One of the bigger exports of so-called German culture is the habit of gathering in big tents once a year to drink vast quantities of beer to the tunes of hornblower bands. Untill everyone is drunk enough to be merry and remember the evening fondly.
Whereas I am not so keen on this kind of folk festival, widely known as Oktoberfest, which oddly never takes place in October but end of September. I, to start with, don’t drink beer. Second, there is a co-reason for leaving Austria, my home country, which is their version of Oktoberfest, called Zeltfest (tent festival). Same thing, no calendarian limitation. Whenever any community in Austria feels the need for some boohay and collective drunkenness, they just put up a tent, call in the musicians, put hundreds of chicken on the BBQ to roast and order beer. Lots of beer. The tents are furnished with simple wooden benches and tables. This sort of furniture is even called “Bierzeltgarnitur” (beer-tent-set), consisting of one longish table and two benches to go on either side, seating six each. The legs of both bench and table fold in, so they can be stacked in piles until the need for the next alcohol-related gathering arises. There is no comfort and no flair to these events. To me, it always seemed, people go there, eat something fatty and oily, to be able to hold their drink better later on and then just put all their energy into getting drunk as fast as possible. To have the fun-time arising, when big groups of people connectively get first tipsy, later downright stupid.
However, our president is very keen on Oktoberfest, so at the golfclub, the tent is already up. And tomorrow, I’ll have to go. Hate it already.