When Friday morning arrived, one thing was painfully obvious: we had not consumed enough 
beer. To remedy this grave oversight, we went back to the Oktoberfest grounds, although this time we left about an hour earlier than we did on Thursday morning, so as to better position ourselves for tables that were not at all reserved. Our punctuality paid off, as we were able to snag 2 1/2 unreserved tables right next to the band podium at the Pschorr Bräurosl at about 11am.
Next time you're at Oktoberfest, I highly suggest going to a tent for a full day. It was a hell of an experience, and one that I won't soon forget. Or remember.
We had one full table right up against the band podium, another nearly full table, save for two Italian dudes sitting on the end (Manolo and Andrea) right behind the first table, and then a half a table (other Italian dudes, including one who bore a resemblance to Kenny G) right behind the second table.
beer. To remedy this grave oversight, we went back to the Oktoberfest grounds, although this time we left about an hour earlier than we did on Thursday morning, so as to better position ourselves for tables that were not at all reserved. Our punctuality paid off, as we were able to snag 2 1/2 unreserved tables right next to the band podium at the Pschorr Bräurosl at about 11am.Next time you're at Oktoberfest, I highly suggest going to a tent for a full day. It was a hell of an experience, and one that I won't soon forget. Or remember.
We had one full table right up against the band podium, another nearly full table, save for two Italian dudes sitting on the end (Manolo and Andrea) right behind the first table, and then a half a table (other Italian dudes, including one who bore a resemblance to Kenny G) right behind the second table.
Our waitress was strong like an ox and might have had the biggest boobs of all-time.
I sat next to Manolo (he's the creepier looking one) for most of the day.
Neither he nor Andrea (which is Italian for Andrew) spoke much English, and my Italian is only slightly better than my Korean. Language was no barrier, however, as we all shared a mutual love of beer, and I can say with authority that they both love pussy. I was able to discern this because (1) they are Italian men and (2) they instituted repeated cheers of "viva la poo-see," "viva la va-jeen-ah," and "viva la viga" (which I assume means "viva la female genitalia"). Manolo also repeatedly looked at women, nudged me to look at said women, and then simulated licking her, uh, pink skittle. We got along pretty well.
The entire day was awesome. Apparently, the Pschorr Bräurosl is one of the more lively tents, and we had a blast. The band, Südtiroler Spitzbuam (or, in English, the South Tiroler Spitzbaum) really riled the crowd. They started at noon, and played until close (10 p.m.).
By 12:30, people were already standing on their benches.
Among the many songs they played were the following:- DJ Ötzi's timeless remake of "Hey Baby" by Bruce Channel (not to be confused with "A Bay Bay" by Hurricane Chris). The best part of the remake is that after the "heeeeeeyyyyy, hey baby," DJ Ötzi inserted a forceful "Ooh! Ah!" which the crowd really gets into.
-As expected, the "Battle Hymn of the Republic" was played early and often throughout the day, or at least the part from the beginning of the song through the end of the first chorus. I don't get it either. Maybe Südtiroler Spitzbuam is a Unionist band.
-Bryan Adams's classic "Summer of '69," only with lyrics that were about 33% correct. Perhaps "standin' on your mama's porch / you told me it was now or never" doesn't translate well.
-"We Will Rock You"
-"Sierra Madre," in which "sierra" sounded like "Sarah," so we all looked at Sarah and sang in her direction. This wouldn't be the last time we messed up a sing-along.
-And of course, the expected "Country Roads, "Furstenfeld," "Viva Bavaria," "Ein Prosit," and various DJ Ötzi classics were played.
Here are some other highlights/notes from the day:
-The only downfall I can see to drinking all day in a tent at Oktoberfest is that regular, non-sparkling water is harder to come by than a vegetable. Seriously, it was rough going trying to get some water. Our uncaring waitress only brought us one liter of water, and she would not bring another one until that one was finished, and she charged us just as much for that liter of water as a liter of beer. (By "us" I mean Jessie, Ari, and Kyla -- I don't need hydration.) And of course you can get sparkling water fairly easily, but sparkling water might be the least thirst-quenching drink this side of hot gin.
