By Bailey Hosfelt
Follow former culture editor and current abroad correspondent Bailey Hosfelt as she sets up home base in España and bops about Europe for the semester, looking to save a buck and learn a thing or two along the way.
MUNICH, GERMANY—Remember when I incorrectly used the plural pronoun “we” and proclaimed an upswing that was in motion last week? Well scratch that sentiment altogether! This column may be entitled En Busca del Buen Viaje, but its alternate title is One Step Forward, Two Steps Back, as the latter is proving to be the mantra of my fall semester.
I cried at Oktoberfest. But let me first, like J. Cole himself, take y’all back.
On Friday morning, I forewent a full night’s sleep for a 5:55 a.m. flight to Dusseldorf, the first step in reaching my final destination and friends in Munich. I was promised a dirndl in my size and one third of an Airbnb bed, so temporarily breaking the bank for this 72-hour trip was clearly a no-brainer.
Bleary-eyed but with fire in my engines, I went to the airport to begin my early day of travel. My mode of transportation was a taxi because, as previously mentioned, the metro does not run overnight. I ordered said taxi through an app akin to Uber and took out my trash with a five-minute estimate.
Coincidentally, a taxi showed up just as I did that. He passed me but quickly backed up, which, in Uber, is the universal sign for “forgive the overshot, I’m yours.” However, this was not Uber. This was not even my taxi. But it was quarter past three, I forgot to check the license plate and was already on the inside.
After approximately three minutes my driver asked where the heck I needed to go (a reasonable question), and I answered the airport, terminal one. He turned on American pop radio because my accent is nowhere near convincing, and I already made it awkward by assuming he could read my mind.
My trek to Deutschland was very much the one step forward segment of the weekend. None of my flights got delayed, I navigated myself to the mouthful that is Hauptbahhof train station where my friends were located, learned that there’s a raunchier-than-“The Bachelor” reality show called “Kiss Bang Love” and checked into our Airbnb adorned with Sea World memorabilia and a bright orange accent wall.
Despite the rain and chilly temperatures, we arrived at Theresienwiese field for opening day ready to rumble. Surrounded by many a man in lederhosen, we made our way to the Augusteiner tent. It looked like the best house in your neighborhood ornately decorated for the holidays but 10 times better.
Oktoberfest has few rules given its festive nature, but an important one is that you must be seated to get served – bier, not divorce papers. This means finding real estate early and standing your ground. Myself and four others nuzzled (see squished) between two parties of Munich’s own and waited for the clock to strike noon.
Given that Oktoberfest is among the largest of festivals, the fanfare did not disappoint. I mastered the art of counting to three before offering cheers, overcame any preexisting sense of claustrophobia and reveled in my measly 25 percent of German heritage.
You’re probably wondering where the two steps back come into play. It, as most things do, started off slow.
Once we got stir crazy in our tent and the rain had lifted, we explored the festival grounds.
Unfortunately, gaining entry into another tent during what was transitioning into the evening proved to be impossible. The bouncers looked like they could chew me up and spit me out all while speaking in a fear-inducing baritone.
This lead to some more aimless sauntering where we witnessed an elderly man crack his head open and momentarily lost a member of our friend group, among other dysfunction. Given that we had some liters in our system and already experienced the treat that is a Bavarian pretzel larger than your head, we – goosebumps and all – decided to bid adieu to Oktoberfest 2017 at a docile hour.
On Sunday, I awoke with what has since transitioned into a full-fledged cold, seeing as my body didn’t appreciate the 20-degree shift in temperature. Following some sightseeing at Rathaus-Glockenspiel and Nymphenburg Palace, I returned to the airport in Munich to begin my journey back. My first flight, however, decided otherwise, and this is where the weekend really took a nosedive.
After an hour delay, we boarded the plane only to be held on the tarmac for an undisclosed amount of time. People were getting impatient, many with connecting flights looking like they would not happen. This led to many passengers standing up, getting their luggage, hoofing it to the front and requesting in rapid fire German that the flight attendant open the plane door. She didn’t.
After what felt like an eternity but was closer to two hours, the wheels were up. I fidgeted for the entirety of the 50-minute flight unsure if I’d make my connecting flight and class in the morning and scarfed a Twix bar in my stress-induced state. The men to my left and right each gave off an Air Marshall vibe, but I could easily have it confused with average stoicism.
Once off the plane, I booked it to my connecting gate (B18), which was nowhere to be found. Some airport employees led me in the wrong direction, causing an aloof exit from the gate departure area on my part followed by a begrudging reentrance through security. Here, I said goodbye to my water bottle and an increasingly fleeting sense of optimism. Turns out it was B80 after all. Two steps back baby!
Following a quick sprint, I realized that I am out of shape but also that my flight was, yet again, delayed for another hour. Two points for airberlin. Once I caught my breath, I took a seat on the airport floor because you are never too old for it and reflected on the weekend I’d had.
While there is no groundbreaking lesson to be learned from my minor hiccups in travel, they serve as a small reminder to trudge on despite all of the forward and backward motion.
I may never come out on the other side fully unscathed, but anything is better than standing still.
