She’s plenty chuffed and in the right
mindset now for jousting, which she’s
disappointed is just a spectator sport.
We gather on metal bleachers around a
massive sandpit as riders enter the ring
in full regalia. Horses are bedecked in the
colors of their rider’s characters: Viscount
of Yorkshire (who we are informed over
the loudspeaker is a “kicker of puppies,”
universally signifying his villainy), rides
under violet-and-black flags and will
fight the Duchess of Orkney (“paragon
of virtue”), who rides under blue and
gold. The riders wear microphones that
scratchily amplify their prejoust rib-
bing, as irkingly anachronistic as the
taco stands: the Viscount refers to his
opponent as Miley Cyrus and accuses
her of stealing her blond locks from Paris
Hilton. They draw swords, charge at each
other, the Duchess knocks the fleur de lis
from atop his helmet (shocker), and our
heroine has won in a strange declaration
of girl power.
During the pet costume contest, where
dogs line up for show in elaborate velvet
and puffed sleeves—dog tags are sold that
say “my faire pet,” naturally—we hear
that there will be an archery competition.
I was pretty solid with a bow the last time
I picked one up at summer camp—oh,
almost 30 years ago. Why not? I sign
up and wait by a sign that says “Hitting
and Stabbing Emporium.” Turns out, the
kid’s still got it. I win the first round, and
the second—Dahlia’s jaw hits gravel—
but choke in the third. Still, I place in the
top three, which earns me a T-shirt that
says “WENCH,” which I wear proudly
for the rest of the day. My crankiness has
significantly dissipated, but I have yet to
become a Faire lady. Even Dahlia, who has
been thoroughly romanced by her new hat
and her mother’s turn as Brave’s Merida,
remains outside the Renaissance thrall.
But as we know from the lasting three-act
structure of that era’s dramas, that’s all
about to change.
A FAIRE WENCH
Twenty bucks on Amazon.com can buy
a surprising amount of polyester velvet
with faux corseting. I’ve decided to go
whole hog on our next outing, and I’m
glad: The scene in the parking lot alone at
the New York Renaissance Faire puts the
cargo shorts of Connecticut to shame.
Bagpipes beckon through the gate.
Beyond lies a sprawling wooded village.
No flea market tents, but permanent
