train
Go to bed!
The lockers were hidden, even with the famed German efficiency. The absence of an information desk was more startling. Upon dropping off my bags, I was filled with energy. Usually, after hauling my bags around until I found my hostel, I would check in, set up camp, and then take a power nap. I was free to do anything I wanted without worrying because I didn’t have this commitment. I could jangle my change and wander about whistling. The moment I went outdoors, I had no idea where to go.
My memory of what had happened earlier was hazy at best; I could only make out a plaza and a street here and there. I also had no way to navigate because the information desk was closed. I made up my mind after smelling Oktoberfest. I knew I was heading in the correct direction as the commotion and throng became denser and louder. It was preferable for me to see more foam beer stein hats.
Regretfully, things are never that easy. There was no Oktoberfest, but I did visit the city and became fairly familiar with the street names and such. It was time to give up and get directions because my meanderings had taken up three hours too much of my time. I asked a few street vendors where it may be, but they gave me confusing and conflicting information. My patience was wearing thin and my saliva was getting thicker. Whether you have a bag or not, it is depressing to spend hours looking around in vain.
My luck struck at the U-Bahn station. At last I found Marienplatz with its enormous Glockenspiel and descended to the metro from there. In case the German’s instructions were unclear, the subway map was disorienting. Twenty lines resembled a platter of spaghetti noodles as they intersected, converged, twisted, and changed in shape. I was studying the map when a dozen Italians surrounded me and started frantically pointing out the various routes. I asked, assuming they knew how to get there, since it was evident.
Only one of them, some euro trash whore who must have been putting out for the group, spoke enough English to respond to me. But rather than truly responding in English, I felt like I was being tugged on and told to “follow.” We crawled into a subway car and jammed ourselves inside. I found out that the elder man operated an Irish pub in a small Tuscan village while traveling to the fair grounds. He was excited to honor his local beer tap by going to the Spaten tent. Naturally, a translation was made of this. How and why would someone who doesn’t speak English operate an Irish pub—the roach motel for Anglophones? (I immediately swallowed my contempt when I thought of the Italian eateries back home where Smith or Cooper managed “Ristorantes” and served marinara gravy made with ketchup.
The others and I had a different conversation. “Hey dude,” one would say, and I would respond, “mamma mia.” I was desperate to get rid of them after we laughed at each other’s expense and exchanged our language skills. The moment arrived as we were walking into Oktoberfest and some Clydesdales pulling a beer wagon stood around taking holiday pictures. I blended into the crowd, totally absorbed in my own world. Fuck stating “Hi Fredo, Vito, Tony, Michael, Bruno, Fabio, Giorgio, and others. Nice to meet you…
It was thrilling to step into such a whirlwind. All around me, lights were flashing, scents permeated the grounds, and a murmur of joyful laughing and cries could be heard. Megalithic beer tents dominated the skyline amid the excitement. It was like a cosmonaut being launched into space. exuberant. The people were the most fascinating thing. As a seasoned observer of people, I was ecstatic. People from all over the world—Italian, American, Russian, Czech, German, Bavarian, English, Irish, and Hungarian—were flocking around, just as happy and excited as I was. It made me think of the stupid offspring of Las Vegas and a state fair. Their smiles had an undertone of lewdness, suggesting that the festival was akin to an orgiastic Saturnalia.
Similar to Amsterdam, I had heard a few colorful anecdotes about Oktoberfest, but they didn’t really stick. I conjured up a strong mental picture of these locations. Even now, after going to these locations, I can clearly recall the mental image I had and contrast it with the actual memories. They have to be real if there is a parallel reality.
I was then released into this boisterous orgy of people, lights, smells, and sounds. After my shock subsided, I made the decision to go inside the beer tent. That would be Hofbräu München, the “state beer” of Bavaria. Given that the beer is brewed in the Hofbräu Haus, a tourist attraction, I doubt that Bavarians ever touched the thing. I learned about it at about the same time as one was opened in Las Vegas. Normally, I would go out of my way to mingle with the locals, but I had heard that the Hofbräu tent was the most boisterous. That kind of appealed to me. Excessive sensory overload. The kind that obliterates itself and makes the entire night a giant eraser mark. The astonishment I felt as soon as I stepped through the doorway rivaled the grandeur of Europe’s sites.
