HO HO HO in Nuremberg/Nürnberg

Ho Ho Ho in Nuremberg

On Saturday we took a drive to Nürnberg, about 2 hours north of Munich to visit the Christkindlesmarkt.  Our first stop in the town was to be the Johannisfriedhof cemetery as having studied Albrecht Dürer, I wanted to see his grave. For a change, I wasn´t commissioned to drive and I could sit back and relax, although I used the time to urge the driver on, as soon it would be dark, why dark, I hear you wondering, that´s because we have to be the world´s most relaxed couple, yeah right, and it usually takes us time before we finally get going! Ok to be fair, an unexpected appointment cropped up during the morning and we couldn´t leave until 2pm. After a debate, I wanted to postpone to the Sunday but DH insisted we still go, as midnight was our anniversary. 

We parked fairly close, to a cute lil sign which said, c´mon guys hurry up, you can park half on the pavement! grab the pooch and run! Entering this quaint cemetery, I had to blink, everything was so pukka, so pretty if you think of it like that. Ok I ordered, we´ve got no time, you scan left and back and I´ll do the rest, whistle when you see Dürer. Off he ran with the pooch in his arm as he didn´t want her to wet her paws, not because she doesn´t really like moist paws, but more because later she would have to walk on his leather seats (rolls eyes!). OK so obviously I got distracted, how could I not, all these old and interesting stone graves, perfect tombs, the perfect backdrop with dark setting in and the smell of rain - beautifully spooky, now where was harry potter? Right in the middle is a picturesque church, built in the 14th century and escaping the bombing raids.

Round and round, düüüüüürer - where ahhhhhhhh youuuuu? 15 minutes later, conjuring up various images of his woodcut, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, the horse´s nostrils droned by our art teacher, we met up, hubby not albrecht. Any sign, nope, ok, there´s a man in the mist, off I hop around the tightly squeezed tombstones, to have a word. Grussgott, do you speak English? Great, I´m looking for Mr. Dürer..I´m sorry he´s not available right now, he´s in a meeting, can I take a message? This round, friendly Bavarian man is middle aged, in a tracksuit and raking the sand around the tomb he is visiting. I stop my thoughts for a second and sadly wonder who he is visiting. He stands up, he has a beard, and a funny kinda long curly tuft of hair down his neck and a gold earing. He is typically wearing  Birckenstock open leather sandals, with wooly socks! I wouldn´t have expected anything more... or less. He points out an enormous conifer and tells me to look next to it. I feel rude to just leave, but I dart off anyway, scavenging around the pine. Nothing! Come on Albrecht, stop playing hide and seek with me. I look back at my bavarian friend helplessly, shrugging my shoulders and so he walks over in my direction. Within less than a minute, we are looking at Albrecht. The epitaph written by his closest friend, Pirckheimer reads: Whatever was mortal of Albrecht Dürer is buried beneath this mound. He died at age 57 on April 6, 1528.
Then he urges me to come and look at some other typically and important Bavarian graves, telling me at each one to quickly take a picture so I could read up later as he couldn´t explain in english and it was soon closing time. 

   An interesting tombstone was that of Paumgartnerus where one can see an interesting depiction of his wives and the children he had with them, sculpted into the metal plate. Finally he showed me the resting place of Veit Stoss, who had a bronze skull on the grave whose mouth could open and close as if it was talking and telling me to read about him. DH had gone back to check the car, while I took some snaps with the help of a torch of the curator of the cemetery who had come along to join in the tour. With that my Bavarian friend saluted me and said Here, it is time to go to bed (it was after all 5pm).






