A personal account of two very different Munich afternoons
The First Time
My first visit to the Wiesn can be recalled with certainty. Not because it was a memorable experience, but because it caused me apprehension.
I had been in Munich for three weeks, still learning the order in which I should eat the Weißwurst, still pronouncing “Straße” like it had done me an injury; a colleague of mine had told me to go: “It’s the Wiesn,” he said, as if that explained everything, “and everyone goes.”
So I went.
At 8:30 I reached the Theresienwiese, and the gates had not yet been opened. There were already thousands of people there, and I mean thousands; some had blankets, some brought folding chairs. A group of Italian men were singing. The woman next to me, a brave and steadfast soldier who is preparing for battle, was covering herself with sunscreen, oh, I can’t imagine how I got her.
When the gates opened, I understood why.
I stood there confused and watched the swarm. Grown-ups in Lederhosen and Dirndls were running through a field to some wooden structures, as though their lives depended on it. The guard who was keeping an eye on them looked at me and shook his head, as one would at a tourist who’d just tried to pay for his pretzel with a credit card.
“Run,” he said. “Or you won’t get in.”
I ran.
Inside the Tent
I found myself a chair in the Hofbräu tent, squeezed between a man from Manchester who had already lost his voice and a Japanese couple who jumped for joy. The roof of the tent was huge, the ceiling high and the noise almost physical, a wall of noise that struck you straight in the chest.
The beer was brought in glasses the size of my head, and the waitress carried them all at once, in two rows of six, her arms spread out like wings. How she did it, I did not know, and never have known, and to this day I have no idea.
A chorus sang. A man stood up on a bench and fell. A woman kissed a stranger. A grandmother danced with a security guard. The happiness was real. The joy was real, the beer was strong.
Then, slowly, things changed.
The late afternoon saw the tent so crowded that I could not have moved my arms without touching three people, the air was greasy and heavy; I had to go to the lavatory, but the queue was forty minutes long; I wanted to leave, but I had lost my companions. I wished to sit down, but I was already sitting down, and I could not stand up anyhow.
I stayed for six hours because I could not escape.
I stepped out into the evening, and felt as though I had endured something—not as though it had been pleasant. I felt that I had gone through something—nothing more.
The Second Time
A year later, another workmate, a middle-aged fellow by the name of Klaus, who always wore the same green jacket and always had strong opinions about everything, asked me whether I would like to go for a drink after work.
“Not Oktoberfest,” I said quickly.
He laughed. “No, no. A beer garden. Come.”
We rolled on through the city past the university and other buildings I could not recognize, and finally stopped at a wooden gate with an unreadable plaque on it. Klaus pushed it open and I followed him inside.
And there it was.
Chestnut trees. Dozens of them. Their leaves made a green roof which diffused the golden rays of the afternoon sun; beneath them, on every side, wooden benches stretched out for hundreds of people to sit on. They were not doing anything; they were simply sitting and talking and drinking and eating. They were living. They were not performing.
We found a table near the fountain. We were not noticed. An old man was reading a newspaper; two women were eating radishes; a child was chasing a pigeon. It was as if we were not there.
Klaus ordered two Maß of Augustiner beer, tapped from a wooden barrel. It was fresh, cold and a good drink, made with care.
“Now,” Klaus said, raising his glass. “This is Bavaria.”
What I Learned
I have been to this beer garden many times since, have accompanied my visitors, have been alone with a book, have met new friends there, have witnessed rain and sunshine and one memorable hailstorm which drove us all into the shelter of the trees.
And I have learned a few things.
I have learned that the beer garden is not a place you go to—it is a home. You do not need a reservation. You need not hurry. You are not expected to stand in line from seven o’clock in the morning. You come in, you choose a seat, you sit down, and you stay as long as you wish.
This is not a loophole, but a tradition. In 1812, when King Maximilian I ordered that brewers must sell only beer on the upper floors of their establishments, the people of Munich responded by bringing their own bread, sausage and cheese. The custom is still in force today. On wooden tables in the beer garden, a picnic is opened without a murmur.
I have learned that the beer tastes better when you are not fighting for it.
I learned that the chestnut trees are not there for show; they are merely a means of cooling the ground, a summer effect, for their shallow-rootedness has not broken the cellar-walls. The trees cool the ground still now; as you sit under them you feel something that Oktoberfest cannot give you: the sense that this place has been here for a long time, and it will be here long after you leave.
The Difference
The Oktoberfest is a spectacle. And there is nothing wrong with spectacles. They are used for the telling of stories, for making of memories. They convey the feeling that you have been someplace, that you did something, that you were part of something millions of people dream about.
But a beer garden gives you something else.
It gives you an afternoon, simply an afternoon; a drowsy afternoon, or a noisy one, according to the people you were sitting near. It gives you time to think, or time to forget thinking. It gives you a waitress who remembers your order after the second visit. It gives you a table that you could sit at for four hours without being asked to leave.
It gives you Bavaria as it actually is, not as it is presented.
Where to Go
If you want to try this for yourself, here are the beer gardens I recommend:
- Augustiner-Keller — Munich’s oldest beer garden. Over a hundred chestnut trees. Beer straight from the barrel.
- Chinesischer Turm — In the English Garden, next to the wooden tower built in 1790. The quintessential beer garden.
- Königlicher Hirschgarten — The largest beer garden in Bavaria. Eight thousand seats. Actual deer nearby.
- Viktualienmarkt — In the city centre. Six major breweries rotate on tap, so you never know which one you will get.
For everything about the festival itself, including dates and tent info, see the official Oktoberfest website.
Last September
Last September, it was a Tuesday afternoon. I had nothing to do. It was gray outside. The town was quiet. I went to the beer garden, parked my bike and went in.
I found a table under a chestnut tree. I took out a sandwich that I had made that morning, opened my bag and drank a glass of beer.
No one looked at me. No one asked where my Dirndl was.
I sat for three hours; I read, I saw the leaves stir, I listened to the water trickle, I thought of nothing in particular.
And when I left, I felt something I have never felt at Oktoberfest.
I felt rested.
I went back again the following week. The beer garden was the Augustiner-Keller, and the sandwich was cheese and salami. The brew was excellent.
TIMOTHY DALTON