A Houstonian Abroad: Oktoberfest 2013, Y'all (Part 2)

A word on photos.

Some of what you see here (and in yesterday's entry) were taken with my Sony DLSR, others with my phone. There's no real strategy involved: if I see something interesting, I take a pic. Where I'm going with this is, if you're looking for a gallery of boob shots of women in dirndls, Sie bellen up the wrong Baum. Sorry, but I find it inarguably creepy to take unsolicited shots of people (not that plenty weren't doing it), so anything in this blog was taken with the subject's approval (prior or subsequent), or because the subject in question had placed themselves in a distinctly public posture (the guy chugging yesterday).

Also, it was also really cold both days I was there, so boob shot opportunities were limited.

All that said, I didn't even think to take a picture of my vomit-covered leg. The offending young lady, who upchucked without so much as an Entschuldigen Sie, was hustled off by her friends, leaving me standing unsteadily in the Theresienwiese while assorted passers-by pointed and laughed.

Or so I assume. It's what I would have done.

I suppose I could have approached one of the food stands to see if anyone had a hose, but I doubt they'd appreciate the effect my pants would have on business. Likewise, I wasn't about to subject my tentmates to the sight and/or smell, so I went back to the hotel, which seemed like the prudent course of action at the time. I rinsed my jeans off the best I could, and then - recall the words "prudent course of action" - decided to take a nap.

Don't judge me. I have three kids and hadn't had an uninterrupted six (much less eight) hours of sleep in months. The lure of that twin bed, under the open window gently allowing egress to the breeze/honks/German profanity was too much to resist. And so I slumbered.

Nothing says beer-fueled mayhem like ... radishes?
When I finally lurched awake and grabbed my phone, I honestly thought I'd slept through the entire night (a fact made more alarming by the fact "Barry" wasn't in his bed). Eventually, I realized it was, in fact, 7:00 *at night*. "Perfect," I thought, "I can head back to the festival . Perhaps no one will have noticed my six hour absence."

We'll never know if that's true or not. Personally, I suspect Barry and Jim didn't give a rat's ass about my disappearance, considering the abundance of friendly German (they do exist), American, Australian, and Welsh(!) folks sitting in our immediate vicinity at the Hofbrau tent. What I do know is that I didn't make it back immediately, as I ran into Barry heeling down the Schwanthalerstraβe like a listing galleon (thanks, Sting).

My initial bemusement changed to alarm when he told me he'd been knocked down by some English dudes while in line for the toilets, losing his glasses in the process. Talk about your delayed post-colonial anger. The fuckers also kicked him while he was down, and for the rest of the week he sported a bruise on his abdomen that looked a lot like when Johnny Knoxville took a riot suppression beanbag to the gut.

Barry wishes he had that kind of ab definition, though.

Long story short: we went back to the hotel room, whereupon Jim (the two had gotten separated leaving the tent) and I returned to the festival to - get this - look for his glasses. Hey, you never know. Unsurprisingly, our search was fruitless, and we ended up going back the next morning to what is possibly the most shamefaced place in Munich: the Oktoberfest Lost and Found (or Fundbüro).

"Yes, I'm sure your iPhone 5 is here, sir."
Damn place doesn't open until 1:00, though. So Barry went back to sulk/sleep, while Jim and I, daring transAtlantic warriors that we are, decided to go ahead and - wait for it - hit the beer tents! After the previous night's shenanigans, what could possibly go wrong?

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