Oktoberfest in Munich: Prost!

Have you ever wondered what it was like to travel to a land where nobody cares about how many carbs they eat in a day, or how many calories they can count on their plate? Did you think that such a place existed? Well, have no fear. If gastronomic indulgence is your pleasure, then all the answers to your life problems lie in one word: Germany.

            I arrived in Munich last Thursday to experience the absurdity that is Oktoberfest. The largest festival in the world dedicated to one beverage – beer. For sure there is nothing else that can rival its debauchery. Not knowing what to expect, and admittedly a little afraid to enter the fray without the guidance of an experienced German, my friend Aliki and I spent Thursday afternoon exploring the city and enjoying authentic German cuisine.

            You know how in the US at most restaurants you get a complimentary breadbasket before your meal? In Germany, this lovely carb-fest is replaced with none other than a basket of “bretzel”, or as we call it in the US, soft pretzel. And seriously Philadelphia, watch out. Germany has you totally beat with their giant creations. Giant…I’m not even sure that does justice to the size of these things. Gargantuan may be more like it. One bretzel is half the size of my torso. Enough to feed at least five people.

Told you they were big

            After you have gorged yourself on bretzel, always accompanied by a monstrous glass of beer, your real meal arrives - most likely some combination of sausage and sauerkraut, always with a side of potatoes. Always the potatoes. Needless to say, you leave the German dining table feeling like someone needs to roll you out the door. Or at least I did. Uncomfortably full after a traditional Bavarian feast, we strolled (or waddled) home to catch up on sleep and prepare for a full day ahead…

            Oh, I almost forgot. The sites. Well, a lot of people will tell you the only thing to do in Munich is the Fest. And to an extent, they would be right, unless you like going to random museums and then spending the rest of the day sitting and drinking in a biergarten. Not the worst thing in the world, but not exactly intellectually stimulating. However, there is beautiful architecture, including the Glockenspiel and the Opera House. If you’re an Olympics buff, I suppose a trip to the old Olympic grounds would be in order. In traditional European fashion, most the roads converge on “platzs” or open walking areas filled with restaurants, bars, and shops. And the city is impeccably clean! Perhaps my appreciation of this cleanliness is heightened because I now live in France, land where people refuse to pick up after their dogs and cigarettes adorn the city streets like stars on Hollywood Boulevard, but still. I was impressed.

Glockenspiel

            Friday afternoon we met up with our friend Stefan, a bona fide Bavarian, and our guide through the world of Oktoberfest. Clad in lederhosen, clogs, and a checked shirt, he fit right in. Dressed in jeans, flats, and a cute top, I, more or less, did not. Nevertheless, the three of us made our way through the crowds at Thereisenwiese to Hippodrome, the tent where Stefan had (luckily) secured us entry wristbands. Note about Oktoberfest: entry into the tents can be somewhat tricky. If you don’t have a table reservation or wristband, you most likely won’t get in. Some tents will allow you to go early (i.e. 7:30am), stand in line, and get in that way – I actually had a few friends who did this – but it often doesn’t work. Despite these obstacles, there are a few tricks of the trade that might help you in. 1. Men, go with women. The security guards are much more sympathetic if you have someone pretty on your arm. 2. Woman, look pretty and smile at the security guards, then they will let you in. 3. Learn German so you can talk your way in. And my favorite, 4. Have a German friend that lies and tells the security that you work for the largest company in Munich, have a table inside, are here with business associates, and that it will look very badly for them if they don’t let you in. (Just in case you were wondering, it does actually work).

Hippodrome Tent

            Shortly after getting in to Hippodrome, we left to meet up with Stefan’s friends at the Hofbrauhaus tent. Employing method number 4 outlined above, we entered the tent, only to never find his friends. But it really doesn’t matter – it’s Oktoberfest! After two of those beers, you’re friends with everyone. And so we drank, and we made friends. Friends with tables. And we stayed from 4pm until closing, singing along with the bands and dancing on the tables. It was packed!! Oddity about Oktoberfest and/or Germans: they love to sing “Sweet Home Alabama” and “Take Me Home, Country Roads”. Bizarre, right? Did make me a bit homesick though!

Crowded inside the tents

            Saturday was much like Friday. We woke up on the late side, grabbed a bite to eat, and went to meet friends at the Fest. This time we were meeting my friend Sarah from Semester at Sea, who graduated from UVA two years ago and recently moved to Zurich. She was up in Munich with another UVA girl her year, Whitney, and Whitney’s boyfriend, who is from Bavaria. Lucky for us, they had gotten to the Ochsenbraterei tent at 7:30am that morning, and had secured a table. 

