On Friday night, I cemented life-long friendships with the people sitting at our table at Stuttgart’s Volksfest Beer Festival. Never mind that before the fest, I had no idea who those people were.
That’s what happens at these German festivals. One minute you are ambivalent to the whole affair, and the next minute you have lost all inhibitions and are dancing on the tables with some strange person you barely knew before ordering your first liter of beer.
As one military spouse explained to me shortly after I arrived in Germany two years ago, “The first time I went to Volksfest, I thought to myself, ÔÇÿI don’t want to go into one of those big tents where it’s all smoky and dance on tables like an idiot. I am way too old for that.’ Three hours later I was jumping on a rickety bench, with a cigarette dangling from my mouth ÔÇô I don’t smoke by the way — swinging a liter of beer, screaming ÔÇÿSweet Home Alabama.’”
Sure enough, she was right.
On my first go around two years ago, I revealed myself as the Volksfest virgin I was when I slipped while dancing on a bench to Metallica’s “Nothing Else Matters,” and came face to face with a chicken carcass, broken glass and cigarette butts on the dirty wet floor.
The next year, I was determined to act my age. We went with a respectable trio of couples from my husband’s work, and picked a tent with a more mature crowd. But by 8:00 pm, we were all up on the tables, wearing chicken hats and blond braided wigs, acting like “Que Sera Sera” was our favorite tune of all time.
When Volksfest rolled around this year, I wanted to do it right. With some manual adjustment of my bits and pieces, I found a traditional German dirndl dress that fit pretty well, so I bought it.
We met our companions on Friday night ÔÇô a group of Marines and their wives celebrating one Marine’s promotion ÔÇô and headed to the train. Everyone seemed friendly enough, but we barely knew them. Our conversations on the train were a bit forced, with several uncomfortable silences.
The train dumped us right in front of the festival park, with its massive Ferris wheel, striped tent roofs and neon lights. We bypassed the nauseating rides and went right to our tent, Sonja Merz, a 82 x 43 yard massive structure with over 3500 people sitting at nearly 400 long fest tables inside.
At our reserved table, a grumpy German waiter with braids in his beard and a perspiration problem quickly served huge liter mugs of Dinkel Acker beer and roasted chickens all around. The band played the traditional festival toast “Ein Prosit, ein Prosit, der Gemuetlichkeit!” and, somewhat rehearsed, we swung our giant mugs in unison.
My husband and I tried to make conversation with our tablemates over the sounds of the band and other festival goers. We were a bit worried that we might never relax and let our hair down, but the beer was cold and tasted so good.
An hour later, liter number two was in my hand and I was standing on the bench, dancing to “Hang on Sloopy” with my arm around a Marine’s girlfriend. The beer and atmospherewere loosening us all up, and we were starting to feel the folly of the festival.
At one point, I felt a cold rush of air up my dress, and turned to see a young German man of no more than 25 years of age who had just lifted my skirt in the air.
“Hey!” I yelled and wagged my finger at him in disapproval. He pointed to his cheek, suggesting I give him a kiss. “No way!” I yelled back.
Realizing what the commotion was about, the Marines at my table swung around and glared at the skirt lifter, who cowered. If looks could kill, the poor kid would have been toast, but luckily, he offered an apology with his hands protecting his head, and the Marines showed mercy.
“Don’t worry guys,” I told them, “the joke was on him, because I’m wearing control-top pantyhose!”
As I twisted and jumped precariously on the eight inch wide bench, I couldn’t help but ponder the irony of the whole situation. I was jam-packed into a tent with a bunch of Germans who are infamous for being controlled, orderly, and judgmental; and a table of tough Marines wearing lederhosen and gingham shirts. Here we all are, carrying on like fools, singing and dancing to music that Americans stopped listening to when “Happy Days” went off the air.
Somewhere in the middle of the second round of beers, I started to become inappropriately close with this group of veritable strangers. Before the night was through, I promised one Marine spouse that I would be the political speechwriter for her future campaign for Virginia Governor, I accepted an invitation to visit another Marine’s father in law at his country home in Yorkshire England, and I committed to planning a weekend girls shopping trip with four Marine wives. I recall hugging everyone often, shouting beer-induced proclamations such as, “I love you!” and “You’re the best!”
Even the little German pipsqueak who lifted my skirt in the air weaseled his way into our group, and next thing I knew, one of the Marines who had previously threatened to rip out his larynx was arm-in-arm with the guy.
For five solid hours, we danced, we sang, we toasted, and we bonded with our festival mates who had been strangers to us earlier that day. Whether it was the magic of Volksfest, or just too much beer, we got caught up in it and had a blast.
Reader Interactions