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