I’ve lived in Germany for years, and not once have I joined a carnival parade. In fact, as I grow older, I find myself not only avoiding it—but actively fleeing from it.

Karneval—from the Latin carne vale, meaning “farewell to meat”—marks the period before Lent. It begins each year on the 11th of November at 11:11 AM (Germans do love precision), and stretches in a meandering, celebratory fashion until about forty days before Easter. During this time, apart from Christmas, the festivities ebb and flow until they hit full throttle in February, on Weiberdonnerstag—“Women’s Thursday.” That’s when the real madness begins. On this day, everyone dresses up. People go to work as bunnies, dragons, knights, witches. Women cut off their male colleagues’ ties. Then comes a five-day stretch of non-stop celebration—music, drinking, and noise. On Rosenmontag (“Rose Monday”), massive parades flood the cities, culminating in Aschermittwoch—Ash Wednesday—where, at least in theory, people receive crosses of ash on their foreheads and enter a forty-day period of abstinence. In practice, few bear the cross. But many genuinely attempt to give something up: meat, alcohol, sugar. Some even give up social media, plastic products, or driving—a Lent for the modern age.

The cities that take Karneval most seriously are Cologne, Düsseldorf, and Mainz. Cologne, in particular, is the heart of the frenzy. The earliest records of carnival in the city date back to 1341. By 1823, the city had established an official Carnival Committee, which still exists today. In 1871, a new tradition was born: the Karnevalprinz, or Carnival Prince—a highly selective and symbolic figure. For many, becoming the Carnival Prince is a lifelong dream, a badge of local honor.

As an outsider, I can understand the cultural and religious roots of the celebration—this desire to let loose before a period of discipline. But without the inherited memory, the blood-deep connection to its rhythm and rites, I can’t summon the same excitement. At most, I can watch from the sidelines, as a curious tourist, provided I have a tolerance for folk songs, alcohol, costumes—and sugar. Or at least one of those.

To me, the most delightful aspect is the costumes. Some people go all out—elaborate makeup, full-body suits, surreal inventions. Others slap on a wig and call it a day. I enjoy watching these plush bears and plastic princesses scroll through their phones on the subway, looking bored and businesslike beneath layers of glitter and faux fur.

If the carnival were just about dressing up, I might even like it. It would be like an open invitation to public imagination, a temporary suspension of normalcy. You could walk down the street in anything and no one would blink. But in truth, costumes are just the garnish. The real centerpiece of Karneval is alcohol—and relentless music. German folk songs (Volkslieder) blast at deafening volume. The melodies blend into one another: brassy, nasal, repetitive. People sway in circles, drinks in hand, until they can’t tell song from song or friend from stranger. And with the loss of inhibition comes the inevitable: public urination, unwanted advances, bad decisions. There’s even a whispered belief that many of Germany’s out-of-wedlock children are “carnival babies.” Sometimes I wonder: is it the joy people love? Or is it the permission? For a brief window of time, you’re allowed to become an animal—and everyone claps.

Monday’s parade is for the children. It’s a sugar storm. From towering floats, costumed figures hurl candies into the crowd. Children scramble, laugh, and hoard enough sweets to last a year. But I can’t help but question: in a country where children are already drowning in candy—offered treats for every occasion, every birthday, every show of affection—is this really what they need? The adults numb themselves with alcohol. The children, with sugar.

And on Tuesday, when the music stops, the streets are a battlefield—sticky wrappers, broken bottles, crushed candy. Sanitation workers sweep and scrub, but it takes days, and many rains, before the city feels clean again. It’s a festival I can’t bring myself to love.