As we were watching this ride, somebody puked off of it. Four times.
"What do you MEAN you guys can speak German?"
Another American speaking English, sigh.
Hats happen at parties.
Christoph snuck over to the music laptop and put on some In Flames for me. The partygoers were not amused.
Me photographing the music laptop from a safe distance, while David demonstrates his unfortunate inability to do metal horns.
Hats abound.
This kid was visiting Carl. He's from Montana and studies French. He's living in Montpellier for the year. One of a kind.
She's a childhood friend of his who said she'd meet him in Munich this weekend. Neither had a cell phone and poor Will spent an hour wandering around in the train station, only to serendipitously find her as they were on escalators going different directions.
Mark whipping out his conversational prowess in German.
The subject matter, I assure you, did not warrant this kind of rapt theological disputation pose, German philosopher style.
"I've had enough of those, good sir, though I thank you kindly for your munificence."
We ended up getting a table at the Paulaner tent, actually. Well, outside of it. But still. A table!
Mark discovers he really doesn't enjoy weißwurst after all.
"Hmmm, nope, still takes ridiculously bad."
Mark.
Mark and Jamie.
That beer mug spins around slowly. Pretty trippy.
But when you zoom in you realize it's not a real beer mug. I feel I got a little bit older today.
I had stolen that hat from Christoph the night before. I freaking love that hat.
Oktoberfest daytime picture!
Some dope temple.
Further dopage.
Mark's face is priceless in this one. Those carmelized almonds do a number on ya.
I had to take a picture of this, because I think it's just such a smartly done advertisement. (Above reads: "This is where Munich parties after Oktoberfest!")
This is what the subway station looked like, leaving the Wiese. This was at 2pm. Imagine what it's like at 11:30pm when everybody gets kicked out of the tents.
On the train. This was the second or third one that came, so it wasn't terribly crowded. There are staff in the train station whose job it is to cram people into the trains and push them far enough in that they stay clear of the door. As the doors shot, the attendants withdrew their hands quickly, so as not to get dragged from UBahn station to UBahn station, which would be relatively unpleasant, even after five liters of beer.
The remains of half a chicken. This kind of stuff passes for fast food in this wonderful, wonderful place.
Now that's a park job. I want one!
