We sensed we were approaching Villa General Belgrano when the roadside rooftops took on a very red, shingly, German character. And when street signs bade us “willkommen” and offered us “bier” by the cheap chop. Our hunch was confirmed when we stepped off the mini-bus and into the town’s mini terminal. There was a mess of festival goers in line to purchase their return tickets: foul-smelling, glassy-eyed, smiling. Most of them tourists. All of them drunk. It was almost 2:30 PM. We joined the line, eager to buy our way out of beer heaven while we were still sober.
That done, we headed toward town. Yellow streamers hung overhead, stretched across Belgrano’s main (read: only) street. Uniform wooden storefronts selling souvenirs at our sides. Belgrano was the real-life equivalent of a toy town made from Lincoln logs.
The fair’s entrance was at once obvious—I’m sure even the super-inhibited noticed. A larger-than-life sized barrel sits in front of an archway and begs you to do the tourist thing: snap a “Before” photo of you and the barrel. Because God knows you’ll not remember to take the “After” one. Just inside the entrance, we were overwhelmed by kiosks selling the necessary: mugs of all different shapes and sizes—mugs seemingly left over from Oktoberfests passed in distant German towns. And sashes for your mug. And elfish hats for your spinning, tipsy head. The chocolate booth, a touch out of place at this affair, seemed to be getting little-to-no action. We figured the mugs necessary and sufficient, made our purchases, and were funneled like college booze into the main area of the park.Imagine a clock face. You enter the park and straight ahead, at twelve o’clock, is the grand stage. Argentine dancers pull off a German number in flowing white dresses. At one o’clock there are bathrooms. The only bathrooms. You think to yourself, “Hmf, within two beers’ time, I’ll likely consider this an upset in event planning. A contiguous semi-circle of beer kiosks extends from two o’clock to eleven o’clock (broken only by the entrance, where you stand at six o’clock, and the aroma of warm apple strudel that is emanating from eight o’clock but is filling the air from seven- to nine o’clock). Pale Ale. Stout. Reds. Honey Beer. Raspberry and cherry Beer. Commercially-sold beer. Artesian micro brews. Barely wine. Straight-out-of-Germany Beer. Beer from Patagonia. Beer without any preservatives. Expensive beer (priced form $5 AR to $20 AR, depending on the size of mug you picked up near the entrance). People, alcohol, and food cover red and white checkered tablecloths, which in turn cover picnic tables, which fill the center of the arena. It is pandemonium. You need a cold one.
We staked out a picnic table and christened it our base for the day. Passers-by were our entertainment:
• A troupe of men in kilts, dancing something akin to a do-si-do and splashing into their surroundings what beer they still had in their mugs.
• Perhaps the largest Argentine man I’ve seen, fully clad in vest and calf-length trousers—with giant fake ears and all exposed skin painted shamrock green. It was Disney’s Shrek, executed to perfection, nevermind that Halloween was still a couple weeks off.
• Our attractive/inebriated American friend posing while three different cliques of females took pictures and asked for his autograph.
• A semi-sedated elderly couple, sharing our picnic table and requesting that we calm down, as we were close to knocking over their 18-peso beer.
• Two college kids, interviewing us with their video camera in attempt to make a documentary of Oktoberfest for their tourism class. Affected by their drink, they preferred to star in their own show and had us interview their merry time.
• The most absurd encounter of all: a group of boys who insisted on teaching us their “very Argentine custom”: when drinking among friends, tradition says that each male and female combination within the group must toast, drink, and kiss. Yeah. Right.
• Our same attractive/inebriated American friend is genuinely proposed to by an equally inebriated female.
For a while after sunset, we hung around inside the festival grounds. Chatting, finishing our drinks, making stumbling trips over to the bathroom (about which we could only affirm that, “yes, this was an upset in event planning.”). Christmas-like lights and big lanterns came on, hanging between trees. The revelry was still in full swing around 11:00 PM, but our bus was to depart shortly. We exited the park and wobbled down Main Street—it was as alive and raucous as ever. We hoped the winding bus ride back would be gentle on our stomachs. And I hoped the quantity of alcohol would go easy on my memory. After all, I had a magazine article to write.
Octoberfest takes place on the second weekend of October in Villa General Belgrano, Cordoba.
