Oktoberfest- Day 1

Perhaps it was excitement, perhaps it was merely the time change, my head bounced off the pillow at 5 am. Refusing to miss a moment of the celebration, we left for the train station at 8. Visibly tourists, Americans, and lost— a kind gentleman in a leather coat helped us through the process of purchasing a Bayern Pass which allows you to travel on all local and regional trains and busses in Bavaria. We’d later come to learn that "Bayern" is the German term for Bavarian. If you're reading this (kind, leather clad, Puerto Rican man who now lives in Florida), Danke schön. Some time before the third stop, I looked to Savannah and asked her if any of it felt real yet. We agreed that it didn’t. Then a middle-aged man stepped aboard dressed in full, authentic lederhosen. Station by station, stop by stop, the number of Oktoberfest patrons seemed to grow exponentially. Soon the lederhosen and drindls outnumbered the business and travel attire four to one. Then it felt real.

The train pulled into central station and we made our way to Theresienwiese— the fair grounds that Oktoberfest calls home. After a 10 minute walk, we turned a corner as the first wave of attendees was let past the gates. It being 9:30, the grounds were empty and it felt akin to visiting the town fair back home. The deeper we walked into the belly of that beast, the less it felt that way. Tents the size of football fields housed enough wooden tables to seat an army and half a navy. The heavenly aroma of roasted nuts coated in cinnamon and sugar would stop you in your tracks and have you floating by the nose towards them, like Jerry the mouse smelling cheese. In the distance, an overpriced ferris wheel looms over a merry-go-round and several other rides that look as though they might cost you a pretty penny and potentially your life.

Savannah is a breakfast connoisseur whose day depends on a hearty plate of eggs, toast, and more eggs. Knowing this, I made plans for us to eat at the best brunchery in the park, which just happened to look like a gingerbread house. We pointed to indiscernible words on the menu and were served a platter of cheeses, fruits, bread rolls, jams, potatoes, and of course… eggs. Satiated, we exited the North Pole looking establishment just in time for the opening ceremony where the beer tent landlords are paraded in on horse-drawn floats and carriages of varying degrees of ornament. It was cold, but not so much to deter the newly present masses from packing the areas beyond the stanchions.

If there was one thing I wanted to do at Oktoberfest (beyond the obvious), it was to record the mayor tapping the first keg precisely at noon to commence the festivities and begin the sale of beer across every tent on the grounds. Selling a stein before this is not only forbidden, but a direct besmirchment of the tradition and honor of all Bavaria. At 11:50 am I knew that our time to enter the Schottenhamel tent in which this sacrament takes place was running thin. We muscled, wound, and found our way through the crowd like a snake through a drainpipe. Shoulder to shoulder and unable to budge an inch, we watched as men and women both failed to convince the guards that they did, indeed, belong inside. Claims of reservations, families waiting, and flirtatious advances were all met with stoic refusal. Recognizing that we stood no shot, I grabbed Savannah’s hand and ran her around to the back of the tent. I knocked on a wooden door where another guard stood watch inside. He opened it and before he could get a word out I told him I was with the press. With my camera in hand, I believed we stood a shot. “Press pass”, he demanded.

“I don’t have it" I explained. "It must have dropped in the crowd. Look I need to be in there in the next five minutes to get the shot of the mayor tapping the keg.”

“Who are you with?” He asked.

“I’m with GNN", I assured him. "Global News Network.”

At the time I thought I had made up a completely fake news organization but have now come to learn, after some preliminary research, that it happens to exist in some form or another somewhere in Asia. The guard offered a curt nod and waved me in. I turned back to wave in Savannah.

“No, no. Who is she?” He inquired.

“She’s my producer!” I shot back impatiently.

There was a pregnant pause for about five seconds. Then he waved us both in.

Somehow the inside of the Schottenhamel tent was more crowded than its outside. It was the size of a small aircraft hanger where men, women, children, families, and friends all stood on thin wooden bench seats to get a better view of the Tapping and Opening Ceremony. When I say they were all standing, I mean literally 6,000+ people were standing just below tabletop level. We managed to work our way about 25 yards from center stage in a position that would be ideal for getting the shot, provided we weren’t staring into the kneecaps of everyone around us. I looked up to a German fellow towering above me and asked if he could hold up the camera. He obliged happily and with zero hesitation. Not a moment later did the tent erupt in a countdown from zehn to eins. Oktoberfest had officially begun, the brew was free to flow, and we/he got the shot. Immediately the tent transitioned from quiet beer thirsty reverence to celebratory chaos.

Tired of feeling like sardines in a can, we made our escape in hopes of finding a beer in the process. What we know now is that beer is served to tables and those tables are reserved for parties of 10 or more. We managed to explore three tents before coming to that conclusion. It turns out that getting a beer at the world's largest beer festival isn't as easy as one might imagine. On the precipice of excepting defeat, we made our way toward the rainy exit of another tent. There, a server in full traditional garb, stood at the threshold of the exit holding two chilled and frothy steins of beer. He smiled at us as if he’s been expecting us this entire time. “Vould you like a beir?”, he asked. Like a Bavarian beer-toting Jesus, he found us ready to fold, thirsty, and in the pits of despair. We followed him outside to complete the transaction and at long last took our first sips almost 5 hours in.

Not long after, at that same tent, we met two commercial Delta airlines pilots— one of whom looked a lot like Billy Crystal. They were flying out in the morning but decided to have their fill of märzens, helles, and dunkels before doing so. We exchanged pleasantries and told them what we did professionally. Without knowing almost anything about me or the quality of my work ethic, they told me to just become a pilot, as if flying a commercial aircraft was like driving for Uber. A few things I learned from them:

1. Putting your phone on airplane mode doesn’t really matter anymore.

2. Navy pilots have more of a reputation for bumpy landings than Air Force pilots.

3. Notorious con man, Frank William Abigail (from Catch Me If You Can), was as untruthful in recounting his time posing as an airline pilot as he was in the rest of his endeavors.

4. People don’t consider it flattering when you tell them they look like Billy Crystal.

As one often does at Oktoberfest we left to use the facilities and bid our high-flying friends prost and safe travels.

At the tent across the street we met Julie and Ken— two actuaries of our same age who worked for Allianz and had just moved to Germany permanently. We enjoyed their company for an hour or so until both parties mutually settled on the idea of finding a second location. The wives decided on the wine tent which is infamous for not taking reservations. We entered as a group of four but by the time we annexed a reserved table on the upstairs balcony, we’d somehow become a group of nine. Enter our friends for the hour: Theresea, Henrietta, Nati, unknown guy #1, and unknown guy #2 who immediately sat down and passed out in an upright position.

I remember agreeing to split one bottle of white wine which quickly turned into 3. Math and time are a funny thing at Oktoberfest. Perhaps we weren’t using metric. As a group we played a few games and shortly after a female tent attendant sat next to the sleeping fellow in an attempt to wake him. For some reason, unknown guy #1 found this to be an opportune moment to remove his shirt.

The men and women left for the bathroom at the same time and, believing that our party would eventually return to the table, I temporarily lost track of Savannah. I confess, I did panic for some time, but only because her mother promised to kill me if anything should happen to her. We agreed earlier in the day that if we became separated we’d meet at the Ferris wheel. Reunited, we agreed to call it quits and walked back into Munich with our first full day under our belts. However, after 45 minutes we realized we were walking in the exact opposite direction of the train station. As I stated earlier, every night we find ourselves slightly more informed and entirely exhausted.