I’ll never forget that quiet September night, a night whose edges were just beginning to curl in the autumn chill. I was only a freshman, clutching new textbooks to my chest. Did I highlight enough of that packet? If I go to my TA’s office hours, will he understand my forbidden love? Did he notice how cool my lanyard is? But wait, who are all these people in capes and turtlenecks—are they ambushing one another with foam swords? Yes, they are. And so, to some extent, I fell in love with the Knight People, who continue to remind me of my childhood.
While other children rode bikes and played capture the flag, I read Arthurian legend, bought crystals, held crystals, and sometimes shook the crystals while whispering to myself. Then I’d put the crystals in a leather pouch and wear them around my neck to school every day. I may not have been the most popular kid, but at least I did not know that I had a unibrow. I would be informed of that in seventh grade.
Seventh grade was a watershed grade in many ways—my new friend Heather taught me that not only were my clothes uncool, but that my friends and general interests were as well. Thankfully I had time to change my ways. I ditched my old friends, my best wolf shirt, and the crystals in favor of eyeliner, baby tees, and JAMN 94.5. The Arthurian books got lost in the social fray and the Merlin drawings got thrown away.
Anyway, multiply the magic, intensity, and costuming of the Knight People tenfold and you’ll begin to understand the Connecticut Renaissance Faire. It’s the Woodstock, Conn. answer to Camelot—a place where the fey cavort with the landed gentry, knights battle Vikings, and misfit teenagers find love.
(On a side note, I’d give anything to see these kids, these awkward renaissance youths, back at the local high school, explaining to the trendy kids the difference between tunics and jerkins. “No dude, a tunic doesn’t lace up, not unless it has a keyhole neck, duh.”)
There is no doubt in my mind that this is the most ridiculous thing going on in Connecticut right now. “Let’s meet up at The Faire,” I tell my brother and his friends, “it’ll be hilarious.” But on the inside I’m nervous—I can’t stop thinking that this could have been me, if the cool kids hadn’t saved me/turned me into an asshole. Should I bring the crystals and risk a relapse?
From the tambourine beaters who greeted us on the way in, to the muddy old man who tried to hug me on the way out, the faire was a truly bizarre and entertaining adventure.
Scents of manure, incense, and body odor saturate the day with an earthy, primeval perfume, and I soon realize that it’s not quite the misty fantasyland of chivalry I once spent so much energy imagining. This is more about wenches with jiggly bosoms, singing executioners, and lewd jokes. There’s blessedly little chance I’ll turn into the awkward 11 year-old who polished geodes and memorized Malory.
Right after I cut off a call with, “Sorry, I’m about to throw an ax,” I hear my favorite quote of the day: a sweaty kid ogling a weaponry display whispers, “Sweet mace.”
Here, young children and weapons create a delightful blend of fun and tension. For instance, kids here are having a blast, despite hesitant parents. “Jacob don’t you swing that sword at anyone!” But if you buy him a sword, do you expect him to wrap it in tissue paper and ask you to carry it for him?
Some parents focus on the culinary aspects of the faire—a father and his sons practically stagger under the weight of primitive drumsticks, while others stick to the more contemporary subs and fried dough. I enjoyed a nice bowl of venison stew.
In this eating pavilion, Zoltan the Adequate—without a doubt my least favorite person at the faire—is giving a magic show. The kids want to like Zoltan, but they’re not sure if his booger jokes outweigh how uncomfortable he makes their parents. For one trick, he handcuffs some poor girl and gropes her while whining, “You people make me tingle in my bathing suit area.”
At this point, chants of “Kill! Kill! Kill!” float over the hedges. The next thing I know, we’re running along Dagger Alley beside a woman calling, “I been chasing pixies, milady!” Turning the corner, we emerge into the main arena, which is flooded with horses and flying banners, bugles, royalty, and peasants.
This is the joust—the age-old test of manhood. Sweat trickles from knights’ helmets while horses roll their eyeballs wildly. A lady suggests, “’Tis well if you keep the little ones behind the rope.’”
The knights prance out past the audience en route to a gritty, lurching, and at times excruciating battle. In a nutshell, the Devon of York was stabbed in the chest by Sir Lamorak of Bavaria, who in turn was gouged in the neck by a Viking insurgent. Someone in the crowd gets heat stroke, and faire denizens call it a day.
I’m exhausted from fun, and find myself floundering in an unexpectedly bittersweet nostalgia for my elementary school days. I reach in my pocket for a pen to write down that exact phrase, but wait—what’s that? There’s something else in my pocket, something cold and hard. I take it out, and as the dying sunlight stalks the parking field, one long orange ray hits my open palm. It’s a cloudy crystal, pulsing with life! A stormy face appears—a face I’d recognize anywhere. It’s Heather, beautiful Heather, and she’s reminding me to stop being weird and go pluck my eyebrows.
The Conn. Renaissance Faire is open weekends until Oct. 17. Directions at www.ctfaire.com.
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