Then it was my turn to drive and we moved along to the old medieval centre, driving through the wall that goes around the whole city. Parked the car and we walked to the north square to see the Castle and Dürer´s house which is now a museum. On to the main market square, where it´s easy to see why it is labelled the Christmas City, filled with hundreds of beautifully decorated stalls mainly selling delicious homemade delicacies, traditional spicy gingerbread biscuits known as Lebkuchen, fruit bread, sweets, goodies and plenty of glass and wooden christmas ornaments, angels, cribs, candles, you name it, it´s a feast for the eyes, not to mention the tastebuds. The stall keepers take much pride in decorating their stalls, this is a serious task with prizes every year for the best stalls. Nürnberg is also famous for its sausages and homemade toys. We spent a couple of hours working our way through all the buzz, this market is the oldest in Germany and attracts 2 million visitors every year.

We started with the fruit bread, a bite of heaven, rich and dark, filled with big chunks of figs, almonds, hazelnuts, plums, dates, orange rind, raisins and apricots (don´t even think calories here). Then we sampled splitterbombs, I think they were called, kinda like a giant sweetie pie except the inside cream was strawberry flavoured and ever-so-light! 
What a treat to take in all the sights and smells, completely magical, in fact, I kept looking down at the cobbled streets, amongst all the human feet, to watch the little gnomes and pixies jumping out the way, for fear of being trod on.

Around 9pm when our human feet were really tired, we thought we would stop for dinner, we were also craving savoury after all the sweet stuff we had sampled. Embarrassed to admit, but we didn´t indulge in a typically bavarian meal, but we found a corner in a lovely Italian place and ate a gorgeous Del Alpe pizza with figs, sundried tomatoes, gorgonzola and another Italian hard cheese and rocket. We then spent another 2 hours walking around the medieval streets, taking in the buildings, fountains, old wooden bridges and walk a part of the old wall at the top. The night was alive with merry folks, most of whom were drinking a hot mug of Gluhwein ( a mulled wine). We got 2 mugs and welcomed the mix of hot and cinnamon. This brought us to midnight and as the clock struck, we wished each other a happy anniversary. We worked our way back to the car, through the narrow streets and bars, even though my mind kept wandering to the Nazi era and connotation to this town, I found it extremely beautiful and in some ways it reminded me of Venice, with its little bridges going over the river that winds right through the centre. We even nicknamed the main bridge, Rialto. It had a very old willow weeping right up to the water´s edge, from there you could look up and see the tiers of houses going right up to the castle in the moonlight.

Lebkuchen (Gingerbread cookies) ingredients:

•	Honey, flour, sugar, and eggs
•	Cinnamon, cloves, anise, cardamom, coriander, ginger, nutmeg, allspice
•	Almonds, hazelnuts, and/or walnuts
•	Candied lemon and orange peels

Face Lift

Living in a small village in Africa brings certain things to the pot, one of which is closeness and a certain sense of trust. One tends more to do things that one wouldn´t do in the unknown of the big city. Like letting strange people get into your car.
My kind mom is often stopping on her way out of the village and offering a lift to someone, just as far as the highway where they would normally wait for a bus, she´s even had live chickens get into the car, accessories of the passenger.
I have asked her time and time again to stop this act of kindness.

A couple of weeks ago, she had just pulled out of the top road with the sea view and drove along to the main road, where she bypassed a lovely looking African lady, dressed to the T.
Of course a couple of minutes later, Joy was sitting in the back recounting some lovely stories and memories.
One slight hiccup though, Joy seemed to have quite a cold, as her voice was rather deep. It only took a minute or two, to realise that Joy in fact, was the transvestite of the area.

Not that this should change anything, but the driver found herself becoming a little nervous. But Joy was lovely, he had, sorry, she had the most beautiful hair and her nails were more manicured than the queen´s lawns. She was real and soft and wore a lovely ring.

The driver didn´t want it to seem that this situation was slightly different to her other lifts she had offered and went on to have a lovely chat with Joy. She asked Joy if she had kids, of course she did, 2 in fact. On reaching the highway intersection, Joy thanked the driver and trotted off in her heels.

