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Oktoberfest Ch. 01 free porn video
I was leaving Salzburg amidst one of the worst hangovers I have encountered. I remember laying down on my bed. I didn’t remember it in the morning. My resuscitation was immediate and startling. My eyes slammed open and I became immediately conscious. My physical condition was my first observation. My throat was as dry and raspy as sandpaper. Filmy crud choked up my tongue and lips leaving an unbearable taste in my mouth. No matter how still I lie the room spun vigorously around. With my head throbbing the late morning sun bored into my eyes. Some heartless bastard had drawn the curtains. Whoever it was, they were long gone along with everyone else. An oppressive emptiness flooded the room as I got up. My room had been full of people when I stumbled in the night before, but now the other nine beds were vacant.
I made it to checkout just in time to get my sheet deposit back. To combat most hangovers a greasy breakfast is in order, but in Europe this remedial solution is hard to find. Cold meat and cheeses would only upset my stomach further. My staple of coffee and cigarettes were my only solution to the pain. So I parked myself in the bar and tried to regain my composure. It was going to be a hassle to walk to the trains.
I have strange luck at breakfast. In Amsterdam it was the breakfast waitress that gave me a ride to Cologne. Here some kitchen wench took a liking to me. She seemed nice enough, aside from her nappy dreads. Whenever I see dreads on a woman I always wonder what it would be like while I was making love to them. Would the dreads become waterlogged and issue forth a stench. I usually decided it wouldn’t be all that pleasant.
After she had cleaned up the kitchen she sat down and had a cigarette with me. Something about the German accent gets me hot blooded.
‘So what are you doing tonight?’ I inquired.
‘Vell, I haf to come back in vor dinner.’
‘Damn, double shifts suck.’ I hollowly commiserated.
‘Ja but later tonight I’m going to a jazz club, there’s going to be a good show put on.’ which was quickly followed up with ‘wouldn’t you like to come with me?’
This illustrates how much capacity I have for blundering stupidity. I told her no. What would be better than seeing the local nightlife with a local, and perhaps getting my end in. I did repent. Of course I did, but mostly later that night outside the Spaten tent. I was ready to get out of Salzburg, my experience slightly flavored by the shitty night I had and the shittier hangover.
After making it to the one of the hourly trains to Munich I collapsed in my seat. After thirty minutes into the voyage I determined we had made four stops already and traveled scant over twenty miles. A simple forty-five minute ride turned into a two hour voyage. The train stopped at any town with a stoplight. Sleeping was not an option, nor was reading, so I prepared myself and chose and plan of attack.
Fellow backpackers told my stories of Oktoberfest, and all of them commented on the unavailability of rooms without a reservation. If I was able to find that elusive commodity I could expect to pay three times the normal price. Sixty dollars for a hostel bed. My budget, still reeling from Amsterdam, could afford either a room or a day of eating and drinking, not both. I decided to put my bags in a storage locker at the train station. From there I could go out exploring and drinking, then grab my bags and catch a night train to wherever my whims took me. To be sure I’d sleep all next day, but I’d of saved on a room for one night.
When my train arrived at the platform in the Munich the station was swarming with people. Nondescript people left the trains to be replaced by people clad in Oktoberfest shirts, foam beer stein hats, and other tourist regalia. People with lederhosen, the green or brown knickers native to Bavaria, flew past me in their feathered hats. The women that accompanied them wore the traditional German dresses with their blouses squeezing out their cleavage. I had been to Munich two times earlier but I wasn’t prepared for the bustle. Before my mind wandered too far I went down my checklist:
Drop off bags
Go to Oktoberfest
Recover bags
Board train
Sleep!
Despite the German’s legendary efficiency the lockers were placed clandestinely. More shocking was the lack of an information desk. Once I did drop off my bags I felt invigorated. Normally I would lug my bags around till I found my hostel, check in and set up camp, followed by a powernap. Without this obligation I was liberated to do whatever I want without a worry. I could stroll around and whistle as I jangled my change. I didn’t have a notion of which direction to go once I stepped outside. My recollection of my earlier events was foggy at best: I could remember a street here and a square there. And because of absence of the information desk I was deprived of any way to navigate. I decided upon sniffing out Oktoberfest. When the din and crowds got louder and thicker I was going in the right direction. The more foam beer stein hats I saw the better.
