Why I love the Renassance Festival
Excitement
flutters the moment you spot the maroon and yellow sign: RENAISSANCE FESTIVAL. You turn your car onto the bumpy dirt road and
follow the green-vested parking attendants as they wave everyone into neat rows
on the grass. You wait for a moment while the next car pulls in beside you. Usually
it is better to exit after they are gone, since the odds are good that they will
need far less time to disembark than you will. Besides, in the absence of
mirrors, you really need to be able to see your reflection in their car door.
You
then climb out and stretch; the drive has been a long one. Here and there
around you are the rest of us—the Rennies. We are not the weekend tourists in
T-shirts and hiking sandals, pushing mini Disney princesses in strollers. Rennies
don’t just come to enjoy the magic. We come to create it.
Back hatches
lift into the sun as we draw out swords and scabbards, cloaks and wings,
corsets and barbarian pelts. Most of us are already wearing the base layers, which
elicited plenty of odd looks when we stopped for gas. We buckle and lace and cinch with practiced
hands, like riders saddling horses. We savor the smell of leather and the
weight of steel and heavy brocade. Quietly, we enjoy the first notices from nearby
children as they point us out to their parents. I squint at my own sun-cast
reflection on the neighboring car window, adjusting and straightening. I have practiced this process once already at
home, but it still takes me a half hour to don my entire costume. By the time I
am finally dressed, the rows of cars behind me are three or four rows deep, and
most of us are already on our way.
Skirts
tucked and staffs in hand, we walk the dusty path to the front gate. Some opt
to wait under the minimally-shaded canopy for the shuttle, but for those whose girth
of garb makes tight spaces difficult, walking is the better option. Mentally we
calculate how long until the mild cool of morning ebbs into blazing summer noon.
Passers-by on the path glance in fascination and motion toward us. That’s when
the swagger sets in. As the gate comes into view, we hear the voices of performers
volleying greetings and clever insults to the mass below by turns. We then pass
through the archway and into our native element.
The
thing that makes the magic real for me is the sound. Live music makes a place
feel more authentic—more alive. I love sitting on the rough wooden benches and swaying
to the rhythm of deep drums and bagpipes, while inside I am dancing steps my
feet don’t know in real life. No matter the time of day, there is always a good
show at any of the numerous stages. But, if you wait for the last performance
of the day, you may be lucky enough to see a kilted drummer (well into his
day’s dozenth beer) twirling with abandon with a fearless four year old
princess.
The lively
lilt of fiddles floats on the breeze twined with the smoky smell of meat. Too
excited to eat, I usually choose something quick and as non-messy as I can
find. My husband, Matt, orders something to savor—usually gyros and Scotch
eggs. He then follows up with the first of many brews to fill his dark wooden
tankard. The outside of my Aquafina bottle, fished from a tub of half-melted
ice, glistens as water drips continually down. Most of the food in the hands of
those around me is on a stick. It’s sort of a pun here--Steak on a Stake, etc. They even have macaroni and cheese on a
stick. There are forks available, of course, but part of the fun is supposed to
be eating with your hands.
Once Matt
and I have our lunch, we scope out a shady spot and sit down to eat. Sitting in
costume can sometimes be an adventure—especially when perched on a precariously-angled
picnic bench. I must always arrange my costume carefully to avoid crushing any
of my elaborate feathers. Costumes can make simple tasks into…well…terrific opportunities
for problem solving. Fairy wings, for example, are gorgeous, but they make it dangerous
to venture into shops with breakable things. Walking in a pair is a bit like
learning to drive a semi-truck--suddenly you’re twice as wide as you used to be
and you have blind-spot issues. And getting in and out of the bathroom—I don’t
even want to go there.
When through
eating, our day of exploring begins. I’ve been coming since Kindergarten, upwards
of 20 years now, but I still manage to find new things while wandering the
winding roads and sloping hills. I love the shops with their clever, punny
names and creative spellings. I love the thudding and clanging as craftsmen
punch leather and shape metal. I marvel at the glass blowers, red-faced before
their furnaces, as they turn pieces of fire-bright glass on metal poles.
Seeing the
wondrous sights is only half the fun, though. At the risk of sounding conceited,
Rennies like me don’t just come to the festival to see. We come to be seen. I have savored the
metamorphosis of this attention over the years--playful teasing as a child to
flirtation as a teenager to awed compliments and requests for photos as an
adult. To me, this is the most intoxicating part of the faire. As an artist and
a performer, having someone admire the result of my labors is exciting and
fulfilling. Many of us have invested a great deal of time and money into the
looks we have created—certainly more than most people would think reasonable. But
for us it is like wearable art: a masterpiece we can dwell at the center of as
people admire it. We soak up the attention and bottle it up inside ourselves,
storing it carefully for a blue and rainy day. When I am in costume, my step is
light and swinging and I am conscious of the gazes of all who pass by. I feel
utterly grand. But perhaps you can relate—after all, no matter what we profess,
deep down everyone likes to be noticed.