A week later, my young niece came home from school and went to spend the afternoon with granny. Do you know gran, she spoke earnestly while doing her homework on the kitchen table, what a transvestite is? Granny at the stove, looked up with a curious look as the kid went on to explain to granny in her simplified way. You know gran, there is one that lives here.

Granny couldn´t help but smile to herself, and knowing she shouldn´t she replied, you know 2 weeks ago I gave a lift to a lovely lady, only that...

At the end of the story, my niece, shocked and quite rightly so, said, granny!!!! are you mad? you don´t give lifts to strangers.....once again rightly so!!! That´s right, you tell granny! Then she lowered her head, looked at her homework again, giving it a bit of thought.
You know gran, something could have happened, maybe it was your lucky day...
Then she thought again, and a few seconds later, she wrapped it up nicely, grannnn, maybe he just thought you were too old and not worth it!!

What a TIGER´S balls

Now there was a certain man who was into his balls, from an early start he was playing with his balls, in fact, he became champion of champions of balls. Of course being exposed to balls at such a young age really did help, when one continuously plays with balls, something has to go wrong, balls are funny things, from far they seem so perfect, round, complete, smooth and so lovely to hold...until everything goes tits up and you make a balls up galore.

Now we aren´t exactly sure that balls up it went, although we can speculate, have a laugh and have a ball of a time.

Here are 7 simple rules when playing this game to avoid ball ups:

1. Firstly, never never lose track of your balls, keep your eye on the ball all the time and know exactly where your ball/balls is/are.
2. Now if you´re going to have a ball of a time, FOCUS, it ain´t easy, and you need to get your ball into a small hole, it´s not easy, but practice makes perfect, and soon you will be getting your ball in first shot, commonly known as a hole in one.
3. You have to keep your ball as close as possible to the hole, it really isn´t good for your ball to stray and land up in the bush.
4. Contrary to popular belief, the size of your putter does count, don´t believe what they say, the bigger your putter, the more chance you have of hitting the ball on that sweet spot.
5.Remember to really take care of your shaft, it´s so important for the game, completely connected to whether you will succeed or not, should your ball stray, you will find that you have bent your shaft, and the spectators are not going to like that.
6. Ignore them if they tell you that you´re under par, or a good swinger, the most important thing to remember is to have a good stroke.
7. Lastly, it´s not good to put your balls in other people´s holes!

As with most things, stick to the rules of the game. play fair and you should be fine. Do not become obsessed with your balls, and have a ball of a time!

(Thanks to Stacey and Lisa for some funny comments and inspiration on my facebook page)

Incredible Italy or German efficiency

Ok Ok so we all know that Germany just doesn´t have the climate or the best pizzas around or the colourful chaotic bubbliness. But let me propose this, have you ever had an asthma attack at midnight? If your answer is no, make sure that you pencil this into your itinerary for your next visit. These guys have got it sorted, things just ooze along as smoothly as the frothy milk creaming onto your cappuccino at the bar in milan.
I had had trouble with my breathing all day yesterday aggravated by a cold and not having all the right meds in italy (my fault tut tut) and by early evening I knew I was heading for trouble when the time span after the ventolin pump was lessening by the minute. And so at 11.17pm, hubby called the emergency doc on duty (not really knowing the system) and hey presto or as they say here Hokuspokus the doc was coming to visit!
20 minutes and of course me going to the dogs ( well I really was walking to the yorkshire and getting her prepped to stay alone, packing my PJ´s into my bag) we called again to say it´s now much worse, wheeze wheeze, JAWOHL she said, der ambulanz kommt jetz.
And a few moments later the ambulance arrived. Now, 4 men walked into the apartment, along with enough equipment and bags for a small hospital in deepest Africa. Errhummm, now what happened to german efficiency eh, I ask you, a possible slip up in the regime? - how could they overlook this minor detail, I mean with a pulse of 140, how could they march in about the best looking doctor in Bavaria? Were they trying to push me over the edge from an acute attack to a full blown coronary? A slight slip of efficiency on their part! Come ON guys. Mr doc started his orders and he said to me don´t worry, you will soon feel better (oh I already do, I thought). A long needle into my hand and a nebuliser, I was soon enjoying the effects of cortisone and adrenalin and some other cocktails, speaking of which, did I mention he placed my hand with the needle on his leg within mm´s of his wurstel, pulse going up, pulse going up, my god what else did you expect?
I was then studied and watched by the lot of them, told that they weren´t going away until everything was uber pukka. OK, hubby was standing next to me holding up the drip as commanded by the chief ( a top surgeon), my hand still in poll position and being studied under the mask, how the heck was I sposed to get my beat down to anything below 500!
And then half an hour later woosh, they were gone, sliding out as quickly and professionally as they arrived.

