By 8 p.m., the long benches inside Hacker-Pschorr’s tent at Munich’s Oktoberfest had ceased to be pieces of sitting furniture. By this time, they were long, slender dance floors, packed with young locals dressed in traditional lederhosen, chanting “Ein Prosit,” and clinking glasses with abandon every 15 minutes or so. This is what Oktoberfest is really about.
—Matthew Curtis