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.