Let me tell you another story, my sister, living more north in the country is having minor problems with her yorkie pooch. Well I am not quite sure if it could be classified as minor or what, but the problem is that the mutt does it´s doggy do and then it gets the munchies, and bing bang, if you aren´t quick enough, it munches it up. Now this could present a bit of a problem bearing in mind 1. it´s not pleasant and 2. it´s not hygienic. Vet´s advice: it behavioural and not a lack of mineral salts or vitamins.... Mein gott!!
This new game now has my sister literally running around the garden like a frenetic frau playing trying to catch the poo game, nein nein, not gut, come here gucci!! Let me just wrap by saying I think that dog´s a genius, it´s doing what comes naturally, after all she bought it in germany, what more could you ask for, a dog that doesn´t dirty it´s environment, I think that pooch is having a good chuckle inside, it´s german efficiency, I mean, that dog has got it sorted!!

Wishing you all a Schönen Tag noch!!

A LOVE STORY forever lost but forever lasts

The only picture of my grandfather I had ever seen, age 20





To understand the enormity of this story, we need to go back to 1906.






2 photos arrived..
























beautiful mom and dad on their wedding day



















MY precious Nonna (grandmother) when she died




This story is about a boy, a very special boy, he was born a few years before the war. He grew up in a tightly knit and close family in a tiny village in Northern Italy. This little boy grew up with his first cousins, his mom away during the day, working to make a living for her and her little boy. The reason for this was that this little boy grew up without his father, and it was for this very reason, that he became so strong and special, adored by everybody around him, and then becoming an anchor and pivot himself, for everybody to lean on, to listen to, to take advice from. That little boy is my father. Those fortunate enough to know this man, can only vouch for what I write, he is a role model, the kind of father that everybody wants, somebody that clearly stands out from the rest, he'll challenge you to any discussion, it's no coincidence that he was the chairman of Toastmasters, just don't get him started on politics or Italian football, because he will go on till 4 in the morning, and you won't get a word in.

The only facts we knew:
My grandfather was born in 1906. Around the age of 20, he worked in a tubettificio, a mill in northern Italy, making cardboard tubes which were used in the cotton industry for the industrial reels. His uncle owned the factory and he would borrow his car to go and visit my nonna. From there, a love story blossomed. Story had it that his uncle was against the relationship and wanted him to marry another woman, he was only 21, (you know how it was in those days). One will never know if this was true. My father was born and has memories of his father coming to see him, although he wasn't even 2 years old. Shortly after this my grandfather disappeared, a mystery which was never to be solved, questions which would always remain unanswered.

Around the age of 15, it was an icy winter, my father in the apartment alone, stumbled across an old box, picture the scene...the old box...the dust...what was inside? Curiously, he lifted the lid. Neatly bundled and stored, along with a photo (the only photo I had ever seen of him), were all the old love letters from my grandfather, expressing his love. In his rage and hurt, his eyes prickling from the threatening tears, he only had time to read a few lines, and he found himself running downstairs to the crackling fireplace, throwing all the contents onto the burning logs. He kept 1 thing, the photo, should their paths ever cross again.