-The souvenir lady takes off her shirt for no reason.
-Kyla put a sausage in my beer. Ha ha.
-By the early evening, there were huge lines at every entrance to the tent, including the side entrances and service entrances. It was a satisfying feeling walking into the bathroom and seeing hundreds of people waiting outside and wishing they were able to piss in the very same trough I was about to piss in.
-Tyler styles his hair with beer.
-Jer buys awesome hat.
-Various twentysomething Germans found their way into our area and interacted with us, including, but not limited to:
-Benedict, the son of one of the waiters. He was a good egg, and spoke pretty good English.
-Some pederast who probably listens to a lot of Flock of Seagulls
-One of Benedict's buddies who called himself Frank the Tank, and who claimed to have consumed something like 8 liters in 5 hours and kept passing out at the table.
-Michael, a dude with a soccer jacket who asked me what my job was, and I spent 20 minutes unsuccessfully trying to explain to him that I was a lawyer.
-Some chicks in dirndls who I never met, but hung out at the table next to us.
-Some twelve-year-old Aryan who Sara took a picture with.
-Later in the evening, Roxy, Julia, and Julia's boyfriend, Nameless Douchebag, joined our table.
From the moment she arrived, Roxy seemed both distracted and less attractive than Julia. She drank her beer with nothing more than the occasional smirk, and barely batted an eye when I told her that Chandler and I were wealthy industrialists specializing in the importation of amateur German barely legal porn into the US. After a furious text message exchange with who I assume to be a man named Jürgen or Horst who did not want her to make a series of upskirt videos, Roxy just sat there crying. Chandler and I tried to comfort her by telling her, "Shut up. You're ruining Oktoberfest," but apparently she was inconsolable.
-Chandler's cousin's boyfriend, Stefan, who lives in Munich.
-By the time Stefan and Julia, Roxy, and Nameless Douchebag had arrived, nearly all of our group had gone home. Nick, Brendan, Chandler, and I ended up being the only ones who stayed the whole day, and it was definitely a sense of pride to close down a beer tent. Chandler managed to turn into a woman-attracting zombie (look at the eyes).
-Unfortunately, at the end of the day, I was unable to find my fleece, likely meaning that some East German bastard grabbed it because it was a product of American capitalism. The kicker is that I didn't pay for the fleece, but rather stole it a few years ago from Ari, who had owned it since college when someone left it at the girls' apartment. Now, because of some thieving kraut, I will have to actually buy a fleece if I want to protect myself from the elements with the woolen coat of a domestic sheep.
When the tent closed, we walked toward the center of the city, even though City Center's over and no one really goes there. Chandler, Brendan, and Stefan ended up going out -- how that was achievable, I'm still not certain. Meanwhile, Nick and I hit a Burger King at the Hauptbanhof (Munich's main train station). The bacon double cheeseburger I had was amazing. The water I ordered, however, was not. Again, it was sparkling water. I wanted to make somewhat of an attempt to hydrate myself, but instead I got God's mockery. Nick ordered two Whoppers™ and ate one at the restaurant, saving the other one for later.
Somewhere between 30 and 90 minutes later, Nick and I were spotted outside the Lotter Leben by Jessie, Kyla, and Alex. We were told that we looked fabulous and that we should continue drinking for the remainder of the night. Flattered by their suggestion that we were anything but completely plastered and incapable of comprehending even the most basic human noises, Nick and I both agreed that we should be responsible and retire to the hotel for some much-needed rest. "Perhaps tomorrow, kind folk," I said in a British accent, and Nick and I politely excused ourselves from their presence.
Unfortunately for Nick, there would be no "later" for that second Whopper. He went to bed just as normally as any other night. Soon enough, his roommates began to hear strange, horrifying grunts, noises, and cries coming from Nick during his heavy slumber. In addition to the grunts and such, he was heard exclaiming, "Help! Help!" Soon after, he said, "I'll have a number three." And there are also reports of lengthy, barely coherent ramblings related to the Jolly Green Giant. Then he puked in the bathroom sink. Good times.
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