Sunday--Ferrari

Your kidding me, right? I said. "You only wrote down the directions there. Where's the directions back?! Brad gave me a sheepish grin. We're just going have to do everything in reverse order, that's all. Fucking great, I thought. We'll be lucky as shit to get out of this alive. I hadn't done any research before this whole trip had started. I didn't look at a map, didn't look up anything about Munich, nothing. The reason for this lack of preparation had been simple: Brad had already been to Oktoberfest two weeks previously. He knows his way around, I had thought. A weekend free from worry and solely dedicated to consuming beer. The plan was to leave Saturday night and have a day of recovery back at Brad's place. But when I had arrived in Maastricht to meet him, he unveiled a major overhaul to the entire journey. Somewhere in the nearby region of Germany, I was told, there is an extremely famous race track. Nurburger or something like that. And by sheer coincidence Sunday was the day they would host their annual Ferrari Day, when every Ferrari in existence congregated to show off how cool they were. But we don't have to go, Brad added. It's totally up to you. I was fully aware that one of Brad's greatest loves was cars. Anytime we've been anywhere so far, he points out every damn car that he likes. OOOHH look at that Porshe X739er over there! See how its body kit swoops up and out like that?! Telling him No to this convention would be like telling a four-year-old that Santa's not coming this year. I sighed and agreed to it, provided that he take care of all the necessary arrangements.

On the night train back from Munich, two Americans in their thirties shared our compartment. They were from LA, involved with the record business. Our conversation floated from celebrities to pit bulls, weather to medical marijuana. They offered us hash and described their European adventures. My body ached after only a day of travel, and I tried to imagine life on the road for a solid month. Instead, I curled up in a ball and dropped into a coma, and was only awoken by one of the Californians loudly whispering, Hey guys! this is your stop!

We stumbled off the train and took stock of our surroundings. Back in Koln at five in the morning, with about four hours to kill before the next one. Both of us were running on exhaust fumes still and starting to lose our battles with vicious head colds. We gave into the sweet calls of a nearby McDonald's breakfast and rejuventated ourselves. A few trains and one bus later, we stood outside the entrance of the track, already blasting with the rumblings of mean-sounding cars.But nothing could dampen young Bradley's spirits. He was the most excited I have ever seen, despite the constant drizzle and bonechilling winds. We came around a bend and there before us, stretching down hundreds of yards, were red Ferraris of every possible kind perfectly lined up at angles. Brad nearly had a meltdown. He half walked, half sprinted from car to car, taking pictures from seemingly every possible angle. The cars were all sorted according to their model, and we must have surveyed every kind. Brad darted into one of the big tents along the side of the parking lot and disappeared into the crowd. Inside were older, even more valuable, Ferraris as well as an F1 racing car. The racer had about fifty people around it, and when the crew started it, everyone immediately protected their ears. The sound of something close to a jet engine roaring next to you is not something you fuck around with.Keeping up with Brad was actually something of a challenge. I'm sure his shutter finger must