Then came 1940, quite a few years after the disappearance, my grandfather was seen by a family friend, discretely standing in the piazza, the village square, crying. We did not know until last week, that he had travelled back to Italy from another country, to try and see his son. By that time my nonna had moved to Switzerland and had married. That was the last time my father heard his father's name mentioned. My nonna died in 1986 (during my last year of school) in Italy, after an illness.

In the meantime, my father now in his mid twenties, was sent to South Africa on a work contract, this was supposed to be short term, but as we know fate has its strange ways, and there he met my mother,(had 3 girls, myself being the oldest) settling in a new country and going on to become the best in his industry.

My father grew up in hard times, he was well cared for by his family, he never missed any love and his roots will always be in his village, where he returns each year and maintains a very close relationship with his cousins who are like his brothers and sisters. It is only natural that in the back of his mind, he had unanswered questions, although he never felt the need to search for answers.

About 9 years ago, I moved from South Africa to London, where I married an Italian and moved to Italy. This sparked my curiousity as to my past. I tried to search very briefly for some history. I telephoned the comune (municipality) of the little village where the factory once stood, to see if they had any deaths registered under my grandfather's surname, I also emailed a well known television programme famous for finding lost relatives, but all to no avail, there were dead ends everywhere.

THE FACTS AS THEY UNFOLDED EXACTLY 1 WEEK AGO:

Now I have always loved and been baffled by technology, but I never knew the power that it held. Last Friday my youngest sister got the idea to put my grandfather's surname into Facebook (not sure why I had never thought of that as I have found so many old friends through it). But what were the odds? With all the billions of people in the world, and who was to say there was anyone relevant registered under the Italian surname. Quite a few names resulted from the search, and what she did was compile one email which she sent to each and every one of those surnames. A few answers but with no connection, until 2pm Friday afternoon. She received an answer from a man in his forties from Argentina, claiming that the man we were looking for (our grandfather) who was born on that specific date was in fact his uncle. At first I was very sceptical about this story, and didn't want to raise my hopes, only to find that there was some sort of misunderstanding. Fortunately, he could speak good english, and many internet chats exploded into action. As soon as he mentioned my grandfather came from a family of 10 brothers and sisters, my father was convinced we had hit bull's eye, or toro I should say. 2 of the 10 siblings were still alive and 1 of them was the 81 year old father of the man we were talking to, who was my grandfather's youngest brother. And slowly but surely the pieces all fell into place, as we exchanged information and put things together, and we also learnt more about a grandfather we had never met. He told us my grandfather was actually born in Argentina at which point we nearly fainted, as we had known from my nonna that there had been an Argentinian connection but we always assumed that he was born in Italy. He had left hard times in Argentina in the late 1920's to go and work in his uncle's tubettificio in Italy.In the 1930s (he did give us exact date) my grandfather had returned to live in Argentina, he was married to an Italian woman. Furthermore, they had 3 children, 1 of which is still alive, so my dad went from being an only child, to having a living brother in Argentina, who in turn has 2 boys who are my age, and therefore are my first cousins. You can imagine all the curiousity from both sides, not one person from the Argentinian family knew of my dad's existence, so there were questions flying back and forth as well as hugs and kisses, a whirlwind of emotions. When I emailed the only photo we had of my grandfather, his father (my grandfather's brother), burst out crying.. everything was confirmed and I now could write my story. They told us that my grandfather had died in 1979 at the age of 73. They were so excited and emotional at having found this new family, and immediately said their house is open for us to come and visit. Yesterday he sent photos of my grandfather plus members of our Argentinian family, cousins, nieces, nephews, the whole works, phew...it's a mind boggle.

A few lines from the chat:
A:.....my father is seeing the photo that you sent me .......
9:33pm B:

yes........
9:33pm A:

HE CONFIRM THAT THE MAN IN THE PHOTO IS U.... , HIS BROTHER
9:34pm B:

omg
9:34pm A:

MY FATHER IS CRYING
9:34pm B:

omg so am i
9:34pm A:

i dont believe it!!!!

