A TALE OF TWO CITIES

We head to Munich and Lake Fuschl—two destinations just hours apart, contrasting Bavarian revelry with Austrian serenity

- Andrea Lo

A merry group of strangers in full lederhosen laugh on their way past me, arms linked, cheeks flushed. It’s only just past noon. The scent of spit-roasted chicken and cinnamon sugar wafts in the air, and from inside the beer tents comes the unmistakable sound of brass bands—so loud the ground itself seems to hum.

Munich is all charm and contradiction: beer halls and belle époque; tradition and trend. Once the seat of Bavarian royalty, it still carries a certain regal elegance; it has the efficiency of a capital, yet without the crowds. In autumn, it glows in amber shades—tree-lined avenues, beer gardens, stately churches and the occasional river surfer carving across the Eisbach. Come winter, it transforms into a snow-globe version of itself, with Christmas markets and stalls selling roasted chestnuts and warm Glühwein filling the squares. It's not the kind of place that shouts—except, of course, during Oktoberfest; and wow, does it shout then, throwing itself into the festival with full abandon.

Before hitting the Oktoberfest merriment, we visit Lederhosen Verleih, the traditional Bavarian outfitter, where we join a long queue to be fitted into dirndls and lederhosen. The fittings are not a gimmick. Almost everyone at the festival is dressed accordingly, and it’s part of the fun—Oktoberfest parties elsewhere in the world have nothing on the real thing.