Oktoberfest

Lyz Pfister

In exactly 5.5 hours, not that I’m counting, I’ll be boarding a plane and heading to Munich, dirndl in tow, for Oktoberfest – but don’t let the Müncheners hear you call it that. It’s “Wies’n,” please. Tomorrow, I’ll wake up to a breakfast of Weißwurst, pretzels, sweet Bavarian mustard, pickles, obatzda, and a crisp, cold freshly-tapped beer. All of which I’ll ask for in my best Bavarian – a dialect that achieves the impossible and makes German sound like an adorable little language, like a broad Scottish brogue to American ears. Endearing accents aside, I’m obsessed with this festival – from the kitsch of neon icing on a gingerbread heart and old traditions to the silliness of Lederhosen and crackled pork slabbed inside a toasted roll. But most of all, I love a good dirndl swirl as Helene Fischer sings us all
breathlessly on into the beer-stained September night.