Semester at Sea reunion!

Having smiled nicely at the bouncer Aliki and I had had no trouble getting into the tent. With them at a table, we had no trouble getting beer. It was quite nice. The night progressed much the same. Lots of rowdy people drinking, singing, and dancing on tables. The band continued to play American country favorites, mixed with a few Bavarian traditional songs. I now know the complete dance to one of these songs, but couldn’t even attempt to tell you the name of it if I tried.

Seriously big beer.

            Sunday was a day of recovery, to say the least. We got up late, lounged, ate a big meal around 3pm, walked a bit around the city, and returned to the hotel. I doubt I will be drinking beer again for a VERY long time. Oh, but the meal we had. Now that was entertaining. In Germany, everything is closed on Sunday. And I mean, everything. We walked all over the city until we found something open for a late lunch. What did we manage to find? The only Croatian restaurant in all of Munich. So much for authenticity, huh? But oh well, it was good. However, at the end of the meal, I was reminded why there are stereotypes about rude Germans. It is because, in fact, they are rude. Aliki and I were having an enthusiastic conversation about travel (what else?) and why we love it, and perhaps happened to get a tiny bit loud. But the restaurant was full and bustling with people, so it’s not like we were the only ones making noise. As we were finishing, a lovely (insert: very sarcastic tone) German couple was seated next to us. No sooner had she sat down then she turned and yelled at us “Are you deaf? Why are you screaming? Be quiet!” Rude, rude, rude. What if I had been slightly deaf? I doubt she would have even felt bad. Steaming, we left the restaurant, walked around, and returned to the hotel. As soon as we got to the room we cuddled up in our duvets, turned on a movie, and before we knew it, were sound asleep…until about 11pm.

            A little before 11, stomachs growling, we woke up. It had been eight hours since we had eaten and we were hungry. Problem: everything in Germany is closed on Sunday. What in the world we were going to do? I happened to mention that if we were in the US we could have anything delivered within minutes. “Great idea!”, Aliki said. We began to search online for “food delivery + Munich”. Turns out, most of the places that deliver food in Munich are Indian restaurants. No problem for me there, I love Indian as much as the next person. The one problem? How were we supposed to make the call? Neither one of us spoke German. So we tried “Hello, do you speak English?” The answer: “Nein. Sprechen sie Deutch?” Our reply: “No, no German.” They hang up. Turns out, ordering food for late night delivery in a foreign country, not the easiest thing. Eventually we found a place where we could order online. We used google translator to translate all the names of the dishes (tedious work), made our choices, and placed the order. Then we waited. And we waited. And we waited. This was 11pm. When did the food finally arrive? 12:30am. We got an angry phone call from a non-English speaking delivery man who was locked outside the hotel. We crept downstairs, opened the door, paid, grabbed the food, and ran back up – lest anyone should see us being pigs and eating in the middle of the night! Of course, by this time, I was no longer hungry. I took one bite, put my food to the side, and went to sleep. However, there is a silver lining. I now know where to order late night food in Munich, in case I ever go back and get hungry in the middle of the night.

            As I write this, I’m taking the train from Munich back to Strasbourg. Back to the real world, the one where I start my job in 3 days! I am so excited to get to work. I’ve been itching to have something to do in Strasbourg, and the teachers at my school seem incredibly nice. My first day is only observation, but I am glad to finally meet the teachers, students, and do what I came here to do – teach!

P.S. Since we continue to not have internet at our apartment, I post all of my entries from the local Subway. 5 dollar foot long, anyone?

P.P.S. And if you're wondering what prost means, it's cheers in German.

Welcome to France

Moving anywhere is hard. All the planning, packing, shipping, and schlepping is tedious and sometimes frustrating. Moving overseas can be even worse. And let me just say, moving to France, is a whole other story altogether.

             I arrived at the Strasbourg airport fresh from the DC heat. Sporting only leggings, a light sweater and a scarf, I stepped out onto the windswept tarmac. A balmy 42 degrees with raging winds was my welcome to France. Unaccustomed to arctic weather conditions, I hustled into the airport to wait for the over one hundred pounds of luggage I had packed. Why, when I was packing, I thought I would need 18 pairs of shoes is beyond me. But they’re all here, lined up on my shelves, waiting their day to be worn. (I’ve managed to make it through six so far, which I figure is a pretty good rate, for only being here a total of 4 days thus far). At any rate, one of my new roommates, Chrissy, was coming to get me at the airport with her mom. Her family lives in Stuttgart, which is not too far away from Strasbourg. I should probably take a time out and explain how I got matched up with my roommates in the first place. For those of you who know the story,  by all means, skip ahead!

