Fogg’s Horn: Travels with Gambrinus

Fogg’s Horn

The Miscreant Meanderings Of Our Man Markus

Travels with Gambrinus

Here’s a travel tip for all you Foggistas out there: avoid going with heavy drinkers, unless you’re taking them to rehab. And, if you are ever contemplating a trip to Oktoberfest in Munich, don’t even think about it; that’s the last place you want to be. The writer Budd Schulberg, in The Disenchanted, his thinly disguised novel about F. Scott Fitzgerald, described accompanying Fitzgerald to a college winter carnival, where the iconic novelist and alcoholic began sipping cocktails on the train, and ultimately disappeared for the entire length of the festival. In this case, our traveling companion not only didn’t disappear, but dragged our small party into bars of every description for refills in what seemed like every half-hour or so: corner kiosks, delicatessens, subway stops -- and at the last place imaginable -- the train station at Dachau outside Munich, site of the infamous concentration camp. Sitting nervously in the crummy old station bar, our small party was eyed malevolently through the cigarette and pipe smoke by grizzled old men in cloth caps, obviously not interested in welcoming visitors. Not a good start. However, things improved noticeably once we arrived at Oktoberfest itself -- that happy crossroads of drunkenness and gluttony. Here, everyone was in a great mood – in medical terminology, “three sheets to the wind.” Ar

Now, for any Foggophile followers contemplating a visit to this great Dionysian experience, three things are necessary: a fondness for beer, of course, a lesser fondness for German oompah bands, and a bladder as watertight as a container ship. Pockets full of euros help too.

Lining the midway of the fairgrounds on the way to the beer tents, crowding in with the rides (the Somersaulting Toboggan sounds really fun), the exhibits and souvenir stands, a cornucopia of food venues beckon the hungry mobs with racks of roasting chickens, shish kebabs of all varieties, giant pretzels, and other tasty snacks of all descriptions, while small sit-down cafeterias

Artwork by Sharafina binti TehSharifuddin

serve dishes made with pork, bacon and offal, or blood and liver sausage, along with soups and strudels, and the ever popular pork knuckles.

Here at last, our red-faced companion had found his ultimate happy place, and if truth be told, the old Foggmeister was not displeased either.

The massive drinking tents resembled small non-violent riots. Sponsored by the breweries, inside all is madness, the noise blasting the eardrums: thousands of people crammed together at long tables, revolving bands oompahing away (for a sizeable tip, you can lead one yourself). Everyone is singing, shouting, kissing, hugging, hammered into babbling nonsense.

We all sit, sweating, swaying, pounding the tables in time to German drinking songs, while buxom Brunhildas in plunging peasant blouses endlessly circulate through the crowds, half a dozen sloshing beer steins somehow fastened onto plump fingers. Seized by the romance of the thing, the drinkers dance around waving their arms, or sway to the music while falling in love with complete strangers; middle-aged couples suspend their grudges, while the elders sit looking around apprehensively for the rest rooms.

For our group, our alcoholic companion becomes a non-problem. He is in his element, and who is to judge anyone at a weeklong beer fest? Too happy to care, or even notice, our two couples are faced with an endless supply of brewskies to be dealt with as giant barrels and kegs of beer are consumed and magically replenished: Augustiner, Hacker-Pschorr, Hofbräau, Löwenbräu, Paulaner and Spaten, their gaily colored brewery logos dance merrily before our eyes. We have our work cut out for us.

Soon bladder relief from all this liquid consumption intrudes, but for the merry reveler, this is no problem, for outside, at easy stumbling distance, sits a small village of port-a-potties. Just join the long lines of those waiting to pump bilges, shuffle-dancing nervously, while chatting companionably in various languages with other jigglers in line, many of whom are sipping brew from cups, keeping the good times rolling..

All good things must end at some point. After three days of this, hoarse from shouting, nursing obscene hangovers, we decided for some reason that Venice was the perfect place to go to dry out. After a few beers at the Hauptbahnhof, the main train station in Munich, we boarded the overnight express to Venice, our companion still clutching the small satchel he carries to dispose of the empties. The sleeper car also includes the bar car, the conductor informed us, and they lock the doors at night to keep out the drunks in coach returning home from the festival. This meant we would have the bar car to ourselves; our friend could barely suppress his joy.

The rest of that trip across the Alps and down into Italy, is lost to memory. Reality only dawned with the actual dawn on the Vaporetto steps of the main rail station. It’s a quick plunge through the early morning water traffic to the posh, 5-star Hotel Daneili (“steps from San Marco”). Braving the disapproving glances from patrons in the lobby, our shabby, hangover-stricken group advanced stiffly to the front desk to claim our reservations. Leaning over the counter, our friend proceeded to dump his bag of empty beer bottles in front of the desk with a resounding crash of glass ware, startling the desk clerk and turning heads throughout the entire lobby.

I had no choice. Smiling winningly at this functionary, I nodded toward our rumpled companion: “Liquor salesman.”

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