Dressforfun Dirndl
How (bad) my first time at Oktoberfest really was
3.10.2022
Translation: Katherine Martin
At the time of writing, people up and down the country are descending on roads and train stations sporting lederhosen and dirndls to go sit in an Oktoberfest tent in some remote village. This year, I joined them.
As someone who grew up in eastern Switzerland, I can often be found at local festivals. When it comes to Switzerland’s imported Oktoberfests, however, I’ve always looked at them with some disdain. The festival tents, which have been sprouting up like weeds in every backwater town over the past few years, surely couldn’t be any good. Naturally – and thankfully – I’ve declined every invite to these pseudo-Bavarian copycats. But half a year ago (!), when my colleague so nicely asked me if I’d go, I couldn’t say no. And with that, my fate was sealed.
When the big day comes around, I head to a Swiss appropriation of Bavaria’s largest folk festival and 200-year tradition.
Of course, I opt to go in a dirndl (a dress traditionally worn in Bavaria). After all, I don’t want to attract attention by wearing civilian clothes. I only had enough for a cheap alternative from an online shop – the real ones go for an exorbitant price, and it was far too late to hire one. The fact that my Bavarian garb is such a tight fit I can hardly sit comfortably is a necessary evil.
One train journey, lots of beer (hardcore drinkers hit the bottle even before the drinking festival) and one group hike with fellow Oktoberfest-goers later, and we’re there. What remains the preserve of the rich in Munich is available to everyone in well-organised Switzerland: a bench reservation. Which you’d expect, given that I forked out 60 quid for it.
Bavarian-style glass and biceps training included
I’ve barely stepped into the tent when I’m in for my first surprise. Instead of a menu dominated by half roast chickens and pork knuckle, there’s also potato salad, pretzels, sauerkraut and pesto pasta for the veggies. I go for a more traditional vegetarian option aka a side dish. But still, at other folk festivals I’ve often had to make do with a mustard-less pretzel.
With it, I get my first 1-litre glass of beer – a mass. This is part and parcel of the meal included in the price of admission – something I find astonishing. Certain Zurich clubs charge the same entry fee, and all you’ll get for it is a dirty look from the bouncer.
I knew that masses were heavy – 2.3 kilogrammes, in fact. But it wasn’t until my Oktoberfest debut that I realised just how heavy they really were. Clinking glasses turns into bicep training, and every sip is a mini workout. By the end of the night, all the boisterous cheers-ing has brought me to the brink of tendonitis.
Broken benches everywhere
As if these massive beer glasses weren’t already difficult enough to handle, we’ve barely finished our meal when everyone in the tent gets up onto the benches and starts jumping up and down as if they were on a kids’ trampoline. As the evening progresses, I see a bunch of benches snap and even more people tumbling to the floor. Where’s your accident insurance when you need it, eh? I wonder if this would count as a «non-occupational accident» for me ...
As soon as your group gets a little too close to the front or back edge of the bench, it topples over faster than your average Oktoberfest-goer can neck a shot of Jägermeister. All around us, people keep falling onto the tables, spilling huge amounts of beer and scrambling to their feet again. The revellers, the tables and the floor are soaked with beer, and the narrow, wooden benches are getting increasingly slippery.
I don’t understand the tradition of standing on the bench. Simply standing next to them would give us just as good a view of the live band, who’re belting out schlager songs up front. Naturally, the crowd roars along to all the hits, including «Rosi» and «Layla».
Things really escalate when people start running around – not so much between the tables, but over them. A guy in lederhosen tries to get to my colleague, but fails to notice that nobody else is standing on the bench. When his foot hits the end of the bench, it catapults upwards, tossing him under the table. Ouch.
Three conga lines and three toasts later
All this action gets to be too dangerous for my liking. I don’t fancy knocking my teeth out with a mass or falling off a bench and breaking a bone, so I set off in search of an alternative.
I find one in amongst the benches. Conga lines continuously wind their way through the tent. Solid as a rock, with both feet on the floor and my hands outstretched, I explore the tent as part of the human dragon crawling its way around the party. After every cry of «cheers» (roughly every half hour), I clink glasses with the others.
Then, just as the clock strikes midnight, the whole carry-on is over. The lights go on. All the party-goers leave the tent in an orderly fashion and hike on over to the train station. Watching the few people who need to be supported to walk and the others who’re staggering so chaotically that they’re tripling their walking distance to the station, I’m struck by one thing. Loads of alcohol? Sexist schlager songs? Marquees in backwater towns? Nah, I’ve seen all this before.
The Swiss Oktoberfest is barely distinguishable from any other humdrum local event. All that’s different are the broken benches, dirndls and veggie options. Maybe I’ve just been turning up my nose at it this whole time because doing so is basically de rigeur? There’s probably a little bit of truth in that. But it’s also because of all the (definitely not workplace-related) accidents. Even for me, that’s too over-the-top. I’d rather watch pig racing at Olma, the Swiss agricultural fair again. This year’s Olma, by the way, starts on 13 October.
Testing devices and gadgets is my thing. Some experiments lead to interesting insights, others to demolished phones. I’m hooked on series and can’t imagine life without Netflix. In summer, you’ll find me soaking up the sun by the lake or at a music festival.