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When I agreed to fly down from Berlin to Munich for this fall’s Oktoberfest, I clearly didn’t quite realize what I was taking on; in my ignorance I’d assumed that the yearly Bavarian beer festival would be nothing more than a few drinks in a Biergarten. Now, however, as I find myself trying on frilly shirts for the occasion, I realize that this is all much bigger, and potentially more embarrassing, than I originally thought. So big, in fact, that the Oktoberfest is now the largest folk festival—the respectable term for “drunken binge”—in the world. But it is far from being the only one.
The yearly event in Munich has proved so popular over the years that it has served as the inspiration for an estimated 2,000 other Oktoberfests all over the globe—some of which actually do start in October. The list of cities is eclectic, to say the least, ranging from Berlin to Bali, although it is admittedly rather difficult to imagine a brass band in Alpine clothing on a beach. The world’s second-largest Oktoberfest is held in Blumenau in Brazil and is, after the Carnival of Rio de Janeiro, that country’s biggest festival. Milwaukee’s 150-year-old July event is, on the other hand, one of the world’s oldest Oktoberfests. The Qingdao International Beer Festival in China, which is held in August and lasts for 16 days, must take the prize for having the most impressive drinkers, as last year’s visitors managed to sink around 256 tons of beer. But it is Las Vegas, with its “best-looking legs in Lederhosen” competition, that gets my vote for what must undoubtedly be the kitchiest Oktoberfest around.
The whole thing started back in October 1810 in Munich, originally as a horse race to celebrate the wedding of Princess Therese von Hildburghausen to Crown Prince Ludwig I—grandfather to the slightly unhinged Ludwig II, who would later be responsible for the rather eccentric fairy-tale castle Neuschwanstein. Although officially no beer was served, the race was almost certainly accompanied, this being Bavaria, by a surreptitious drink or two. Or at least enough booze to ensure that everyone had such a good time that it was decided to do it all over again a year later. This time, though, without the bother of a royal wedding.
Within a couple of years the city of Munich, cannily realizing what a winner it had on its hands, started financing the festival. It remained on the original site of the horse race, and although the horses were left out, the beer stayed. The first liquor license was granted in 1818, and by 1880 the tiny stalls had became enormous halls, electric lights were hung up and the festival had come to resemble pretty much what it looks like today. Somewhere along the line spit-roasted chickens were nominated the festival’s traditional food, and who could resist drinking stein after stein of the fresh, locally brewed beer with them? Early on, the event was moved to September to take advantage of the better weather. With typically Bavarian respect for tradition, however, and an endearing lack of consistency, the name Oktoberfest remained.
Since then, just about the only things that have stopped Bavarians from raising their glasses have been a couple of wars, a stint of economic depression and an outbreak of cholera. And even then, the festival was sometimes held anyway and just called something else.
Today it is hard to imagine anything short of the apocalypse putting a stop to the fun. Fourteen “beer tents” make up the main body of the festival—although, as the largest of these enormous Alpine-looking halls can hold up to 10,000 drinkers sitting along massive banqueting tables (all vaguely reminiscent of how the Vikings probably imagined Valhalla), “tent” seems rather an inadequate word for them. From the traditional to the trendy, each hall has its own particular character, with excessive consumption of drink and food being the main thing they all have in common. So much so, that last year 5.1 million liters of seasonal amber-red Märzenbier were drunk (which averages out at almost one liter per person, even counting the children) and nearly half a million chickens were eaten, not to mention the 89 whole spit-roasted oxen also consumed.
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But the festival is about much more than partying. Munich’s Department of Labor and Economic Development estimates that the festival is worth almost 1 billion (US$1.2 billion) to the city, and 12,000 jobs are created during the festival season to cater to the 6.5 million people who visit in a given year. According to the local tourist office, Oktoberfest is the main reason Munich is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Germany. A recent survey of foreign tourists revealed that 91 percent of those asked knew the term “Oktoberfest.” This is higher than the percentage of people who had heard of the poet Goethe, or the words “bratwurst” (grilled sausage) and “autobahn” (highway).
In fact, not only is the festival the epitome of Bavarian culture, but it was instrumental in creating that identity in the first place. The very first time it was held, almost 200 years ago, was only four years after Bavaria had re-established its independence. Prince Ludwig’s five-day-long wedding party was ostensibly thrown to thank the people for having put up with the privations of war during the conflicts with France. But the monarchy was certainly also not entirely unaware of the PR benefits of showing its subjects what a young and generally fun-loving royal family they now had. And certainly after enough local beer, good food and rousing music, people went home feeling pretty good about being Bavarian.
Since then, the festival has come to represent all that is quintessentially Bavarian, with 60 percent of its visitors coming from Munich or the surrounding area. Indeed, such regional “patriotism” is all the more crucial in a country where, since World War II, any form of national pride has been viewed with anything from skepticism to horror. Wave a German flag and you risk mood-dampening disapproval; a Bavarian one just means you like your beer.
Dr. Gabriele Weishäupl, who is general manager of the Munich Tourist Office and in charge of organizing the Oktoberfest, says that the festival is as important a part of the year for the people of Munich as Christmas and Easter. “The Oktoberfest is a synonym for ‘Heimat’ [or homeland],” she says. “It is all about feelings: childhood memories, spending time with family and friends, having a real party with brass bands, festival beer, roast chicken and pretzels. The Oktoberfest is something which you can enjoy with all your senses.”
What has changed, Weishäupl believes, is that while the festival has always been popular with older generations, keen to maintain their regional heritage, over the last 10 years she has seen more and more young visitors. “It has even become hip to come dressed up in traditional costume,” she says.
Which is why, to coincide with this year’s festival, one of Germany’s slickest fashion houses, the Munich-based label Escada, has decided to launch its very own raunchy range of trendied-up dirndls. More Heidi Klum than Heidi and Peter, these things would be hard to milk a cow in, especially while one is also wearing the strappy stilettos. But they’re probably just right for flirting in the beer tents.
Escada’s director of design, Brian Rennie, says that as a Scot he feels a particular affinity to all kinds of traditional clothing. “Even here [in Germany] I like to wear my Scottish kilt on special occasions,” he says. “And, of course, after 20 years in Munich, it’s impossible to overlook Bavarian traditional dress.” For him the Oktoberfest is a major part of this inspiration: “People from all over the world meeting peacefully in a giant beer tent to party is a wonderful testament to true cosmopolitanism.” If getting into a pair of leather shorts and drinking lots of beer contributes to global peace, then maybe Jacob’s right and the lederhosen aren’t be such a bad idea after all—as long as we are not going to Las Vegas.
Damien McGuinness lives in Berlin and reports on politics, fashion and culture for BBC Radio, Women's Wear Daily and Germany's Spiegel.
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