Iam very happy
9:36pm B:

viva facebook - this is unbelievable


And so 76 years later as one chapter closes, another one opens, many questions have been answered, some will always remain unanswered, buried in the secrets of the earth with the people that hold them. For now I know, we have family in Argentina and that is enough to try and digest. Who knew that Facebook (which my husband moans about as he thinks I spend too much time there) would bring us some answers which we could never find before.
I called my father today and we spoke for an hour and a half, reflecting back, he says he holds no regrets, he is glad to be able to hear more facts and dates concerning his history as he always felt there was a part missing, he is reflective in that there once was a man...who never met his grandchildren and great grandchildren. Life can be strange. We all know that. He is already talking about meeting new family.

I have never listened to the song, Don't cry for me Argentina, so many times in one night, as each time I go back to the text to preview and proof read, the music plays in more than one way. I suppose it would be appropriate to end off with BESOS to you all.

How far is one prepared to go for love?

Three useful little words that meant nothing to me until a few days ago! When an old friend mentioned these 3 little words, I was blank, nothing sprung to mind, what could it be? After a bit of education and explanation, I can tell you I was rolling on the floor with laughter, the tears coming out of my eyes.

.....And this is how it all started.
There is an old friend of mine, purely platonic, we go way back to school days when I was a drum majorette. He lives in another country (obviously I am not going to mention names) and so we keep in touch via technology. A few months ago, his wife came to him and said, Honey, you know how I always go to wax my legs and bikini line, well I was thinking...

Next week I have an appointment but this time I want you to come with me. There's a new thing on the market, fantastic everyone's getting it, even Mr. Ginger had it done, it's time for a back, sack and crack wax, ooo I can't wait. After a lot of begging and pleaing and I promise this and I promise that, he finally surrended and gave in because he loves his wife so dearly. Which makes me stop and think. I ask myself, just how far is one prepared to go for love? I think if I told my husband he had to go for a wax, he would tell me which bus stop to get off at, never mind the fact that he wouldn't actually know what kind of wax this really was.

Then again, why do woman have to go through all that trouble (and pain) of waxing their bikini line? Ok bikini line acceptable, but then there are all those other fancy hairdos and hairdonts, you know those ones I mean, which are named after countries...hmmmff. Why do these women do it, is it because they want to look or feel better for themselves or are they just trying to please their partner? I mean there is a line to draw, when does it start to go beyond the point of ridiculous?

SO this fashionable back, sack and crack wax is apparently a real clean up for men. As my friend said, chicks dig it. I beg to differ. Ok I know a lot of men wax their backs, acceptable, or a load of sportsmen to speed themselves up, but as for the rest of the wedding tackle, why do they do it? I am not exactly going to go around interviewing and asking men if they wax their sack, but I am seriously curious as why it appeals so much to some men and some women.

Thinking about the procedure itself, how could someone even think of letting hot wax go near there, and then what sort of positions do you have to lie in to let the therapist apply it, do you need to help, do you need to stretch the skin? Do they shout out four letter words? I think it's all nuts! And then there's the ripping the wax off part, I shudder to think. Can the sack rip? It's certainly not something for the faint of heart. So curiousity got the better of me and I had to ask my friend, but whyyy why on earth would you do that? And this is when he answered me and I started laughing uncontrollably.

HIM: " I gave it a go once, almost shot my eyeballs across the room and blew my spleen out through my doet it was so sore"
ME: Through snorts and shrieking with laughter, sorry what is doet?
HIM: Oh that's an 80's slang term for anus
ME: OMG! But why did you do it?
HIM: Didn't believe it was as sore as people said. Turns out it is!!!"

Oh well, I spose each to their own, but it certainly makes you wonder, what people only do and what's more, what they go through to please their partner, must be true love or am I going nuts?

PROST!!

And so the Oktoberfest comes to a close.... another year gone, 7 million litres of beer and lots and lots of sausages.