The best part
for me, by far, is the children. There is nothing like their wide and believing
eyes. The magic is real for them and that makes it real for you. You greet them
as young princes or princesses and smile as they ask, “Are you really a_____?”
Your answer, of course, is always yes.
I keep a special pouch of glass stones just for encounters with children. I
noticed some time ago that fairies in the employment of the festival gave such
things away to little ones, but I hadn’t thought of doing it myself until children
began giving tiny plastic jewels to me. Now I treasure the practice. Sewn on my
pouch is a very special brown plastic button given to me by a precious two year
old. She and I had a lengthy conversation, of which I understood about half. I
will always remember that exchange fondly.
In addition
to all of the positive attention, it is thrilling hunting for a new costume
piece or accessory. Trying things on, getting ideas, taking suggestions—it is
all part of the process. Sometimes I go with an item already in mind, sometimes
I get inspired by something I see someone else wearing. Other times the new acquisition is a surprise.
Upon entering a shop, the woman stops and says, “Oh, I have the perfect thing for
you!” When she brings it, it is like fate. There is no leaving without it. When
it is paid for, I wear it merrily out into the sunlight and immediately it is
like people know. No matter how complex the rest of the costume, it is the
first thing people compliment. I think sadly of the day when my costume is too
full and complex to allow for any additions. It seems silly, I am sure, buying
something every trip. But that is half of the fun for us—never being done, always
evolving.
Naturally,
the faire wouldn’t be what it is without the performers. Their brazenness and clever
jibes create an atmosphere that I’ve never found anywhere else. I have always
held the opinion that the quickest wits in the world can be found at a
Renaissance Festival. For years I have envied this talent, and will admit to
spending much time trying to predict good-natured insults and crafting
comebacks in advance. Most often I am taken by surprise and can only laugh and
concede defeat. However, the rare occasions when cleverness blesses me and I gain
verbal victory are some of my proudest moments. One of my favorite triumphs was
over a formidable foe: the notorious frozen banana man. (Arguably, the only one
who can best the candied almond and pickle salesmen in bawdiness). As I
wandered by, he made a pass at me. I gazed at him curiously and asked, “Do I
know you?” He hesitated, looked puzzled, then replied in the negative. I smiled
and chirped, “Wonderful! Let’s keep it that way, shall we?” I merrily skipped
away while he called after me, “No, wait! Let’s not!… Awww. Okay, you just keep
walking and I’ll…stay here.”
As much as the banter, I enjoy seeing performers
who are committed to their characters in appearance as well as performance. Not
the patch-bearded boys in Halloween costume armor, (though I certainly don’t
begrudge those gentlemen their own fun), but I admire the ones who make it
authentic—real leather, real steel, and real long hair. My personal favorite
was the craftsman who sold us Matt’s leather hat. In addition to his most
convincing costume and speech, he had a long, grey, grizzled beard with a smoke
stained moustache. The lines in his face were as deep as plough furrows and his
voice was as deep and rough as his skin. When he held the leather in his gnarled,
yet nimble hands it was like he held an extension of himself. He seemed almost
otherworldly, as if he had just swung down from the rigging of a pirate ship. He
was real.
The
end of the day usually finds me sitting on a bench with my head on Matt’s shoulder,
resting my sore feet. I am always tired, and usually we have seen almost
everything, but I never want to leave before the closing cannon. I’m not ready for the fun to be over, for I
know that it will be a long time before I am back again. This is often the time
when, at the last minute, I make up my mind about a purchase I have been
considering all day. We then wearily troop back to the shop in question before
heading to the entrance. Small clusters of musicians serenade the trudging
stream of fairgoers as we exit through the gate to choruses of “Fare thee well.”
On aching, dust-caked feet we hike back to our cars to shed our layers, damp
with sweat and sometimes rain.
It is always
a strange sensation—the disrobing. The deep inhalation at the loosening of
corset strings reminds you that you’ve only been breathing with half of your
lungs all day. The steel boning relinquishes its task of keeping your torso
upright and your spine dazedly reclaims the role. You shudder as your viscera un-squash,
settling back into a natural configuration. Sometimes you can see stark lines
of contrast between the pale newly-uncovered flesh and the darkness of tan and dirt
that marks skin that spent the day exposed. Once everything is off and packed
safely away we start for dinner and home.
In a way, though, we never really leave. In the midst of
the cold, dark winter when bitter wind and bare earth drag me into melancholy,
it is memories of faire that light up the gloom. I recall the sights and
remember the songs and feel the heat of the sun on my skin. I relive the jokes
and chance encounters, and quietly count down the days until the next faire.
