Cheers Without The Beers
Dancing until sunrise and drinking fruity poison is a typical college student’s idea of fun. There seems to be such a unique thrill in getting all dolled up (that which takes several hours, just to be undone by sweat and crowds) and drunkenly schlepping to a dingy bar, only to be met with superficial conversation and the most vile of bathrooms. If you’re lucky, a cute boy might talk to you. You might even get in arguments with strangers who comment on your appearance or shove past you too aggressively. All too quickly, the next morning comes; before you can grab your water, you’re face-to-face with last night’s decisions as you heave into the toilet bowl.
For a while now, I’ve realized how little I enjoy this function of college culture. Despite tireless efforts to convince myself otherwise, there are few things that motivate me to get out on the town. I can recall times in my past when I was excited to party—perhaps the last time being high school—but I now feel rather disconnected from the whole ordeal. I feel drained by it all, and in the hours (and sometimes days) leading up, I am sick with anxiety and dread.
Being the college student I am, I felt pressure to overspend on a late September trip to Munich, Germany where the famous Oktoberfest is held each year. All I knew of the festival was that;
My parents went in their 20s, reporting that it was exciting and culturally stimulating
Cute outfits and photogenic beers are involved
Everyone (like… everyone) goes
Deciding to ignore my distaste for beer and my aversion toward crowds of drunk students, I booked a flight and awaited its arrival. Any authentic excitement I felt was a result of being able to see my sweet Jaiden, Lilli, and Fisher who I hadn’t been with for months due to study abroad and my program’s late start date.
As I sat in the Málaga airport through delays and flight changes galore, something felt off; I wasn’t ridden with nerve-induced nausea. I read upwards of one hundred pages in my Anna Wintour biography and fully comprehended some articles in Vogue España. I wondered where the crippling apprehension was, and why I was so easily able to relax despite the day that would come of one night’s sleep, full of people who I can’t converse with and drinks that my body rejects. Could it be the Schengen air? Or, less likely, neutrality?
The next morning, I dressed myself in my three-part dirndl and watched as my friends did the same. Fisher threw on his Amazon lederhosen, which would later raise many eyebrows (German men do not play about their little festival get-ups). We hopped on the S-Bahn toward Theresienwiese and struck up conversation with a pair of young natives, who, after being seemingly nice, pointed at my forehead acne and asked where I had gotten it all. My group erupted into uncontrollable laughter, and while a bit insecure, I started to think that maybe, this is what it was all for. It is true that drunk 20-somethings—especially fratty Americans—irk something deep inside of me, but what if that’s the point?
Surprisingly, the daunting line moved quickly. Soon, we were inside Hofbrauhaus, which is best known as the study abroad tent; being in the all-German one likely would have left one of us in tears (in light of recent events). Across the festival, alongside carnival rides and bratwurst stations, there are several of these; they’re ultimately where all the beer-drinking and dirndl-wearing happens.
Immediately, I was on a mission to find my dear Sofie: a longtime, close friend from my hometown who happened to be at the festival with her friends from school. After a sweet embrace, I started to relax—and to make matters easier, I encountered someone I knew at every turn. It felt almost like a slideshow of my life, given I was running into friends from all its unique stages: Sofie, a symbol of high school shenanigans; Grace and Megan, some of my earliest, elementary friends; Luci, my middle school sneaking-out sidekick; Liv, my sleepaway camp best friend; Landon, emblematic of pre-school, and later, our shared Catholic education; Maddie, my almost-roommate who committed elsewhere last minute, but who I still visit; Emma, who I’ve known forever and who recently had me on her podcast.
Despite being aggressively pushed by the lady serving the beers and having a piercing whistle blown in my ear, one could say I was enjoying myself. Though unable to scarf down the liter quickly enough to get drunk, the experience would be remembered by these heartwarming reunions and our joint fear of the determined servers (one of them forwardly said to a group next to me, “I will keep the change,” and you can’t argue with that). Though, I still don’t understand what kept people inside Hofbrauhaus for more than three hours, because it started to get a bit repetitive and underwhelming.
Making the unfair assumption that my abroad outings would be akin to nights at home—standing around in overpopulated college bars—I drove myself slightly insane. It remains true that I feel great disdain for the stereotypical “night out”, and I would have never booked Oktoberfest without the pressure of FOMO. I also did not find the drinking to be all that fun, but rather, the memory of strange (and sometimes infuriating) moments that occurred therein, and obviously, getting to see old friends.
Rather than psyching myself out about the sometimes exhaustive reality of late nights and libations, I plan to reframe my mindset. I now get to say I have been to Oktoberfest, and I have some cute photos to show for it. I find it important to check boxes in life, and I want to be able to at least see the wonders of nightlife, whether or not that includes heavy drinking and cringeworthy dancing. Hold me to it, because I never want to skip out on the chance to experience a new location—after all, I need blog content.