Unfortunately things are never so simple. I explored the city and got rather intimate with the street names and such, but no Oktoberfest. My wanderings ate up three hours too many so it was time to suck it up and ask for directions. I asked a few peddlers where it might be but their directions were both contradicting and complicated. My saliva was thickening and my patience running out. Bag or no bag, searching around fruitless for hours is disheartening.
The U-Bahn station was where my luck appeared. I finally stumbled across Marienplatz with its big Glockenspiel and went underground to the subways there. If the German’s directions were confusing the subway plan was discombobulating. Twenty lines crisscrossed, converged, twisted and took on the characteristic of a plate of spaghetti noodles. A dozen Italians surrounded me as I was looking at the map, pointing franticly at the different routes. Do they know how to get there I inquired, there being obvious. Only one of them spoke enough English to answer me, some euro trash whore who must have been putting out for the group. I wasn’t really answered in English though, it was more of a tug on my shirt and a ‘follow.’ We climbed into one of the subways and crowded the compartment. En route to the fair grounds I learned that the older guy owned an irish pub in some obscure hamlet in Tuscany. He was enthusiastic to visit the Spaten tent to pay homage to his beer tap back home. This was of course translated. How and why would someone own an Irish pub, the roach motel for Anglophones, without speaking any English themselves. (I quickly dismissed my scorn when I remembered the Italian restaurants back home with people named smith or cooper running an ‘Ristorante’ that served ketchup based marinara gravy).
The conversation shifted between the others. One would say ‘Hey dude’ and I’d say ‘mamma mia.’ After exchanging our knowledge of each others language and a couple of snickers at my expense I was itching to lose them. The opportunity came when we were entering Oktoberfest and a group of Clydesdales hauling a beer wagon loitered around for vacation photos. Completely distracted, I slipped into the crowd. Fuck saying ‘nice to meet you Fredo, Vito, Tony, Michael, Bruno, Fabio, Giorgio etc…
It was exhilarating to enter such a maelstrom. Lights were flashing all around me, smells were wafting all over the grounds, and screams and shouts and excited laughter hummed. Among the excitement megalithic beer tents dominated the skyline. I felt like a cosmonaut shot into space. Giddy. The most interesting thing was all the people. Being an inveterate people watcher I was on cloud nine. Italians, Americans, Russians, Czechs, Germans, Bavarians, English, Irish, Hungarians, all swarming around as thrilled and ecstatic as I was. It reminded me of the bastard offspring of a state fair and Las Vegas. There was a lewdness to their grins that
hinted at the festival being two steps from an orgiastic Saturnalia.
I had been told a handful of colorful ante dotes about Oktoberfest, but like Amsterdam they failed to sink in properly. I created my own vivid image of these places. Even after visiting these places I can summon with clarity the mental panorama I had and compare it with the memories that took place. It some parallel universe they must exist.
So I was let loose into this raucous orgy of booze lights smells sounds and people. Once the awe loosened up I decided to enter the beer tent. Hofbräu München was the one, the ‘state beer’ of Bavaria. I have my doubts whether Bavarians touched the stuff, as the Hofbräu Haus, the beer hall where the beer is brewed, is somewhat of a tourist beacon. I heard around the same time they opened one up in Las Vegas. I normally seek out the locals no matter how vain a quest but I’d heard the Hofbräu tent was the most rowdy. That appealed to me well enough. Sensory fucking overload. The kind that’s self-destructive and turns the night into one big eraser mark. The awe inspired once I entered the threshold gave the landmarks of Europe a run for their money.
Threshold is the perfect word for what I did cross. It implies entering into a separate world, a microcosm. The hot air, smells, music, and view all hit me simultaneously once I set one foot inside. The place was bigger than a football field, and with the exception of a walkway that wrapped around the tent it was packed full of benches packed full of people. The fucker was two stories as well, with a large number of patrons partying up top. Beer banners the size of Persian rugs hung down from the rafters. The middle was dominated by a massive paper mâche pig. I remembered the pig from earlier stories, where panties were supposedly thrown on it. I didn’t spot any. On the balcony of the second story a sizable brass ensemble was belching out polka and German pop tunes while bar maids scurried to and fro carrying ten colossal beer steins. Texas can eat its heart out, everything was bigger in that tent. The only down side was the smell coming from the kitchen, making my stomach jealous. I didn’t have enough money to eat that day, just drink. Beer has got carbohydrates in it anyways. I’m sure it’d be enough to propel me to the next city.
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