            After returning from Spain and Croatia the third week of August, I was pretty much apoplectic about not finding somewhere to live in Strasbourg. But let me assure you, it was not for lack of trying. I had scoured website after website and contacted everyone I knew who might know someone in the city. All with no luck. Noticing my increasingly panicked state, my mom mentioned to a family friend that I was a little concerned at my soon-to-be homelessness in France. Well, Joan Cole to the rescue! It just so happened that she had good friends whose granddaughter had just graduated from UVA, was moving to Strasbourg, had just found an apartment, and needed roommates. Jackpot! We got in touch, worked out a deal, and I finally had a place to live.

            Next step: find someone to share my room because the rent for just 2 was a little steep. Laura, my other roommate, who has yet to arrive, is also teaching English through my same program. We had been commiserating over how hard it was to find housing in France when this apartment deal fell into my lap. I proposed we share a room, she agreed, and then we were three.

            And now, back to the story of my arrival. After meeting Chrissy and her mom, going back to the apartment and dropping my bags, it was time for lunch. Try not to get jealous, but we went to a small, hole-in-the-wall crêperie with fresh buckwheat crêpes and piping hot cappuccinos. Welcome to France, where good food reigns and meals are enjoyed, not just eaten on the go. After Chrissy raced off to class, her mom and I walked around the city to see the sights: the cathedral, Place Kleber, etc, dually noting the good-looking patisseries and boulangeries. I then made an appointment to set up my bank account with BNP Paribas, and walked to the post office to pick up some packages I had shipped to myself from the US. Note to self: never do this again. France happens to think my packages contain merchandise, and thus taxed me over $100 to bring them into the country. What they really had: a few belts, my old sheets, towels from my first year of school, and a pair of sandals. All clearly for commercial use. Note to you: If you ever send me anything (or anyone in France for that matter), check “gift” on the customs form to avoid this problem. After attempting to recover my lost 85€, I traipsed over to the grocery store. With my little cart in tow, I picked up some yogurt, tuna, oatmeal, shampoo, conditioner, soap, cheese, broccoli, water and the obligatory pepper grinder (it’s kinda my thing).  Everything a girl needs to survive in France! My attempt to buy almonds, the last thing on my list, was a complete and total failure. Almonds in France are found in the produce section, of course. They’re a kind of serve-yourself food in a plastic bin with a scoop to dump your almonds into the bag. Well I thought to myself, nuts might be good to have on hand in case I get hungry, I’ll grab a bag. Little did I know the system here is VERY unlike the system we have at the Giant. You can’t just bring your bag of goodies to the checker and have them weigh and price your item, no, no. This is France, that would be too much work for the checker. So, when I moved through the line to check out, the incredibly grumpy checker informed me I had to go back and weigh my almonds. I went to the nearest scale, weighed them, and came back. No, she said, this is wrong. They are organic; you must use the organic scale. Well where the hell is the organic scale? Back in the produce section, of course. So I left the line (half of my items already checked out), raced to the produce section, properly weighed my almonds, and returned. All that for less than 2€. Well, lesson learned, I suppose. My advice to you? Don’t attempt to buy organic nuts in France, you will inevitably weigh them on the wrong scale and cause serious mayhem as the checker screams bloody murder and you race around the store like a chicken with its head cut off. Welcome to France, we make everything more complicated for you, just for fun.

After this harrowing experience, I went back to the apartment to unpack, and then back out for dinner with Chrissy and her mom. This time we were on a mission – tarte flambée. Basically Alsace’s version of the pizza, and it’s quite good. We found a small side street tucked away from the cathedral tourist beat, walked into a packed 10-table restaurant (with luckily one opening), and ate ourselves silly. Full on food and wine and exhausted from not having slept on the plane, I flopped into bed at 11pm. Little did I know I would be wide awake a mere 5 hours later…

            I’ve never been one to get really bad jet lag. But this time, it simply isn’t fair. Every night I go to bed around 11, having taken no naps during the day. Like clockwork I am wide-awake at 4am, with no hope of falling back asleep. And let me tell you something – when you’re thousands of miles away from home, really homesick, exhausted, unable to sleep, and stressed about settling in, 4am is an incredibly lonely time.

