The time of ages past is nigh upon us. Prepare thyself for a rapturous adventure, one of brutish lords and scallywag knaves, of ribald jest and divine combat, of beasts and nymphs and ... standstill traffic?
The lofting fumes of a congested I-495 brought an abrupt end to my mental preparation and left me sitting uncomfortably erect in the unforgiving benches of a chartered yellow school bus headed for the Maryland Renaissance Festival. With nothing to do but drink or ponder why the hell I was going to such an event in the first place, I chose the alcohol. Surrounded by friends of friends drunkenly shouting poorly thought-out renditions of Old English at each other, I had little recourse with logic.
As it turned out, I was just following the accepted protocol. In the world of Renaissance fairs, the libations flow more freely than circumstantial notions like reason, good sense and historical accuracy. And as Americans, that's just how we like it.
Reenacting one of the most romanticized periods in human history is not an entirely American construct. Festivals and holidays commemorating ancient celebrations and long-discarded ways of life from this revered era still frequently occur in Europe, albeit in a totally boring and typically European, more authentic kind of way.
We, however, are not slaves to our past or to other people's pasts; we do our best to extrapolate a muddied vision of medieval Europe and fill in the rest with ballyhooed spectacle, sport and plenty of food and drink. And goths. Lots of goths.
To be fair, I shouldn't categorize all those people wearing tight black corsets or heavy black boots or even stealthy black capes as goths, because they might have been dressed up as witches, sorcerers or some other totally frightening "Dungeons and Dragons" character. In today's society, going goth is hardly shocking or abnormal behavior anyway. And what I witnessed on that October morn' was certainly anything but normal.
Walking around the Revel Grove, located deep in the mystic and enchanted forests of Ann Arundel County (three moons' walk from the hills of Gwendiar or just past the road with the Citgo and Blimpies, depending on whether you use ancient parchments or Mapquest for directions), I was bombarded by a m?lange of mismatched colors and curiosities, all wrapped up in leather and spandex. With cloaks opened wide, exposing unbuttoned ruffled shirts and grotesquely outlined packages, most of the men of the village toed the line between pirate, super villain and scabby stripper. The damsels and maidens crowding around the jousting area, Royal pavilion and the ATM machine looked equally as spectacular, as they vaulted their breasts towards the sky in ill-fitting bodices mercilessly strapped on too tight.
There were genuinely realistic outfits interspersed through the masses, but most of those who decided to dress up crafted mish-mashed collections of fabric that couldn't be linked to any time period, let alone the Renaissance. The arbitrary level throughout the fest was high; I came to believe this after a fierce debate erupted in my mind over whether I should spend my last $10 on funnel cake and Fordham Oktoberfest or throw it all in for a ride on an authentic Tudor English elephant. As is usually the case, I meekly chose gluttony over animal cruelty.
But oh what a place to be gluttonous. In true medieval fashion, vendors served Elizabethan delicacies like fried macaroni-on-a-stick, fried cheesecake-on-a-stick, deep-fried churros and, my favorite, the fried pickle (which was actually mind-blowing). Discarded strands of sinewy fat from smoked turkey legs that mysteriously taste like ham lay scattered throughout the grounds, poignant reminders of the shield-bearing overeaters that passed through before. There was even Ye Olde Falafel Shop, where one could pick up a scrumptious pita made as only King Henry XIII could expect.
And even with all the incongruencies and overt commercialism, the most surreal aspect of the festival was that all these Galahads, Ann Boleyns and William Wallaces were just ordinary people, probably with mundane jobs in information technology firms and retail establishments, who willingly gave up their free time to continuously relive a childhood fantasy. At first I was sad for them, as I thought they might all just be inbred and developmentally challenged; but then I understood their devotion, and realized that they were truly the wisest elders of all the seven lands.
The power to dream is what sustains us all as a collective United States, and gives us fuel for our overzealous, idiotic endeavors. We are a nation built on dreams, and as long as people like those at the Renaissance Fest keep strong their devotion to harmless stupidity and unbridled merriment, we'll remain a proud land long to come.