The best word to describe what I did cross is threshold. It suggests stepping into a different reality, a microcosm. As soon as I stepped inside, I was overcome by the hot air, music, scents, and vista. The area was larger than a football field and, aside from a path encircling the tent, it was crammed with benches occupied by people. The fucker was two stories as well, with lots of partygoers on the upper levels. Beer banners dangled from the rafters, some the size of Persian rugs.
A huge paper mâche pig dominated the center. I thought of the pig from the previous stories, the one where they said they threw underwear on it. I saw none at all. A large brass band was blasting out German pop and polka music from the second-story balcony, and barmaids were running back and forth with 10 enormous beer steins. Everything was bigger in the tent, so Texas can eat its heart out. The culinary smell was the only drawback; it made my stomach envious. I had only enough money to drink that day instead of eating. Anyhow, beer contains carbs. It would definitely be sufficient to get me to the next city.
I was ready for a couple drinks because the entire day had been an assault on my senses and nerves. Finding a seat turned out to be the difficult part. It took me a few laps around the building before I finally spotted one. Every seat that was empty was either taken, reserved for a later guest, or simply not available for someone like me. I had tricked some young Italians into letting me sit with them. They couldn’t bring themselves to turn me down since they were as enthralled as I was. Squeezing into the bench, I sucked in my stomach.With the seat so narrow, my only options were to lift a beer or smoke a cigarette with my arms. I would have to force my way back in if I had to leave. It was unclear how the larger attendees handled things. I surmised that as soon as they woke up, they immediately gave themselves an enema, taped a five-gallon catheter bag to their leg, and spent the entire day in the same location.
I grinned and introduced myself after I was at ease. I don’t think they liked what they smelled when we sniffed butts. They didn’t appear comfortable. It could have been their inability to understand English. They just gave me a dirty, toothy smile as I spoke. Alcohol is the best remedy for unpleasant situations like these, so I asked a barmaid for “ein mass,” or a liter stein of beer, if you’d rather. It was a good beer. It tasted better than usual because it was also free. The barista neglected to give me a firm hand when it came to the tab. When you leave a European bar, you always pay the tab.Although I eventually grew accustomed to this practice, I noticed that during Oktoberfest, she was pressuring the Italians to pay for their beer right away. I got myself a free drink in spite of what folks in high school said about how completely pointless learning German is. Free food, beer, women, and information, actually. I was given a “pay later beer” since I ordered in my clumsy German, which, in a beer tent with a great continuous roar deafening everyone, sounds like the Führer’s German. Of course, I didn’t.
When the conversation turned to Italian, I looked around. People were having the best time possible all around me. From fifteen to seventy, everyone were content. With each clank, they would shower each other with beer as a toast. As a multicultural person, I picked up this awful habit of spilling a little beer after a toast with my pals back home.
Sadly, the alcohol’s effects were negligible. Things between the Italians and myself became increasingly clumsy and incomprehensible. All that sticks in my memory of them is the worst thing someone could say in Italian: Bocca Dio. Therefore, god is a pig. A few weeks later, I gave it a try, and its effectiveness was real. Their smiles were growing strained. The guy’s girlfriend was seated next to me, and he didn’t seem to mind. That was my signal. A female came up to me and claimed I looked familiar, just as I was about to brave the mob and take another table. We figured out the mystery: she was part of the group of travelers I went to the Augustiner beer hall in Salzburg with the night before, before I suffered a horrible hangover. She extended an invitation to me to join her group of YoHo guests. She pointed to a group standing up amid the whirlwind of people when I asked where they were.
I took a gulp of my beer and started to empty it. My bladder had turned into an infernal furnace. I hurried to the restroom in hopes of finding relief, but I was let down by a queue. I was dancing, but everyone else was gently shuffling while we waited for a portion to open. The room’s urinal was a single, large trough that surrounded it. Finally, some relief, the kind of poop that a cow or horse might take. My creeping grin was filled with pure delight. I took in the disarray of the bathroom after the first delight. There were sighs and loud streams resonating off the stainless steel urinal, and people were playfully shouting at each other from different parts of the room. Without shame. It had a lasting impression on me.
