Contrary to what you might assume about a German like me, Oktoberfest had never quite been my scene. A non-drinker and not exactly keen on strutting around in leather shorts (in boy mode, anyway), it just never piqued my interest. That said, the idea of owning and wearing a dirndl did linger on my bucket list; a thought that blossomed into a tangible option as I began to, well, blossom in the chest area.
When Oktoberfest is mentioned, images of the grand spectacle in Munich probably flood your mind. But that’s just the tip of the beer keg; numerous local iterations of the festival scatter across the country, each trying to capture a bit of Munich’s magic. Uncertain whether the boisterous event would be something I would enjoy, I opted to explore the Karlsruhe Oktoberfest, renowned as the biggest of its kind in my region.
I reached out to some pals I met at the pride event this summer, and just like that, our table of eight was brimming with attendees, all set for a good time at the festival.
If every woman wore a dirndl, there would not be any more ugliness — Vivienne Westwood
Choosing my outfit was a no-brainer: A dirndl. Now, there are the cheap dirndls, where death itself wouldn’t catch you wearing one, and then there’s the luxurious range that could lighten your wallet by hundreds, even thousands, of dollars. I opted for something middle of the road, price-wise. But ah, the cascading expenses of ensemble assembly!
First, the bra — a dirndl bra, crafted for a tantalizing “open” view from above. An Instagram truth holds firm at Oktoberfest: appearances can be mighty deceiving. Enter the “Dirndl push-up bra”, a second layer of lift worn atop the first, granting me that “wow” factor, despite my still blossoming bosom. Then, a dirndl blouse, essentially a top just skimming over the bras, often sporting puffed sleeves. Why stop there? I dove headfirst into rustic heels, a necklace echoing the color palette of my outfit, a matching purse, and a last-minute silver bracelet adorned with miniature charms: a dirndl, a gingerbread heart, and a beer mug. I dare not tally the total expenditure for the full ensemble, but honey… I was primed to slay in that outfit!
The local spin on Oktoberfest stretches across a couple of weekends, lighting up every Friday and Saturday. Each event, from 5:30 p.m. to the stroke of midnight, pulls in up to 2,000 revelers. Single seat reservations are a scarce commodity, with the norm being to reserve an entire regular table or splash out on a “VIP” table. The latter, slightly secluded and perched at the tent’s edge, includes two charcuterie boards laden with classic Bavarian snacks. I went VIP, eager for a spot to stash our things without a worry in the world.
The live band was a vibe catalyst, truly amplifying the joyful aura, getting everyone involved with enthusiastic mug raises to the tune of “Oans, zwoa, gsuffa” (one, two, drink!) and encouraging arm-linked swaying to the rhythm of the tunes. Unexpected? Absolutely. But oh, what a blast!
I’d braced myself for an onslaught of traditional German folk music, not usually my jam. To my delight, the musical range stretched wide, embracing various tastes: from folk and pop to rock, 80s German hits like Nena’s “99 Luftballons,” right through to international chart-toppers like “Can’t Stop the Feeling”. It became an effortless task to ride the wave of exuberance that night — even without a drop of alcohol.
I took in the scene around me: People dancing atop tables, individuals challenging their personal limits with alcohol, and voracious consumers of hearty Bavarian cuisine. But amidst it all, there — just three tables away — was that familiar face. A colleague from work, nestled comfortably in her dirndl, with her husband at her side in classic Bavarian gear.
A flurry of thoughts swept through my mind. Here I was, as Sarah, soaking in the spirited Oktoberfest, hidden in plain sight amidst the joyful uproar. I could have just turned away, kept my secret safe. But then, a supportive chorus from my LGBTQI group and their encouraging nudges broke through my hesitation. “You look amazing,” they cooed, “go for it!”
Summoning every ounce of courage, I made my approach. I called her by her first name, trying to pierce through the rhythmic noise. As I enveloped her in a brief, friendly hug, a flicker of surprise crossed her face.
“Do we know each other?” she inquired, her eyes tracing my features with genuine bafflement. That came kind of unexpected — she really didn’t recognize me. A smirk danced on my lips. “It’s me, [deadname] from work.”
Her reaction was a beautiful mosaic of shock, realization, and curiosity. Her eyes flitted up and down, trying to reconcile the person she knew with the Sarah standing before her. Her husband’s curious inquiry was met with a hushed explanation that I could only partially capture to the loud music: “… work… dressed up as a woman.”
Leaning in, my reply came with a gentle correction and a playful twinkle in my eye. “Not quite ‘dressed’, I said, ‘Everything you see here is quite real.” Her gaze drifted downward towards my décolleté, once more stunned by what she saw.
“We should grab lunch next week”, I proposed, gently puncturing the charged moment with a sociable suggestion. A semblance of recovery twinkled in her eyes, and her smile re-emerged as she complimented my outfit — calling it “amazing.” “Who are you here with?” she queried, leaning into the friendly diversion. “Just a few pals from the local pride event”, I responded. I excused myself, tactfully retreating back to my table, allowing her some space amidst a whirlpool of thoughts.
That ostensibly stringent, conservative boss she once reported to (she’s now in a different department) — is trans? And hanging out with friends from a pride event?! I wonder if her worldview stayed intact that evening.
She’s now the first colleague to witness me live, vivid, and in technicolor. Given the deafening volume of the music, delving into explanations or sharing my backstory was out of the question. My hope is that the initial shock hasn’t overwhelmed her, and that she remains open to discovering more about the authentic me once we meet back in the office, which is going to happen coming Tuesday.
I kept pondering about that coming out today. My friend Kizzy, who recently penned her first article on Medium — do give it a read! — queried whether I’m primed to unveil my true self to everyone at work. Am I, truly? Perhaps not. Yet that evening, averting a greeting would have felt like an insidious denial of Sarah. It would have tacitly suggested that there’s something unsavory, even forbidden, about being trans. That spontaneous revelation felt authentic in the moment. Nonetheless, I’m gripped by an uncertainty about whether I could mentally navigate the waters if she had broadcasted the news to everyone over the weekend.
Anyway: Doesn’t this all hint at a divine coincidence? Truly, what were the odds? Statistics and I have always mutually agreed to maintain a respectful distance from one another, so I turned to ChatGPT, unraveling the intricacies of event numbers, regular and VIP table distinctions, and their respective proximities. ChatGPT crunched the numbers and declared, “This renders a probability of approximately 0.026% (or about 1 in 389) that you and your colleague, independently deciding to attend the festival, would both choose the same day from the available 7, and then perch yourselves near each other at a VIP table.”
If that doesn’t resonate as a slice of heavenly happenstance, then my understanding of coincidences is duly challenged.
Even though I’m uncertain about how things will pan out with my colleague, the evening as a whole was simply amazing. It assuredly won’t be my last Oktoberfest.
Learnings if you want to visit:
- Wear sneakers or something comfortable if you wanna dance
- Bring ear plugs. It *is* loud after all.
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