It’s really, really strange being back in Munich.

Strange cuz I thought it would really be weird after some time away. I mean, I came from a place where it was sunny and easy to a place where rainclouds cavorted with the bureaucracy. It went from 30°C to 6°C.

But this kinda reminds me of when I first arrived last Spetember. Maria then told me the weather was unusual for the time of year. My soon-to-be certified snowboard teacher of an apartmentmate Josef said the same thing to me today.

Maybe I bring bad weather with me.

Doesn’t really matter. It feels familiar somehow, it feels right. It doesn’t feel weird, which is strange to me.

In fact, I jumped straight into routine after arriving at the Munich airport (after fourteen hours of less than no sleep but at least I got to be a gentleman to the girl sitting next to me and she wasn’t bored by my endless chatter – the ladies never get bored by Uncle Kenny – so I might visit Emily if I end up in Bristol sometime).

This meant I got into lines. Really long ones.

I booked my flight home. I dealt with the bank. I bought a very expensive front-row seat for David Bowie’s Heathen Concert (which was worth it, I suppose, cuz I never had front-row seats before or seen a real living icon either for that matter). I even found time time to take an afternoon nap.

And in the evening, I went to Oktoberfest with Matthias.

Everyone who’s a reader should remember my Bavarian former apartmate cum pirated movie pimp. He’s delightful in so many little ways like he doesn’t really drink much beer (am I sure he’s a Bavarian?) and never been to die Wiesn before.

Yeah, ol’ Herr Mah here had to lead him to the Schottenhammel tent (which I remembered perfectly if only cuz I didn’t get to visit this particular tent last year) when we arrived at seven. We were supposed to meet up with his Spanish mate, Gorka, who was already inside since four p.m. but anyone who’s been to the fest before would know this is near impossible.

As it turned out, Gorka found us, ambling drunkedly to the toilets to get rid of excess alcohol before starting all over again. Short, bald and smiling all the time, the kid insisted on shaking our hands over and over. By the end of the evening, he had shaken our hands about twenty times each. Heh.

Now, the reason I wanted to go the Schottenhammel was cuz Maria and Erich told me last year it was mostly locals who went there so we could avoid Americans like Erich. Even teh oompah bands played differently. More local stuff, practically no English songs. Best part – didn’t here Country Road once the whole time I was there.

(And before I get stoned for sacrilege, I will get out to a more touristy tent next and hear the damned song, ‘kay? Goodness knows John Denver wrote the true German national anthem.)

I was the only non-German face there. Not a tourist in sight. Brilliant. And what a way to get back to good beer again with an entire maß of the stuff. Matthias and I shared the next maß, and this must be as far as I’ve gone at Oktoberfest without getting near-drunk. See, practice does improve bad habits.

All the dancing and screaming and smoking (well, as a bonus for welcoming me back this way, I did bum a cig off Matthias, but just one) really got to us and by the time we left the tent, I nearly lost my voice. Famished we downed the perfect Bratwurst mit Semmel, hot off the grill.

Gawd, what a great way to come back.

N.B. As I was telling Emily on the plane (sounds like a formal title, dunnit, Emily On The Plane?), announcing my bacpac decision is my way of ensuring that I actually do it. Avoiding the usual “shall I/shan’t I” dilemma, which, let’s face it, just wastes time. Of course, it doesn’t help that I have changed my travel plans, i.e. where and when to go, a hundred times already since coming back.

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Copyright © 2002 Kenny Mah Ying Fye.