I may be poor, but I'm sexy

No, the title of this post isn't a personal statement (although on second thought...)

No, no. It's Berlin's catchphrase. And you best believe it's the truth. I took a five day trip to Berlin at the end of September and celebrated Germany's reunification day with a tour of the Reichstag and a kinda-small-but-pretty-big street fair surrounding the Brandenburger Tor. A tour guide pointed out the big reunification celebration was in Munich this year. That was the moment we turned to our program director and he sunk his eyes in shame. Yet, I can't be upset. So we missed the big party. Berlin was the center of strife and the symbol of a divided Germany. Culture, tears, blood and hope is twined into the fibers of the city.

Please excuse me as I suffer a history-major-geek-out spasm. BerlinwallstalincommunismchurchillJFKcubamissileussrironcurtainperestroikagorbachevteardownthatwall.

Thanks.

I absolutely loved Berlin. Graffiti smears the walls all around you, sometimes you catch people peeing on a train platform and it's transportation system is unconquerable. But I didn't want to leave. So much so I found myself clubbing my last night away until I showed up back at my hostel at 6 a.m. for 40 minutes of shut-eye before dragging myself out of bed.

Maybe it's because food was cheaper and you can get the best Döners in the world at Mustafa's, which was a two minute walk from my hostel. The line stretches for at least 30 minutes from about 10 a.m. to 5 a.m. There's a reason I used the word BEST.

Maybe it's because Berlin is massive and so small at the same time. It only has just over 3 million people. The South Florida metropolitan area has a similar population. Berlin is a neighborhood to cites like London, New York, and Shanghai. When you walk the streets, however, you're never alone. People are always buzzing, humming, and yes, peeing. It's as if Berlin doesn't know where it belongs. Is it a major population center? Well it's Germany's biggest by about double. Is it a small city among the giants? Perhaps.

Maybe for me it is all the history. The pain, the fear, the tyranny. The resurgence of hope. A banner outside the German National History Museum reads "Wir sind ein Volk". We are one people. And I like to think Berlin is a modern tower of Babel in this way. It was divided and controlled, not just on the Soviet side, and its people learned they were different. They didn't have the same dialect or the same beliefs. They didn't shop at the same stores or drive the same cars (I had to make a Trabi joke). But in the end they had to learn from each other and the city sprung into an eclectic mix of counterculture and progress.

No matter what the reason, I loved Berlin. And now that my sister lives there, I can't wait to go back. Even if she didn't, I would make the six hour (or eight hours if some poor soul decides to jump in front of your train like ours) train ride. I suggest you go visit, too.

If I may borrow a line I once saw written on a canvas in a friend's house, it's the perfect city to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whiskey, and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling in love and not getting arrested.

Oktoberfest: The Age-Old Frat Party

Greetings from Prague!

I will write all about the Golden City in a post soon to follow but I just thought I'd let you know why this second portion of Oktoberfest took so long. Before I can can even write about one city I'm already in another. Crappy life, huh? I don't think so either. Without much more humble jumble, here's what happened the other times I fested in Oktober.

Lines, lines. Waiting, waiting. No, no. That's what you get outside an Oktoberfest tent if you come too late in the day. I can't help but get the feeling I'm a lonely freshmen who decided to walk around the frat quad, and see from which one I can snatch some alcohol. Except here in Deutschland, the bier isn't free. As I said before and I'll say it again, my wallet has been sore for a while.

On Day 3 (Tuesday night, whaddup!) I took advantage of the half priced rides on family night. For those of you who are questioning why there is a family night at Oktoberfest, a giant bier festival, keep wondering. I have no idea who would bring their kids to such an event where grown adults drink toward a stupor and spend a month's salary in a few hours. But I say, at least they know what to look forward to when they're older. You gotta give kids a chance to dream after all.

Back on the five-ring Olympic roller coaster, Megan and I rode front row, despite being cut off in line by two 10-year-old Germans. Then she convinced me (and herself, because she had no idea what it did either) to ride "Top Spin". Imagine rows of movie theater seats flying through the air and spinning backward and forward in the process. We figured if all the totally-impressionable future-beer-drinking kids could do it, we could, too.

