Where we live, the summer is bookended by two great festivals half a block from our place. The first is the Maifest, held in . . . wait for it . . . May. The second is the German-American Fest, held in early September. The German-American Fest is going on now. Their logo is an American flag with George Washington's portrait from the dollar bill superimposed and a German flag with a really terrible picture of von Steuben superimposed. Makes me proud to be a German-American.
Last night L and I were supposed to go over to the Fest when I got home from work by 6:30 or so. When I came in at 8:00, I knew it would not be good. The lights were all off (did she go without me? Sweet, maybe we already have tickets for beer and food!), and the apartment was crypt quiet. Then she spoke. "You're home?" "Yes. What are you doing?" "Resting." Not good.
As luck would have it, on my way in from the car, I could hear the strains of Ein Prosit (referred to last night as the Bavarian National Anthem). This always puts me in the mood for a little Gemütlichkeit and Bier. This allowed me to overcome the distinct feeling that getting home from work an hour and a half late was bad.
I rallied the troops and out we flew. We hit the Fest to the strains of something that sounded suspiciously like Edelweiss played on cow bells. I was ready. Then we hit the ticket line. It was long. It was the kind of long that made me wonder if I should run home and grab the oil can of Fosters that I've been saving for a special occasion. This consideration was weighed against the reality that I would probably lose my place in line if I went all the way home for a beer. I stayed.
After 20 minutes (by far the longest I've been without a beer at any German heritage-type festival in my adult life), we reached the ticket window. Now, buying tickets for food and beverages at festivals is an art. Typically I don't know yet what things cost, and I have spent enough time in line that I have no interest in repeating the experience. On the other hand, it is a rare local merchant that will accept "German-American Fest 2003" tickets as currency. Hence, the amount purchased should closely approximate the cost of beer you can consume without having to add to the burdens of the American health care system, plus the cost of the Thüringer you can eat without dying of veal poisoning. I calculated this at $50 (without knowing what Bier or Wurst cost). It is important to keep in mind that this was also all I had in my wallet . . .
We made our way to the first Wurst stand we could get to. Wurst were $4 per. Hmmm. Questioning the ticket calculation already. Also, still no beer in sight, although everyone around us appears to have a beer.
We begin to wander. By wander, I mean hunt for beer. I follow L for a while. She turns around and asks me where we're going. Not good. I take the lead and begin following the sound of traditional (read stereotypical) German music.
We make our way inside a tent. It is an enormous tent. It is a tent so big I expect a circus and high wire act when we enter. Instead, we are confronted by a group of 40 to 50 year old men in Lederhosen on a stage. They may be playing "Gloria" by the Doors. As unlikely as this seems to my work-addled brain, my attention is immediately drawn to something infinitely more important. There is beer being sold in this tent. Big beers. Maybe 32 ounce beers (although they don't say) sold in keepsake plastic mugs with the above-described logo on them. Nirvana (given the event, Valhalla?). For the low, low price of $16 I get two huge Beck's Oktoberfest. Now we are rolling.
For a while we drink and people watch. We are standing next to a sewer grate that stinks and has a pool of fetid water around it. L and I gain tremendous enjoyment from watching overdressed trixies and women wearing open-toed sandals hitting the water and trying to figure a way out without taking another step. We have more beers. And then some more.
Some sadist calls last call. It's 9:45. The fest will close at 11:00 (it is outside in the middle of a Chicago residential neighborhood). I make a beer dash and we drift to different section of the tent so we can see the band better and put our beers down on a table. We can also see the dance floor, which is full beyond capacity and includes a man L has nicknamed "The Captain" since he is wearing the sort of hat "popularized" by the Captain of Captain and Tanielle (?) in the 1970s. He is literally dancing with himself (as opposed to the Billy Idol sense), as well as any female with the poor judgment to stray within arm's length of him, and the occasional folding chair. He is outstanding, in the way a really bad wreck is. We cheer him on.
At some point, we end up between a group of four college aged guys in front of us and a big group of 40-somethings behind us. Each group talks to us, and when I see one of the college kids with his arm around the waist of one of the 40-something women while both smile at me, I realize that both groups are assuming that we are with the other group and are friendly. We are the conduit and the college kid might be scoring because of us. And so it goes.
The college kids bought lots and lots of beer at last call. Like three for each kid. They will die if they drink all of their beer. They begin to do the smart thing. They keep pouring their extra beers into my nearly empty mug every time we sing a song together. The band plays Alice (who the hell is Alice), E-I-E-I-O, and Ein Prosit in a row. I am quite drunk. Good kids.
At some point, we walk home. The front (frunch to you Chicagoans) room is spinning, but the Cubs have won, and the Cards have lost. Sleep. Sweet sleep…
By the way, I just discovered that the name of the nine (or so) year old futon I am sitting on is "Cheapy Sleepy." This sounds like a wonderful example of Engrish (Japanese English), but I think it is really just the sort of marketing you get from a company that sells futons with frame and futon for $99. Gotta keep their overhead down . . .