have been sore the next day because I never saw him without his camera, cocked and loaded. And the rows of cars never ended. There were more red Ferraris just around a corner. In another parking lot were over a hundred more, these ones of all the other colors besides red. I wanted to go sit down and watch some of the races. But Brad had found what he had been looking for. Even I was blown away by the six Ferrari Enzos (each costs over a million according to Brad) parked just outside an exclusive lunch club, apparently only for Enzo owners. Each one was perfectly covered in mist, as if someone had brought them out of the refrigerator and let them condensate for a while. We spent a large amount of time there, along with other car fanatics who practically knelt in front of the holy shrine of these six automobiles.After touring almost all of pit road and the cars inside, as well as watching cars fly by on the wet track for nearly two hours, I was about at the end of my patience. Sure we had seen Michael Schumacher, the most famous F1 driver of all time, and had witnessed a huge collection of ridiculously expensive cars, but I was beyond cold, hungry, thirsty, and ready for a place to lay down. Brad's enthusiasm was still very high, however. I needed some leverage with him. At Oktoberfest he had stolen a huge one-liter glass mug and since I had the only backpack (he had been wearing the same clothes for two days now) I was the lucky guy who got to carry around that bulky goddamn thing around. So I threatened to break that glass right here, right now if we didn't head home NOW. Ok, ok, he said. Let's go.Once we left the stadium, I suddenly recalled our previous conversation. This entire thing was up to Brad--I had absolutely no responsiblity of getting us home and at that moment that thought terrified me. We starting walking aimlessly into the small town that hosts this ginormous thing (the track can be made to be about 24 miles long!). According to Brad, all we had to do is find the bus that would take us back to a train station and civilization. We came upon what looked to be a bus stop. Neither of us could make any sense of the German timetable, though, so we waited. And waited. It was getting colder as evening grew closer. Jesus fuck! It is such a hopeless feeling waiting for a bus that might not even come. My stomach gurgled, praying for a meal soon. After forty minutes of waiting, a woman came walking down the street. When Brad asked her, she told us that the buses stopped running on Sunday afternoons. FUCK! We're stuck in the middle of fucking Germany on a miserably cold and rainy day and I left everything up to Brad. What was I thinking...The situation was getting nastier by the second. Macias called a cab and 40 euro later we were there. Of course the delay had caused us to miss our train, which of course then caused us to miss every train after that. Delays and waiting plagued us the whole way back, and we finally dragged our way into Maastricht around 11:30. Brad's place is a forty-five minute walk away, and the thought of going one more step was intolerable. Brad directed us onto a nearby bus. Finally, I thought. I can pass out and never wake up again. But, unknown to me, we were riding on the wrong bus. This was the closest I have ever come to straight murder. The mistake was eventually corrected and I slept the night on Brad's loveseat, which is the size of a postage stamp. Three hours the next day back to Middelburg and I resolved never to travel again. Until I looked at the calendar and realized that in three days I was leaving on my fall break trip with Brad to Spain. Oh dear Lord...

