We didn’t need a map from Munich’s train station. We simply followed the people in lederhosen.

~

The sidewalks flowed toward the fairgrounds in a river of embroidered dresses, feathered hats, and leather shorts.

Gingerbread hearts hung from necks. Brass music drifted from enormous beer tents.

Roller coasters rose above the rooftops, and vendors threaded through the crowds carrying pretzels larger than dinner plates.

Dani and I wandered until one of the tents opened its doors.

Inside, thousands of people sat shoulder to shoulder at long wooden tables beneath painted rafters. We squeezed onto the end of a bench.

Before we’d opened the menu, a waitress set two liter mugs in front of us.

No questions.

No choices.

If you sat down, you drank.

Around us, the tent slowly came alive.

A brass band struck up another drinking song. People climbed onto their tables, mugs raised overhead, singing words we didn’t understand but somehow recognized anyway.

When hunger finally won, we opened the menu.

It didn’t help.

Every dish was in German.

“What do you have?” Dani asked the waitress.

“Chicken,” she said.

“What else?”

“Cow.”

At nearly fifty euros a plate, Dani bought a giant pretzel from a vendor weaving between the tables instead.

When my beer emptied, the waitress came by to refill it.

I placed my hand over the mug and shook my head.

The waitress whisked away the empty glass. The benches around us had filled, and conversations pressed in from every side. A couple paused beside our table before moving on.

Dani caught my eye.

“Ready to see Munich?”

~

A short walk carried us from carnival rides to church bells and quiet squares.

Marienplatz filled with people instead of tourists. Flower stalls and produce vendors crowded the market.

Dani bought a small bag of dried lavender because she liked the smell.

Nearby, we shared another beer at a wooden table as the evening air turned cold enough that we regretted leaving our jackets in the station lockers.

Darkness came quickly. The city quieted.

Nearby, we found the Hofbräuhaus.

Five floors buzzed with conversation.

Music echoed up the stairwells.

We wandered through room after room until we reached a ballroom where a wedding reception spilled into the hallway.

Downstairs again, iron cabinets lined one wall, each filled with pewter steins engraved with their owners’ names, waiting for someone to return and claim them.

We just stood there for a while, reading the names. Then we found our way back into the night.