I zipped up a lumbered over to my table, got a new beer, and gave the Italians the Italian “nod” I made the art of miscalculation, so I didn’t think it would be difficult to locate the YoHo people. I was inebriated and the center was large. It was the same old where’s Waldo situation. They were happily having fun when I eventually located them. There were maybe eight of them, but I could only really identify half of them. The previous evening, I recalled labeling a few of the men’ twats. Well, I could have used a little change of scenery. The booze was striking me harder than before, so it was fortunate that I found them at the time I did.Time seemed like hot taffy, my vision became foggy, and my nerves felt like cotton. Things became even worse between them and me very quickly. I was being the conceited, naive drunk that I usually am. I was free to drool all over the guy’s hostel hookups. I also succeeded in getting alcohol all over everyone. Every time the band plays “ein prosit,” everyone raises their steins and sways them in different directions. As the song concludes, beer is ingested and steins are clanked. I tried my stein’s strength by slamming it as hard as I could against every other one every fifteen minutes or so, just to see how strong it was.People’s shoes and clothing were covered in a large amount of beer. Not to mention how much beer I gulp down every time. I was overcome with a dismal, animalistic abandonment when I raised that stein to my lips. I would feel happy from destroying myself. It’s a thrilling encounter that’s difficult to end.
I put on my sunglasses so that they completely covered my eyes. Even if I can only vaguely sense that I’m looking foolish, the glasses put my mind at rest. I don’t want to stick out, and in less than an hour, I felt like I had established quite the reputation for myself.
Things were spiraling out of control—three, four, even—into the outrageous. I was essentially gagging for more. They didn’t understand, but I did. I noticed that as time went on, I became less aware of what I was doing. I decided to play it cool and ducked out. I simply chugged a beer and walked away without saying goodbye. It was the farewell for which I am most suitable.
I was struck down hard by a sense of isolation shortly after I departed. I had no bed, no one within a few thousand miles knew my name, and I was in a tempest with three sheets to the wind. There is something calming and depressing about being among a bunch of people, regardless of how unpleasant the situation may be, and then abruptly cutting ties. The joyousness of all of them rubbed in my loneliness. Everybody was joyful, giving each other hugs and kisses, and some were even dancing while grinning from cheek to cheek. I became sober in a meditative way. Not that I was sober, but my circumstances were being examined very closely and objectively.
I staggered out of the tent and entered the world of screaming and lights. I was in another tent with an abrupt start. The Spaten tent, if my memory serves me right. There, things were not going well for me. Everyone was shaking their heads confusedly when I asked for a seat, so I must not have been speaking well. I got sneers all I got. They must have detected my scent as the drunken, disoriented person that I was. But a friend was all I really wanted! I managed to find a seat, but not a companion. It was done by a really chilly bitch. It was not nice to hear polite conversation in either English or German. The flirtation with the jerk across the table was welcome. He was also not amiable.I have no idea how I ended up stuck with the most antisocial folks during Oktoberfest. So I gave up, drinking my stein by myself and cradling my neck in my skull.
My brain had concluded the night was ruined even though it wasn’t fully digesting all that was happening to me at the moment. My antisocial disorder was really starting to take off. Individuals were becoming increasingly repulsive, and my level of cynicism was rising. I ought to have given up on my beer and taken the next train out. However, as soon as I finished that awful beer, my stomach began to turn around.
My face was as red as a tomato, my eyelids flashed, my eyes glassed over, and my pores leaked stinking beer sweat. It was getting too much to endure the pressure bearing down on me. At best, the roads were slick and my vision was blurry. I could sense the vibrations of the evening intensifying till their final moments.
I crawled outdoors and fell to the gravel after two misplaced calls. Bile crystallized into a lake as vomit cascaded to the ground. My stomach took twenty minutes to empty, and I had to use the last of my remaining energy.
Whispering curses, beady tendrils of puke clung to my mouth and echoed. I curled into a fetal position to protect myself from the terrible madness of the night. I lost consciousness there. I would have been in awe if I hadn’t been unwell. I awakened up with another finger snap, feeling as though a minute had gone by. There, I had lain for two hours. similar to a dream.
Even though I was really tired and sleepy, I was much more conscious of my environment and myself. I was drowning in vomit and self-pity, and all I could remember was a bunch of jovial revelers making jokes with me while I cried out for them to stop being mean to me.
Thankfully, none of the vomit had gotten on my clothes. I definitely smelled like alcohol, cigarettes, and sweat mixed with human garbage. When I started walking toward the train station, the blur of earlier that night came back to haunt me. I was sitting next to a train, holding a greasy Döner Kebab, when consciousness made its appearance. Every mouthful of my Kebab left globs of sauce and lettuce scattered around the platform. I took a big breath and started a cigarette. I felt secure and at ease for the first time in a very long day.For starters, the ordeal was finished, and I knew I still had the entire day to calm down. That night on the train to Berlin, I dozed off as a peaceful scenery of villages in the process of going to sleep passed by.