Last night L and I were supposed to go over to the Fest when I got home from work by 6:30 or so. When I came in at 8:00, I knew it would not be good. The lights were all off (did she go without me? Sweet, maybe we already have tickets for beer and food!), and the apartment was crypt quiet. Then she spoke. "You're home?" "Yes. What are you doing?" "Resting." Not good.
As luck would have it, on my way in from the car, I could hear the strains of Ein Prosit (referred to last night as the Bavarian National Anthem). This always puts me in the mood for a little Gemütlichkeit and Bier. This allowed me to overcome the distinct feeling that getting home from work an hour and a half late was bad.
I rallied the troops and out we flew. We hit the Fest to the strains of something that sounded suspiciously like Edelweiss played on cow bells. I was ready. Then we hit the ticket line. It was long. It was the kind of long that made me wonder if I should run home and grab the oil can of Fosters that I've been saving for a special occasion. This consideration was weighed against the reality that I would probably lose my place in line if I went all the way home for a beer. I stayed.
After 20 minutes (by far the longest I've been without a beer at any German heritage-type festival in my adult life), we reached the ticket window. Now, buying tickets for food and beverages at festivals is an art. Typically I don't know yet what things cost, and I have spent enough time in line that I have no interest in repeating the experience. On the other hand, it is a rare local merchant that will accept "German-American Fest 2003" tickets as currency. Hence, the amount purchased should closely approximate the cost of beer you can consume without having to add to the burdens of the American health care system, plus the cost of the Thüringer you can eat without dying of veal poisoning. I calculated this at $50 (without knowing what Bier or Wurst cost). It is important to keep in mind that this was also all I had in my wallet . . .
We made our way to the first Wurst stand we could get to. Wurst were $4 per. Hmmm. Questioning the ticket calculation already. Also, still no beer in sight, although everyone around us appears to have a beer.
We begin to wander. By wander, I mean hunt for beer. I follow L for a while. She turns around and asks me where we're going. Not good. I take the lead and begin following the sound of traditional (read stereotypical) German music.
We make our way inside a tent. It is an enormous tent. It is a tent so big I expect a circus and high wire act when we enter. Instead, we are confronted by a group of 40 to 50 year old men in Lederhosen on a stage. They may be playing "Gloria" by the Doors. As unlikely as this seems to my work-addled brain, my attention is immediately drawn to something infinitely more important. There is beer being sold in this tent. Big beers. Maybe 32 ounce beers (although they don't say) sold in keepsake plastic mugs with the above-described logo on them. Nirvana (given the event, Valhalla?). For the low, low price of $16 I get two huge Beck's Oktoberfest. Now we are rolling.
For a while we drink and people watch. We are standing next to a sewer grate that stinks and has a pool of fetid water around it. L and I gain tremendous enjoyment from watching overdressed trixies and women wearing open-toed sandals hitting the water and trying to figure a way out without taking another step. We have more beers. And then some more.
Some sadist calls last call. It's 9:45. The fest will close at 11:00 (it is outside in the middle of a Chicago residential neighborhood). I make a beer dash and we drift to different section of the tent so we can see the band better and put our beers down on a table. We can also see the dance floor, which is full beyond capacity and includes a man L has nicknamed "The Captain" since he is wearing the sort of hat "popularized" by the Captain of Captain and Tanielle (?) in the 1970s. He is literally dancing with himself (as opposed to the Billy Idol sense), as well as any female with the poor judgment to stray within arm's length of him, and the occasional folding chair. He is outstanding, in the way a really bad wreck is. We cheer him on.
At some point, we end up between a group of four college aged guys in front of us and a big group of 40-somethings behind us. Each group talks to us, and when I see one of the college kids with his arm around the waist of one of the 40-something women while both smile at me, I realize that both groups are assuming that we are with the other group and are friendly. We are the conduit and the college kid might be scoring because of us. And so it goes.
The college kids bought lots and lots of beer at last call. Like three for each kid. They will die if they drink all of their beer. They begin to do the smart thing. They keep pouring their extra beers into my nearly empty mug every time we sing a song together. The band plays Alice (who the hell is Alice), E-I-E-I-O, and Ein Prosit in a row. I am quite drunk. Good kids.
At some point, we walk home. The front (frunch to you Chicagoans) room is spinning, but the Cubs have won, and the Cards have lost. Sleep. Sweet sleep…
By the way, I just discovered that the name of the nine (or so) year old futon I am sitting on is "Cheapy Sleepy." This sounds like a wonderful example of Engrish (Japanese English), but I think it is really just the sort of marketing you get from a company that sells futons with frame and futon for $99. Gotta keep their overhead down . . .
posted by David at 5:07 PM
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