Stustaleben!

The university I am studying at, Ludwig-Maximilians Universitaet Muenchen, is attended by over forty thousand students. The nearby Technical University, where Nader and numerous other mechanically-minded gentlemen scrawl incomprehensible things on chalkboards, has twenty thousand. I don't know where the other 58, 000 people live, but 2,000 of them (roughly) live right here with me in the Studentenstadt, a term translating to "Student City".

I was shocked to discover that this is not the only Student City. Rather, there are other student cities in Munich, other large 60s- and 70s- era buildings clustered around a central hub. One is the village built to house athletes during the ill-fated 1972 Olympics. Nader and I are in a couples dance class at the gymnasium there, so we walk through this other, calmer Studentenstadt once a week. It's ironic that we pass the apartment building where 40 years ago Palestinian gunmen shot 11 Israelis, ironic because currently, the Olympic Village is a calm, gunless place, a tree-covered set of apartments, expensive and zenlike.

In contrast, life in our StuSta is a daylong party.

Germany has no open container laws. There are, theoretically, laws against public drunkenness, but those don't seem to apply in this anarchic cluster of young people. This is doubled by the fact that in Germany, it is always permissible to be drinking, since beer, here, is just another beverage, like soda or water. It is therefore always possible to walk out of one's front door and see at least one person clutching a brown bottle, sipping happily away at a picnic table. Even at 11 AM.

There are many places to obtain this beer, too. There is a bar at the top of Green House, a sort of hoity-toity affair seventeen stories above the ground, where you can order flaming shots and go on the roof, in that order. There is a bar below Orange House, where you can play Foozball and pet the bar's dog. (Yes, really.) There is a a bar directly outside Blue House, not more than twelve feet from my window, where you can cheer madly at various soccer games on a large screen.

In conclusion, you can buy a fermented beverage 7 days a week until at least 1 AM every day. But if you want to print out a paper, you have to take the U-Bahn into the city. Germany clearly has its priorities straight.

This week, life here is even more of a party than usual. It's StuStaCulum, the climax of summer revelry, even though everyone still has classes and it's been raining for a month. The music is played at a constant high decibel level; I'm writing this sitting in my second story apartment, and currently reggae is blaring louder than my laptop speakers go. I don't know who's in charge of DJ-ing, but they only play 30 seconds of a song at a time. This has been going on for at least four days now.

Frankly, I'm surprised we all haven't gone mad yet, since it's impossible to do anything but listen to the music that they're playing. I'm also surprised I haven't gone broke. Food stands consume the acres of the village, hawking Chinese food and Persian food (maybe) and crepes and corn on the cob (yes!). There are three beer tents, two cocktail tents, a wine hut, and (my favorite, if not for taste then at least for weirdness) an absinthe stand. There is a sort of nightclub (classy!) and a sort of mosh pit (moshing being the only dancing Germans do apart from standing and drinking).

Last night, I darted away from the mosh pit and ran through the blinding rain to Nader's ground floor window, excited to see that his light was still on. I hopped up on the ledge and bent over his balcony and shouted his name, but unfortunately it was to no avail. He, displaying the ancient Kuhenuri ability to sleep anywhere at any time, was sprawled out on his bed, struck unconscious by the equations he was supposed to be studying for the class he was supposed to be teaching in nine hours. This was despite the ear-shattering din of the tequila hut outside his window.

"Oh come on, man, turn off your light," I, dizzy with absinthe, said loudly.

For some reason, that woke him up. He shook his head, stared confusedly around the room. "HERE!" I yelled. He shaded his eyes, squinted, swung his legs out, and padded onto the balcony in his house slippers, then took my legs into his arms and tossed me into his room.

Groggily, he went, "Wievieluhrist 's?"

"Mitternacht!" I announced.

"Really? I thought it was five, or six... Well," he said, haunted by the deafening reggae,"I think I can go with you for fifteen minutes."

Then he put on a shirt and we headed out into the night, rain be damned. We walked into the concert hall and danced to German screamo rap, morning class be damned. Then we headed back over the boardwalk into his room and shut the curtains, music be damned. He fell asleep instantly.

Nader, at least, has his priorities straight.

Application

Dear Mike,

I've wandered into your shop twice.

Once was when I was sixteen. I'd come to Germany with a tour group from my high school. The thirty of us were led into Mike's Bike Tours by my overenthusiastic teacher, Cheryl. We were not excited by the idea of biking around Munich for four hours. It was hot, we were tired, and everyone was anxiously awaiting the end of the scheduled part of the day so we could sneak off and drink beer.

The instant we mounted our bikes, though, our attitudes changed. First of all, they're awesome rides -- they nearly spoiled me for future bikes. Second of all, we were mostly girls, and the guide, frankly, was hot. He was more than hot -- he was knowledgeable, which made him double hot. I don't remember much of what he said, but I do remember how hilarious it all was.

That bike tour was what made me want to study in Munich; at the conclusion of four hours, I didn't want it to end. I just remember how full of possibility the city felt from two pedals rather than four, from a sleek silver frame rather than a boxlike tour bus.

When I got to college, I applied, was accepted to the Junior Year in Munich program, and now I'm here. I've been here for two months now. I got a bike the instant I could, so I know the city better than anyone else in my program does now. (They all ride the U-Bahn, slackers.)

Last week, I worked up the courage to wander into the store again.

Not much has changed. You weren't in, but your guides are still as attractive and friendly as ever, except now they are my age rather than unattainable older people. They remind me of my friends back at the University of Minnesota Morris. They are sly, buff individuals who like good stories and don't care about getting dirty; I felt rather at home.

For I, too, have grown into a good storyteller. I stop my friends as we wander around Munich and relay various anecdotes I've gathered from tours I've been on -- "Did you know that if you steal a town's maypole in Southern Germany, they have to throw you a party?". I am not afraid of talking to large groups of people, nor of herding them around -- at Morris, I am both a campus tour guide and a freshman orientation group leader.

Additionally, I am on the campus' ten-person improv comedy troupe. This means that I do not fear hecklers and surprises -- rather, I enjoy them. I am cute and good at meeting strangers. Did I mention that I enjoy biking? I think I'd be a good match for your team.

I'm not asking you for a job, yet, though. I'm applying for your internship program because I've got to leave and finish college in two months. I could start next week, or even this week, but I'm out of Germany by the end of July, and I fear that two months is nowhere near enough time to convince you to let me lead a large group of people around the city.

Rather, I'd like you to get to know me, allow me to learn from you, let me shadow your guides. Let me learn the stories and the art of the Mike's Bike Tours funny. Then let me leave, and next year, when I graduate and move back to Munich for real, let me be first on your list for a job when you hire new guides in the spring.

In conclusion,

I love you.

Jessie Hennen