Saturday--Oktoberfest

It began with me taking a 3 hour train ride down to Maastricht, where Brad lives. Stupidly, I had gone out the night before, and got only five or so hours of sleep. After a lazy afternoon visiting his dorm and some of the city, we headed to the train station to catch our train to Koln, Germany. In our one bag (my backpack) we had a bag of oranges, 6 bananas, 6 energy drinks and a bottle of wine along with our leftover kebabs from dinner. We arrived in Koln around nine, and our night train to Munich didn’t arrive until eleven. I suggested we go outside and stroll around. As soon as we walked out the door, we were literally stunned to see a massive Cathedral staring us in the face, no more than a hundred yards away. Easily, one of the biggest churches I have ever seen, it towered above us, its intricate carvings and decorations disappearing into the dark, cloudy sky. To help us ease our way into sleep later on the hard train seats, we popped open the wine as Brad explained all the wine-tasting techniques he had accumulated in just a few short weeks in Europe. Finally our train arrived, and we settled in for a long ride into the heart of Bavaria and Germany. A few winks later, we rolled into Munich, approximately seven local time. Way too early for anything, especially a day of drinking, I thought. A ominous sheet of clouds covered us from above and I found it hard not to yawn as we trekked to the fairgrounds where the Oktoberfest Festival is held. Brad had met an Aussie on the train, and he joined us on our walk. His name was John, and he was a short but stocky ginger a few years older than us, who like so many, was tramping his way across Europe without a place to stay for the night or a care in the world. His accent was so thick that when he mumbled, it took a second or two for me to translate it. He worked on the oil rigs off Britain generally, using his time off to travel. But that didn’t stop him from settling down whenever and wherever he felt a calling, whether it be at a bar or because of some girl he had met.
We entered the grounds and a whole carnival awaited. Nothing was running yet, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t people already preparing for the day. We walked down the row of tents (which are actually huge “warehouse-size” buildings filled with tables) and found one of the most popular. About three hundred people were crowded outside the tent’s doors. Like a rock concert, more people smashed us into the mob from behind, until one could barely move a arm. Of course there was still an hour until the day officially began and so we waited, knowing we would be rewarded with a spot in one of the most coveted places at Oktoberfest. A steady drizzle dampened my spirits, but it was hard not to be excited. About nine, a group of people directly in front of us broke apart from the main crowd and began dashing around the building. Brad and I looked at each other and without a word sprinted right behind them. Navigating our way through obstacles and puddles, we circled around and found people jamming their way into the side door. We followed and came into the space inside, about the length and width of a football field. Everything was lit up and neatly decorated, with picnic-style tables crammed against each other in every spare space possible. There was a moment of pure madness where we desperately looked for some free seats. Everyone was practically clawing at each other to find one for themselves and their buddies. Luckily we shimmied our way into an ideal table, right next to a group of high school-looking kids. John had gotten lost in the commotion, and I jumped up onto the table to search for him. Amazingly I spotted him on the complete opposite side, and Brad and I screamed and waved our arms at him. Almost as soon as he sat down, a woman plopped down full liter beers for the whole table. It was so fucking early, but the beer tasted amazing: huge foamy head, no real carbonation, and full in taste. I said a secret prayer to God to help me live through the day, and the drinking commenced.
Once the second liter of beer had arrived, we were all starting to shake off the early morning cobwebs. The guys next to us were all 18-year-old Germans from Munich (how sweet would that be!), just about to graduate. They, like every other European, had a great laugh about the American drinking age, but I teased them right back, telling them I had been driving for almost six years. Every one of them was hilarious and they enjoyed asking questions about America just as much as I enjoyed asking them about their lives. On our other side, a group in their thirties asked if they could sit down, and so we all squeezed in, socializing and toasting anytime anything good or funny whatsoever was said. Every few minutes a chant or song would start in one corner of the tent, and pretty soon the whole place was screaming it, banging on the tables or standing up on their seats. Then everyone would yell “HEEEYY” and cheers everyone within arm’s length.
Eventually we decided to move on, especially because John had disappeared on a beer run. We came to another tent, but the line was already so long that it was virtually impossible to get in. So we sat down at one of the outside tables. We were meeting people from everywhere, and the conversation was getting increasingly drunk and belligerent. An Italian girl and her friends sat next to us and no doubt fueled by alcohol we began a long series of flirting and kindergarten fighting. She was very aggressive and really wouldn’t stop putting her hands on me. We laughed, messed around and playfully kissed each other on the cheek several times. Another half beer later we kissed for real, and Brad, ever the opportunist, snapped a picture. To this day, I have no idea where she vanished to, but hopefully I’ll remember her if I see her again.
There were quite a few Americans there, mostly in the military. I don’t think we realized that we were actually at Oktoberfest, something that all of us used to day dream about. One mousy guy was really excited, and for good reason. He had met a girl and taken her to the parking lot, where he put his “lucky rubber” to good use, haha. Others weren’t getting so lucky, and security had to carry out a few people on stretchers. This didn’t stop everyone else from having a good time. I was an idiot and in my drunken stupor completely forgot to take pictures like I should have.
Around this time (I don’t remember when or how) Brad and I got separated. What I do know, however, is that the next thing I recall is waking up underneath a tree in the early evening. Thank God nobody messed with me. Finding Brad was a complete lost cause, so I headed inside a nearby tent. I really was not feeling my best, and sat down on the ground near the entrance. I must’ve fallen asleep again because I was rudely awoken by two policeman “escorting” me out of the building. I quickly mumbled something about meeting my friend in a couple of minutes and they let me go. I power walked it away from them and found a new place to chill. It was almost time to head back for the train station so I coasted until then in order to find my train in a coherent manner. Everything went well, and I found a worried Brad there, glad to see that I was alive. He bought me a cup of coffee and we boarded our night train back to Koln. But our little weekend adventure was not quite over just yet…