American Life In The Summertime #27 - "RED MAN!!!"

Virtually nobody uses my actual name, except my mother, and so when I hear it I always assume I've done something wrong.  As a result, over the years I have accumulated more nicknames than virtually anybody I know, however I now appear to have accumulated one more.  For Oktoberfest, I had booked with the same tour company that I used for the Running of the Bulls, and as I walked into the camp ground to register in Munich, the first staff member saw me from 50 metres away and rushed over with a huge yell and a hug.  OK, I thought, it's nice to be remembered, but I then proceeded to be welcomed with open arms as a long-lost brother by a total of 7 staff members I had met in Pamplona 3 months earlier.  The friend I arrived with was looking at me like "What the hell did you do last time?" and given that there were almost two thousand people in that group I was starting to get a big head about the impression I must have made, but it was the last one that finally twigged it, as he rushed over with a yell:   "RED MAN!!!".

Ahhh.  Of course.  I had forgotten that on the day before the opening day of Pamplona, I had arrived back at the camp ground virtually nude and completely red from the fake blood from my unexpected participation in the Running Of The Nudes.  This seems to have cemented my legacy with Festival Adventures staff and by the end of Oktoberfest I was receiving free drinks, about 4 breakfasts per morning (highly sought after) and offers to come back and work with them next year.   Clearly wandering around in underwear and a strange colour is the "right stuff" for which they are searching as a staff member for these events.  I even got to keep the underwear, crucial for adding an extra day to the rotation when you are travelling this long, although they are so red that they can't really be worn without rubbing off on the rest of my clothes to look like I have stabbed someone with my groin, an alarming image whichever way you interpret it.

Welcome to OKTOBERFEST, just about the most fun you can have in September with leather pants.  As friendly as Las Vegas was, the locals at Oktoberfest have raised this to a completely new level.

After such a warm and frankly promising greeting, Oktoberfest was always going to be an interesting time.   Lederhosen.  Oom-pah bands.  Dancing on tables.  And beer.   Lots and lots of beer.  Which means lots and lots of bathroom stops.  Now as much as I love the Germans, there is one thing they don't really seem to get right, and that is bathrooms.   The urinals for guys were set up facing each other, but instead of being on opposite sides of a wall they were on opposite sides of a very low shelf, and so you stood there gazing awkwardly into another man's eyes as you expelled your last 4 beers.  It was like an open plan office where everyone had suddenly stood up to compare.  I very rarely have my tackle out in the office these days, and almost never in an open plan office, so I must admit it was a little unsettling.  And the bizarreness doesn't end there.  At one point I walked in to find a guy at the sink shaving.   This is in the bathroom of the largest beer tent on the opening day of Oktoberfest, and here's old mate all lathered up with the razor as ten thousand people file past him to pee.  No idea why he suddenly decided he needed to shave, or indeed why he had his razor and shaving cream with him in the pub at all, but in all I was left with the feeling that German bathrooms are just a little too familiar for me.

Oktoberfest was also important for learning all you need to know about the mating strategy of the Italian male:  wear her down.  We were sitting at a table with some American girls and a bunch of Italian guys on a bachelor party.   It was like being back in Turkey but without the classy garbage man "hell of a dumper" pickup lines.  Hyper-aggressive, about 8 guys were steadily crowding the 3 American girls until they were all virtually sitting in their laps as they tried to kiss necks, give foot massages, put arms around waists and at one point take photos down tops as the girl was distracted by yet another Italian trying to touch her.  Of course, the instant any of them gave up and failed to remove the hand that was now on her leg, this was interpreted as a sign to continue to the next step, and so on until soon they would all be lying on the table in one big pile.  The guys had little English but they knew enough to get their message across:  at one point one of them - the guy getting married the next weekend - leaned over to me and said in a conspiratorial and rather drunken whisper: "That girl - I want to........dick!", a confidence which was in any event completely unnecessary to share as it was obvious to people living on Mars, in a cave, with their eyes closed and their fingers in their ears, that he wanted to dick, let alone to me sitting right next to it as he leaned over half the table to lay his head on her breasts.

All in all, Oktoberfest was everything you have heard.   I drank a lot of beer, ate about 4 pigs and 51 chickens.   I danced on tables and met random people from all over the world.   And above all, I sang ridiculous songs in German at the top of my voice, which has now completely gone except for returning sporadically in an uncharacteristic high falsetto so I sound like I am 13 again with my gear caught in my lederhosen.  The following drinking song, translated into English, tells you everything you need to know about Oktoberfest and how much sense it needs to make:

"My hat, he has three corners

Three corners has my hat

And had he not three corners

He would not be my hat."


Agreed.  And so this seems yet again a good time to leave the update, as we remember the wise words of the great Jerry Springer and remind you 'til next time: take care of yourselves.....and each other.