Through a Rennie's Eyes

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.