I haven’t even parked my car, and I’m already interacting with people in costume.
Beckoning me to stop and pointing for me to park in a particular spot, the teenager is dressed in the livery of a local squires’ association known as the Ellis County Sheriff’s Department, complete with non-period-specific walkie-talkie and neon green poly-fiber vest. Satisfied with my charioting skills, he returns to patrolling the perimeter of a large puddle as I espy two people sorting through the contents of a dusty hatchback. One person is a lithe, young redhead in a tank top, Daisy Dukes, and John Lennon sunglasses. Her male companion looks like the 1953 Disney version of Rob Roy, his tam o’ shanter matching the tartan of his kilt. On the other side of a muddy path, I hear a woman clad in blousy garb and a multitude of belts and scarves lament that her current costume lacks her usual ankle bells. And to think I debated whether or not to take a shower this morning.
It’s Mother’s Day, but instead of getting up early to call my mom in California before she went to church, I got up early enough to be late for Scarborough Faire’s brunch. This is my second visit to the Faire in as many weekends and my third to this kind of re-enactment festival. The other was in 1994, when I went to the Northern California Renaissance Pleasure Faire because my European history teacher offered it as extra credit. For all practical intents, my days of cramming for AP exams might as well be as distant as the Spanish armada, but I never get tired of watching people. I guess that’s why I’ve returned: to find out why a person would spend at least two months pretending to live in a bygone era, an era so removed from the present that nostalgia can’t even factor into the motivation.
When I came to Scarborough Faire with three friends the previous weekend, I saw a man in the parking lot dressed as a crusader. In the established 16th-century purview of Scarborough Faire, this guy, who ostensibly traveled to the Holy Land to fight the enemies of Christendom, is an anachronism some 400 years old. But he is also wearing sunglasses, so maybe he’s one of the many costumed “time-travelers” traipsing about in garb outside of historical accuracy. At the time, I hoped to see a knight vaping. After the third or fourth one, the joke grew a little banal.
On this particular Sunday, however, I have come alone, determined to engage the denizens of Scarborough Faire on their own terms, to observe and interact without the armor of ironic detachment. Part of that is because during my previous trip, I listened to a man togging what I assumed was the Mossy Oak hunting camo of the 1550s lecture a large group of people about putting down their phones. It was kind of surreal, and definitely funny, but I ended up feeling kind of sheepish, as if I had laughed at a substitute teacher reaching her wit’s end with a class of shitheads.
During this visit, however, the first character I meet doesn’t say anything about the phone in my hand. He simply asks if I’m lost, possibly because I am lost but even more likely because he has a stack of programs for sale. He is standing about 10 feet away from the garb-rental shoppe Suit Your Fancie, and I figure that if I buy something from him, the folks in the store will be less likely to cajole me into renting something that will make me look like I hang out with Hobbits. If nothing else, Scarborough Faire is a great way to get to explore your own social anxiety. But it’s also a great place to explore, because it’s pretty big and bursting with things and people to see.
The program guy is amiable and helpful. “Thirty-five acres is a big place to look for a place to pee, m’lord,” he says. “You need a one of these guides, handily marked with places to drink, pee, and pass out.”
The program is $3, which almost sounds like a steal. Unlike Six Flags or Medieval Times, where the cost of consumables and merchandise is exorbitant, the food and drink and souvenirs at Scarborough Faire seem reasonably priced. Maybe $6.50 for a 12-ounce cup of Fireman’s 4 or Ziegenbock is a rip-off at a bar, but at the Faire that sounds like an acceptable amount of coin. Plus, admission is only $25.
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