Today was a clear sunny day in the city, clean skies with a twang in the air, a perfect setting for the final day of the 2008 Oktoberfest. After having visited quite a few times this week, I now feel I am qualified to write this article. I didn't know if this kind of thing was for me, but being in the city and knowing how famous it is, I decided to go and have a peek.

The underground stops at Theresienwiese, beware, as you get off the train you hit the crowds, all shuffling slowly towards the escalators (or back in the opposite direction as they've had enough or too much). You look back and just see a sea of faces - you feel like you have no identity, like you're just a number. You arrive at the top and it hits you, the buzz, the noise, the smells. There are only 2 words to describe it.... Organised Chaos!

Now I'm not much of a drinker myself, so I enjoyed observing more than anything, I did splash out though by drinking a 1 litre radler, which is the equivalent of a beer shandy. But just to give you an idea of the consumption, 30% of the yearly production of beer in Munich is consumed during these 2 weeks. A one litre beer costs 8.30 euro but it has a higher alcohol content of 6 %. The beer is supplied by the Spaten, Lowenbrau, Augustiner, Hofbrau, Paulaner and Hacker-Pschorr breweries.

This largest public festival in the world officially opens when at 12pm the Mayor of Munich taps the keg and shouts O'zapft is (It's tapped). Bearing in mind that everything is constructed a few weeks before, it is truly an eye opener. There are 14 tents which hold about 100 000 people and fill up to maximum capacity everyday, so if you're planning to get into a tent on a weekend, you need to get in by midday as some close their doors as early as 2pm. Once inside the tent, you can listen to the oompapa band, eat and drink (remember you can only order 1 litre at a time). The band will even sing a song to make you hold your glass and prost!! If you want to mix with all the people who come from all over the world, then head straight for the Hofbrau tent, meanwhile, the Kafer tent is where all the celebs hang out. Today the FC Bayern team visited the festival. If you don't fancy the party atmosphere in the tents where it can get quite wild, you can walk around with the other several 1000's of people enjoying the 740 attractions and watch the wildest and biggest rides you have ever seen! Enjoy the smells of the stalls selling the caramelised nuts and crepes. Or you can munch on half a chicken (6 000 000 other people do in the 2 weeks), pigs' knuckles, duck, fish or a half metre long hot dog with the bavarian sausage. Every now and again, you'll hear sirens and an ambulance come through the crowds or see someone being rolled away on a yellow stretcher on wheels. There are many casualties everyday. Be careful as you walk, not to step in the vomit, although this is often covered with sawdust. (ewwwww!!) A couple of days ago, I did get to see the cab in front of me, suddenly pull over, the passenger got out, threw up, got back in and the cab went about on his daily business!

The place is packed with Italians, they come into the city by the 10's of 1000's with hired campers, usually parking them in illegal places (due to havoc on the roads) only to find them (NOT!) towed away by the police.

All in all, you're bound to have an interesting day and get caught up in the fun. Even if it's just watching people staggering about or even passed out or singing or taking snaps of everyone in their traditional bavarian dress (the women in their skirts and aprons (dirndl) with lacy low cut tops showing a nice amount of breast and the men in their leather hosen, quite sexy I may add). Don't even think of smuggling out a litre beer mug (which is often the case as souvenirs), as security at the gates might fine you up to 50 euro. Better to buy one at the stall and keep the receipt!!! Be careful when you hop on the tube back, the platform is overcrowded and you might even be assisted by police pushing you in before the doors close!

Two years ago, I broke my ankle at the fest (one might immediately think I was tipsy) but I swear to you, I didn't even sip a beer. I saw the look on the doctor's face when I explained I broke it at the octoberfest! In fact, I didn't even get inside, hubby was in a tent on a company function and I was going to walk around and do my own thing. Five minutes later I had to get a bicycle taxi back to where I had parked and that was the octoberfest for me.

CHEERS!
PROST!!