Oktoberfest: Goodbye Comrades, Hello Frolines

Think Disney World, with its crowds of excited children, smiling and energetic, their imaginations overwhelmed by the real life characters they've grown up loving. Picture the cotton candy stands, the waterslides, and the sunny Florida weather. Now change the setting form Orlando to Southern Bavaria, replace the children and families with a few hundred thousand hammered adults, swap the soda and ice cream with 7 Million liters of beer and several hundred thousand chickens and pigs, and then substitute the friendly Disney characters signing autographs with grown German men in lederhosen. Now, you have the 200th Anniversary of Oktoberfest, the biggest party on the planet. Last year, over 6.5 Million people attended Oktoberfest, an 18-day festival that embodies every aspect of German culture, from the drinking songs and food to the traditional garb and waitresses that can carry a dozen-1 Liter steins (mugs) at once. It was the happiest, most jubilant atmosphere I've ever been a part of, with people from different nationalities, ethnicities, and every age group imaginable connected by one unifying factor: that it was 10:30 in the morning and they were drunk on the most delicious beer in the world.

The festival itself resembled a big carnival with rides, games, food and souvenir stands galore, perpetual hordes of people, and neon lights. The defining characteristic of Oktoberfest, however, are the dozen or so massive "tents" that house most of the fun. These enormous, iconic structures can fit close to 10,000 people each and have their own unique flavor and crowd. Getting a table in any of them is the only stressful component of the whole Oktoberfest experience and inevitably means reaching the park by 7 or 8 a.m. The tents close at 11:00 p.m. Consequently, it's not unusual for seasoned festivalgoers to drink for 15 hours straight. It was no surprise, then, that all 10 Larries at the festival were down for the count by dinnertime on our first day. Busch and Keystone Light are apparently no match for heavy Bavarian beers that reigned supreme at this venue. With hindsight and experience on our side the second day, we paced ourselves accordingly and survived through the end of the night. Throughout the course of the day, I lost track of how many random people I shared a cheer or a song with. Because of this powerful camaraderie, the next Israeli-Palestinian peace summit should be at the 2011 Oktoberfest; I'm convinced that's a foolproof plan towards lasting peace in the Middle-East.

Everything about the weekend screamed Bavarian culture. We started referring to our roommates as "Froline," especially after they braided their hair and learned a number of German drinking songs (at least the mumbled, slurred yells that we thought resembled the lyrics). The number of 1 Liter mugs the waitresses could carry defied all the laws of physics, and I've already sent Coach Mahoney an email suggesting this new off-season training program. Who needs deadlifts and dumbbells when you have steins? 

Our attempt to be culturally tolerant towards the Bavarians and their ways. They were a strange people, but I think we finally figured out their peculiar behavior.

The crew from 25 Ve Smechach early Saturday morning at the Hacker-Psschor beer garden.

Tucker and I with our new Peruvian friends. After a lot of yelling, cheering, hugging, and bad spanish, I think I've found my wedding party...

Indiana Jones inside the Hofbrauhaus tent at 10:30 p.m. It seemed that the whole country was drunk-kind of like Superbowl Sunday, but every night for three weeks times one hundred.

Tucker with Froline Emma and Froline Lana in between verses of Beatles songs and table dancing.

 

Tucker and I rented a car again for this expedition and by driving on the Autobahn, I was able to check another item off my adrenaline junky to-do list. Despite all the power under the hood of our little Skoda Mobile, we had a hard time keeping up with the BMW's and Porches that would scream by us (even when we were consistently traveling at speeds over 120 mph). I guess Czech muscle just isn't all that it's cracked up to be. 

On a more serious, more responsible note, classes began this past week. The material, professors, and other students all seem to be really interesting and I'm excited about the semester. Because this is a "study-abroad" program, a sentence or two dedicated to my course load seemed appropriate. In addition to a mandatory course in Czech, I'm taking a course about Post-Communist era Eastern Europe, one about the EU, another on Non-Democratic Regimes since World War II, and a fourth on the Holocaust. The class rosters, which consists of only 10-15 names, are composed of half American students and half European students. We all signed up for a program coordinated by CERGE that pairs its American students with Czechs that can provide a local perspective and wisdom about urban life in this country. I think a lot of the guys were hoping for some sort of Czech dating service and were disappointed in their male assignments. Our Czech buddies, however, are all awesome and will hopefully become close friends.

Tucker and I pushing the German Secret Police to the edge of their tolerance for American tourists. We eased off when he threatened to make us disappear. Unfortunately, the picture wasn't a candid snapshot of two American heroes. Rather, it was staged and the cop was actually a really nice guy. We won't, however, try to befriend the Turkish Police this coming weekend on our trip to Istanbul...