By the time we met up with the rest of the students in my program, one of them had kissed half the people a the table and couldn't really stand up on her on will. She had a good time to be sure, but our friend's vomit-covered dirndl would disagree. Then came disaster after disaster which would haunt me for the next week.

As I stood on the table in a biergarten and went to take a swig of my beer, my friend stood up to go to the restroom. Worse. Timing. Ever. His shoulder bumped my arm and rocketed my glass straight into my teeth. Admittedly, I was already one and half liters in and it didn't hurt too bad. I felt like there was a tiny shard of glass lodged in between my two front teeth. I could deal with that. It was only the next morning I realized that sharp edge was actually my chipped tooth. I like to think of it as my Oktoberfest battle scar. It's really not too outrageous of a story, but everyone I meet from here on out doesn't need to know the truth. They can't handle the truth. So lies, extravagance and debauchery are the only solutions.

But wait, reader! You recall the mention that one disaster followed this one? Well, unfortunately, I like using a lot of commas, and something else did happen, to me.

As four of us squeezed onto a table full of Irishmen, we rejoiced in our luck and the insane atmosphere. Fest music, screams, chants and beer filled the air. The air.

The air.

The air.

All I saw was the air. And my Maß. Then the neighboring table's soaked wooden surface lapped at my face. Turns out Einstein is still alive and decided to jump off the other side of the bench I stood on, hurling my friend and I backwards. It wasn't until the next day (once again) that I realized what damage I had suffered. I had bitten my tongue all around the sides and my knee ached as I went up steps the next few days.

You know what though? Not a drop of my beer spilled. That's a win in my book.

Ringing in (and out) Oktoberfest

So on this day, the first day after Oktoberfest, I have much to say about the world's biggest festival of beer.

It truly is magical. I know I said I didn't know what to expect going into it, but wow. I'm impressed, Wiesn. Somehow I expected it to be a bit too overbearing after the first weekend. But I found myself wanting to go back again and again. With an ENORMOUS drain on my wallet, bank account, social security, etc. because every liter of bier (oh yes, bier by the liter) costs 10 Euros.

Day 1

The first day at the actual festival drowned away all my spirits. Literally soaked them through with sheets of rain. But, being the resourceful crew that we were back then (my sister and her friends included--remember that post about five people sleeping in my room?? IT HAPPENED) we managed to find this bar near the festival. It was cheaper, it was fun, and most importantly it was dry. We spent the majority of the day there. Or at least what felt like it.

After a liter we were happy, and we got bought a round by this American guy named Seven. Yes, Seven. Like the number. He even signed an email to us the next day with "7". I hope his parents know what humiliation they put him through.

So two liters in we sat there, wide-eyed and smiling, with Sam and her friend Ashley riding people shoulders, dancing on tables and really annoying these Australian guys as they tried to watch a soccer game on television. Dudes, priorities? Thank you.

Then we looked at a clock. It was a quarter past two. Talk about a slap in the face. We were plastered and starving, our bodies screaming for nutrients and reeling about the fact it was only two in the afternoon. This would be a long weekend indeed.

Day 2

Mother nature smiled on us today. Sun shining, pancakes in the morning made by our very own chocolatier, we rode out to Wiesn once again. Day two we finally got into a tent. This time the crew had changed about. It was now my sister, Megan our English comedian-friend, and my friends studying in Berlin, Alyssa and Paris. The latter grabbed a table inside the Spaten tent, where we ordered our first true Oktoberfest Maßes. One Maß = one liter. That first sip was so incredibly delicious, refreshing, can't even describe all the cultural fucking experience rushing into my mouth, more corny words. Ahhhhh. You get the point. It was superb.

Another Maß and giant pretzel later and we were finished. Not because we couldn't handle it. Oh no, no. Don't judge us just yet. The table we had was reserved. So we said auf Wiedersehen and took our bier-saturated selves to find some delicious grub. Bratwurst in der Semmel was calling my name. There's something to be said about a country loving sausages and people all around you stuffing there faces with meat and wrapped in bread. But I really can't bring myself to do it.



