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Another Train Station at Dawnby Charlie
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Kev is waiting at the stop in Soln, where Jim lives. It is, for all practical purposes, Menlo Park. Same Bimmers and Benzes, same strollers, same cheesy stucco renovations of otherwise perfectly charming hundred-year-old houses.
And what do you do when you get to Jim's house? Bong rips. Beers. Only later, much later, and much too late will I remember I've forgotten food.
Oktoberfest, like the rest of Munich, is unnervingly American. If you took the California State Fair, the Daytona 500, and the Big Game and removed all the events surrounding those events, you'd have Oktoberfest. Beer is all there is, and millions come to taste it and die. Or so it seems, 'cause the first thing you see when you enter the grounds is a corpse-littered battlefield—a whole green strewn with the human wreckage of this liquid massacre. Some are vomiting, some have vomited, some are talking and writhing themselves through the spins. All the while, the din from a city of tents is rising, higher and higher. |
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