Heritage Days

I must say, there really is nothing in the world quite like a street fair. Technically, it ought to be a horrible experience. I mean, if you stop and think about it, there's no way you're going to enjoy yourself. For one thing, the prices are outrageous. For what you pay to get a fair number of tickets, you could almost go to a themepark for an entire day and ride more and better rides, and the "unlimited pass" armbands aren't all that much better. And have you seen some of the people that hang out at street fairs? That safety bar you're clutching for dear life has had who-knows-how-many other people holding on to it, with who-knows-what on their hands. You're eating deep-fried snacks sold by questionable-looking characters from dingy little trailers parked along the street with hoses running from the back into the sewer grate under the curb. You're whirling around at 30 mph, 50 feet up in the air, on a piece of equipment that's been taken apart, driven around, and reassembled countless times by people who often have a questionable-at-best mastery of English, and sometimes seem like they may well have flunked out of the third grade. And we do this for fun?

...Well, yes. At least, I do. I suppose I can't speak for you. But really, it's a grand experience, if you want look at it that way.

You can sit on a bench and in ten minutes you'll have seen a fascinating array of people walk by. There are parents shepherding herds of small children from one place to the next, the adults in various stages of mental breakdown, the children thrilled or overwhelmed or upset they haven't gotten to go on their ride of choice. There's the shirtless guy with a mullet, cigarette dangling from his lips and beer sloshing occasionally from the can in his hand, yelling friendly obscenities at one of his buddies he's just spotted down the street. There's the old couple strolling nostalgically past the game booth, smiling as they head for the car show on the next block. There's a knot of 13-, 14-, and 15-year old kids, girls with tight shirts and makeup piled on thick, boys with baggy jeans and ball caps turned sideways, all engaged in an unspoken contest to see who can be the hottest, the toughest, the coolest, and who can say "fuck" the most times in a sentence while they have the advantage of being away from their parents. If nothing else, it's a fascinating study in bahavior.

And then there's the smells. Above all, you've got food: the hot, salty smell of pretzels and fries, the tang of onion rings, the warm, slippery butter scent of popcorn. There's the sugary blanket of cotton candy, elephant ears, and ice cream, and there's the unmistakable aroma of hot, greasy pizza. Underneath those are innumerable slight undertones: the odor of too many people, of sweat and unwashed bodies; the sour atmosphere around a garbage can where somebody had one too many sodas before going on the scrambler; the clouds of cigarette smoke or the slight whiff of marijuana if you get to close to the guy running the spaceship ride. They all whirl and blend together into one fantastic concoction that's never the same twice, but is always unmistakable as the smell of a street fair.

I don't really have much more to say on the subject. I've probably bored you already (all like, two of you that might actually read this). But I just had quite a lovely day, and I felt like emphasizing the glory that is a street fair. The lights, the music, the deliciously gaudy displays and utter lack of class—it's irreplaceable. I can't wait 'til next year.