Days 3,4, and 5 plus my trip to Berlin coming up soon. I promise. But don't hold me to it. Because gosh, in order to write these things I need to have a life.

My Pre-Oktoberfest Post

Wiesn is finally within sight. As the sun sinks in Munich's afternoon sky, I can already imagine the seas of bier and lederhosen. Tomorrow the city officially kicks starts it's biggest tourist attraction (although they've been swarming in for the last week already) and I really don't know what to expect.

I  have six, yes SIX, people coming to stay with me this weekend in my single dorm room and that will surely be an adventure in itself. I want to thank all of my friends here in advance for putting up with whoever ends up on your floor and I apologize to my floor mates as of now. This number also includes the reunion of Samantha Montero and me. Only about an hour away!

The weekend began yesterday with one (drunk) friend, a mistaken hop off the train, a karaoke bar and shouting out some classic Whitney and Copa Cabana. Although we were robbed of our would-be-beautiful rendition of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough", it was an amazing night nonetheless. And it made me realize this weekend (and on that note, the next two weeks of Oktoberfest) will be a MARATHON*.

Example A:

Tonight is a Kneipentour. For those of you who don't spricht die Deutsch, that means it's a bar tour. One bar--to another--to another and so forth. So after I guide all my excess human capital around the city and settle them into different holes of my room, we will begin.

Example B:

Tomorrow is the big day. To get a table in one of the tents you need to be there at the latest by seven in the morning. The first ritual beer isn't opened until noon and you can't start drinking until then. That means no sleep, packed train cars, maneuvering through a swarm of lace and leder to claim a spot, and hours and hours in a canyon of thirsty people. At least that's what the goal is. What might actually happen?

Example B2:

We don't wake up early, we make German pancakes at like two in the afternoon, and waddle over to Oktoberfest in our traditional Bavarian clothing. We still drink lots of overpriced bier and try out all the phenomenal carnival rides. I'd say that's still success.

Example you get my point already:

Sunday we repeat. Monday I go after class. Tuesday I consider not going. Wednesday morning I can tell I didn't consider it too long. Wednesday night I go again.

I think you see where I'm going with this. Then next Saturday I head to Berlin for a week and the cheap portion of my binge begins.

Like I said, Marathon. Wish me the best of luck, folks.


*NU students should read: Dillo Day times a month.

Not quite a chocolate factory but...

My darling readers,

I must deeply apologize. It's been so long since I've written and that is unacceptable. I don't want to give excuses of how busy I am, or how writing a blog can be an exhaustive thought. But there is one thing I want to clarify: I solemnly swear I'm up to no good.

The past week has brought many exciting new events and some Déjà-vu, including the second consecutive Saturday of clubbing until daybreak. But I'm feeling rather prolific today so if you're lucky, you'll get another post of mine shortly after this, in which I'll list a few tips I've picked up from my (minor) experience.

The focus of this blog is German supermarkets.

So you know that whole stereotype that Germans are straightforward and to-the-point. No fluff. No stuff. Just tough. Well nowhere is that more true than when you go to do your groceries. I heard stories of how dangerous the registers were but up until today I had managed to survive. You see, what happens is you pack up your own items into the bags you've brought with you (can I get a Hallelujah for Eco-friendly) and you better prepare to grab and go. As the cashier shuffles your groceries across the scanner and onto the small ledge that's perhaps one square foot in area (no, not the seven-foot luxurious metallic terrace in America), you stack and stuff and cram everything possible so that you don't hold up the line. 

Don't you dare hold up the line. How rude and unorganized of you. Now the unamused cashier might not say anything to you but they give you that look. You know the one. The "you're a moron" look. And I can't help but feel that I am. That I've somehow shattered the entire German system of grocery shopping. It's not so much the cashier's glare as the haunting idea that things are not running efficiently because of me. Me, the lone foreigner, with all the focused and diligent common Germans waiting in line behind me.

A serious Lucy and Ethel assembly line.

I must confess, however, how cheap I can buy things for. Today I bought a bag of apples (yes, two kilos worth) for less than two and a half Euros. Not to mention the near-fifths of vodka for five. That's a deal we definitely haven't passed up. Sorry, mom.

