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Fall is in the air.
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Being. Nothingness.
Chto&crfcdt!
Once upon a time, it was about as German as cheese grits. Then, out of nowhere, it
became an "Alpine village." As this years beer-soaked festivities commenced, Flagpoles
intrepid 511 ®iX0tt visited Helen, the strangest town in Georgia, to investigate...
Photographs by 5$itltlI1f SiXOIt
/•^he skyline of Helen, Ga., sneaks up on you like a
dream: a storybook Bavarian village nestled in a
^^'quiet North Georgia valley. The steeples and peaked
roofs, all matching red-shingle, materialize out of nowhere.
Next, the old-world whitewashed walls, trimmed with
brown gingerbread work, the decorative balconies. Yes, if it
were only a little smaller, this would be something you
could eat.
1 have lived in Athens on and off for over seven years
now; quite a few times I’ve made the pilgrimage up to
Alpine Helen, but never during Oktcberfest. So that is what
I set out to do, this Saturday in mid September. 1 am going
to see how other people have a good time: I am going to
have an authentic Oktoberfest experience. To help me, 1
take along my wife the photographer, my brother the beer
drinker and a pocket tape recorder. Oh yes, I am going to
write an article about it.
My editor lends me a book of Umberto Eco essays
before 1 leave, Travels in Hyperreality, and 1 read them. We
have agreed in advance about what I am going to find in
Helen: a town twisted by the decadent forces of Late
Capitalism, populated by a middle class with too much
cash in its hands and no taste in anything but television
shows. A postmodern village of pleasure fraught with
absurdity. A great place to drink.
Unidentified Festhall reveler in traditional Bavarian dress
Five miles south of Helen we run into traffic, while I
make note of a sign that says, “Unique Mountain
Merchandise." That’s going to be important. In another
four miles we slow nearly to a stop, a tour bus in front of us
pulls over, and there it is, the fairy-tale Main Street of
Alpine Helen, Georgia; we are already here. The first sign
that strikes my eye is for a shop called “Yogurt Haus.”
The first thing to greet our ears when we get out of the
car is the sound of distant yodeling. We walk out of the
parking lot and past a building with buxom Bavarian maid
ens and snow-covered mountain peaks painted on its side.
We will later find out that this is the Festhall, nexus of
Oktoberfesting. It is also the source of the yodeling.
Standing by the door, we spot our first pair of Lederhosen
— on a graying man who actually looks comfortable in
them. “The first thing we need to do," says my brother, “is
go get a big cold pitcher of German beer.”
We head smack into the center of town and pick one of
the restaurants with a view of the Chattahoochee, Cafe
International. Out on the balcony the sound of rushing
w r ater mixes well with the polkas being executed by the
Cafe International’s very own accordion player. Three
white ceramic Oktoberfest steins catch our eyes. But our
waitress explains that they cost $9.95. empty. A pitcher of
Beck’s is $8.95, full. We drink out of regular glass mugs.
Our waitress has a moment to talk when she comes
back with the pitcher. It was a busy lunch today, she tells
us, people waited up to 45 minutes for a seat, and it will be
even busier during the festival’s peak in late October. Her
name is Lanie Johnson, and she has been working here 12
years. She possesses the ease of a woman who likes what
she is doing: living the slow life up in the hills, waiting
tables in this Disneyland of a town. When pressed she is
knowledgeable about the history of this place, though she
doesn’t remember the specific names of the people
involved. Knowing the story of Helen — what the tourist
and convention bureau calls ‘ the minor miracle that trans
formed the tiny town into an Alpine Village” — is a source
of pride among Helenians.
elen was a sleepy, dying ex-lumber town like many
'•others in North Georgia until the day in 1969 when
a group of local businessmen met over lunch to
discuss its future. It was decided the downtown storefronts
needed sprucing up. They approached artist John Kollock
from nearby Clarkesville for advice. What he gave them
was more than they bargained for. While in the service,
Kollock spent time in Southern Germany and fell in love
with the countryside and the little villages in the valleys.
Helen’s setting in a scenic valley with a river running
through the middle of it reminded Kollock of one of these
villages, where everything was so beautiful you were
always happy. He soon presented the businessmen
with a watercolor sketch of a revamped Helen, with
existing storefronts decorated to look Bavarian
and some new buildings added. Eyes lit up,
and the rest is history.
The downtown business owners got
right to work making Kollock’s design
come to life. The phone and power
companies agreed to relocate their
lines underground. Almost
immediately there was an
ordinance requiring builders
to submit plans in line with
the Alpine scheme before
permits could be issued.
Oktoberfest started soon
after. This year’s Octoberfest
began Sept. 17 and will run
all the way through Nov. 7.
Our waitress leaves,
promising to get someone
who can tell us more. We
turn our attention to the
Chattahoochee, running noisily over rocks and through
shallow rapids. Two women climb up on some rocks with
their hot-pink innertubes, laugh a moment, then slide back
into the current.
One of the cafe’s co-owners, Shari Snapp, takes a seat
and introduces herself. She is flushed around the cheeks,
heady and beautiful with anticipation of what lies ahead,
with being a restaurant owner in Helen during Oktoberfest.
Her partner buys her a glass of wine so she can “Prost” us,
probably the first media to hit hei place in a while. We
clink our glasses together with a hearty “Prost!” — German
for “Cheers!” This phrase will be the extent of the German
we speak during Oktoberfest.
“Tell them about us in Athens,” Shari Snapp says. “They
come by the busload from Athens sometimes. Buses with
kegs on them.”
Business is good in the tourist town of Helen. Though
Alpine Helen didn’t start off cosmopolitan, a number of
real-life Germans and Swiss have opened businesses here,
which is leading a kind of credibility and building a truly
international community. There is the Edelweiss restau
rant, Shari says, with Egon who makes his own sausage
and will say absolutely whatever is on his mind. Inga, his
wife, and Ulga. the waitress who cusses like a sailor.
Kollock’s v.sion is starting to take shape on a level perhaps
II FLAGPOLE SEPTEMBER 30, 1998