            But anyway, back to the story. So day two’s big event: IKEA: The Mecca of cheap furniture, bedding, decorations and storage. Just where I needed to shop on my tight, English-teacher salary. The store itself is less than 10 minutes from the city of Strasbourg, but how long do you think it took us to find it? An hour and a half. Welcome to France, land of no signs and incredibly misleading directions. After finally arriving around 4pm, we spent a good three hours accumulating duvet covers, pillows, blankets, bath mats, hangers, hampers, hooks, drying racks (we only have a washer in our house), boxes, bins, etc. My final adornment? A $6 orchid that makes my bare room look a little less like a mental institution. That, and a painting my sister made for me before I left, a small Monet-inspired piece that now hangs on my wall. All in all, not too costly for everything I managed to get. They were selling pillows for 1€, just in case you were wondering. And no, they’re not that bad.

            After IKEA, we cooked at home, had a nice beef bourguignon for dinner, and around 10pm, I put myself to bed. I was so tired, I thought, I don’t need an Ambien to help me sleep, I’ll surely sleep through the night. Again, wrong. At 4am I was up and roaming about my room with nothing to do.

But no time to rest! At 8:30am on Friday I had my appointment at BNP to set up my bank account. I had all the necessary papers and documentation as to who I am, why I am in France, and where I live, but my account cannot be activated for another 10 days. Why? Because this is France, land of long wait times and complex procedurs. The fun continued when I met Chrissy and her mom at Darty, our supposed internet/TV/telephone provider. When Chrissy had arrived on September 1^st, she had made an appointment with Darty to have this all installed. They told her she had to wait – that’s right, 10 days, before anything could be activated. So she did. After 10 days the technician came out, attempted to make the installation, but realized he would need to pull cabling out of the wall to do so. Only able to do this with the permission of our landlord, he left the apartment as internet-less as he had found it. I arrived the day after this had happened, and took it upon myself to call the landlord and see what was up. He told me we weren’t allowed to put in internet this way because he had just repainted the apartment “à neuf” and we had to find another way. So on my third day, we went to Darty. I explained that our previous contract needed to be canceled because our landlord wouldn’t let us put in the high-speed system. That’s all fine they said, everything can go through the phone line. What’s the phone number of your house? Of course I had no idea. So they did a reverse search for the previous tenants of our apartment, found the number they had used, and set up a new system for us to go through the phone line. Only, we have to wait, that’s right, 10 days before our account can be activated. So we probably won’t have internet until October. Yipee! I’m trying not to stress too much about it though, I’m adapting to the French way of life where everything takes longer and is much more complicated, but everyone still seems to be pleased about it. As I write this, on my fourth day here, I’m trying to figure out exactly how to post this first blog entry…We’ll see how soon this one gets up. I may just have to wait until I go to Munich next Thursday for Oktoberfest, and use the internet in the hotel.

Despite all of my complaining, Strasbourg is a beautiful, amazing city. The architecture is wonderfully old and quaint, reflecting both the French and German heritage of the region. Church spires dominate the skyline, and soft pretzel vendors line the streets. The Orangerie, a beautiful park only 4 blocks from my apartment, is home to the summer house Napoleon built for Josephine. The outside loop of the park itself is about 2 miles, and the trails are overrun with joggers. There are swans in all of the waterways, and flowers adorn every bridge and pedestrian walkway. We are a mere 20-minute bus ride from Kehl, Germany, there is a modern tram system that connects all corners of the city, and more shopping than a girl knows what to do with. On top of all this, today was a beautiful day with nothing but blue skies and sunshine. In Place Kleber we happened upon an impromptu music concert, and on my run in the Orangerie, I stumbled upon a wood carving festival. Only in France. 

And here’s a reward for those of you who made it to the end of this lengthy entry. A little life-comes-full-circle moment, if you will. 37 years ago, my mom studied abroad in Strasbourg. Armed with her map from the 1970s, and a few letters she wrote to my grandmother, I have been walking in her footsteps and re-experiencing her college study-abroad. I’ve found her old apartment, post office, and grocery store. I’ve visited her favorite picnic spot and taken the same bus into Kehl. I only hope to leave with as many fond memories of Strasbourg as she did, and I know that won’t be hard to do. Below you'll find a few pictures of the city, including the canals, the cathedral and the Orangerie.

Welcome to France! 

View of centre-ville, cathedral spire in the background

On a bridge somewhere...

Strasbourg Cathedral

The Orangerie

Sculpture from the wood-carving festival