What do you know about Romania?

So I just met a Romanian who lives on the floor above mine. After he went out for a smoke he comes back in and asks me and the other Americans present what we know about Romania.

You should have seen the looks on our faces. Or heard the buzzing sounds of four brains thinking as hard as they could to be educated, striving toward that bit of knowledge they once heard a teacher mumble in a 10th grade classroom but have since forgotten. I tried frantically to remember even what the capital is. I couldn't even muster the first letter.

A noble effort indeed. About 15 seconds post-silence, he interrupted and explained the three usual answers he gets from Americans: Dracula (we all laugh and nod in agreement), Transylvania (more nods, maybe even an 'Oh Yeah!') and Ceauşescu (it takes about a second, but it finally clicks).

I've never felt more American and dumb. Not that Americans are dumb. Just the combination of the two feelings ripped away my confidence as a so-called European history major. What the hell kind of answer is Dracula? Even though he's a fictional character and the Rocky Horror Picture Show is more believable, I still couldn't even come up with Dracula. Really?

You'll be glad to hear I will now delve into the depths of Wikipedia to find out every last detail about Romanian history. If you can't answer the title of this blog with enough to write an elementary-school style five paragraph essay, I suggest you do the same. Then we'll all feel a little better about ourselves and the world will be slightly more educated, even if by .000001%. That way if a Romanian ever prompts you with the same question, you can say 'Oh yes, I find the Wallachian uprising of 1821  absolutely fascinating'.

The Land of Bayern, Bier, and Baroque

Servus!

Welcome to the first experiment I've done since all those science fair projects back in grade school. Although I faked all those anyways. Sorry, Ms. Nunez.

For those who don't know me, my name is Steven Montero or Esteban for short. For roughly a year I'm living in Munich, Germany and using all of my extra time (and money) to travel across the continent(s) on a quest to save the world. With grace and style, of course.

My real goal is to dip into the details. I'll talk about interesting things that happen to me as the days past, who I meet along the way, lessons learned and yes, absolutely, without a single doubt, I'll write about all the BIER. So without further ado, Prost!

Week 1 (and a bit more): die Party-Löwen

There comes a time in your life where you're riding a train to Dachau and you realize you're drinking on that said train, that it's perfectly alright because open beverages are legal, and you've also drank every single day since stepping off an airplane. Well actually, no. That doesn't happen to just anybody. But I hope you've enjoyed my Friday night. That night I decided to start this blog and I hope you imagine how that came into my thought process.

As for my everyday life, it's going very well so far. Except the fact that the lean, mean, pink machine T-Mobile is still haunting me, despite cancelling my American contract and moving across the Atlantic Ocean. I live in der Studentenstadt, the largest student community in Germany. Maybe Europe? Who knows. I attend class at the Institute (sounds fancy, huh?), but really it's as simple as taking classes in German to prepare me for the real semester at Ludwig Maximilians University. Try saying that five times fast. Now do it in German.

And if you can believe it Northwestern students, LMU actually starts LATER than NU. Take that, Morty. Around the middle of October I start my first Semester and although I'm frightened at the words "term paper auf Deutsch", my German is improving every day. It helps that I'm working on my newest dream to become the shortest professional volleyball player in history (don't fact check me on that). You see there's a court right behind my building and I attempt to speak German to the other students as we play. If there are words I don't know in German, it's how to encourage teammates when you're down by eleven. Thomas Edison tried 1,000 times though, so I have time.

What is phenomenal about classes at the institute? The location. The Bavarian Museum of Paleontology. So yes, I do see dinosaur bones outside my classroom door. NU < Germany. Literally I'm obsessed.


Now to this blog's namesake: So far in Munich I've learned that my whole life I was drinking the wrong beverage. I've now grown used to drinking bier, unlike the beer I despised. I don't think I can ever go back to the US and take the smallest swig of Busch Light. I'm going to be that guy. Yet as long as I have Franziskaner, Paulaner, and my personal friend Augustiner to keep me company, I will hold true to this prediction.

Thanks for reading!

Until another spin of the globe,

Steven