It’s a good thing when you can say, “Not that Renaissance Faire—the other Renaissance Faire I went to this year.” This happens to me in 2026, and it will likely never happen again. I’m half-a-century old, and I deserve to do things that are going to put stress on my bad ankle, aching knees and uneasy digestive system. I’m not sure the last one will be helped with a massive turkey leg, but it doesn’t matter because they look too much like bludgeons to eat.
For this quest, I come equipped with shoes that can handle mud, a sketchbook, a pencil, two erasers, and Owlman.
The pictures don’t turn out like I hope. Either the background is too blurry …
… or Owlman is blurry.
We did make a touristy stop, though.
Once we get inside, I am constantly on the move, and I can’t stop long enough to draw. This isn’t a complaint. If my eyes are on the page, I’d miss the spectacle.
Stephen and his wife, Meredith, are the ones who bring me here. We’ve been friends for decades, and I’ve seen countless Renaissance Faires with them. They always dress for the occasion, in a tacky blend of medieval finery with anachronistic accents. Prior to 2018, my ex-wife was also there, but she lacked the whimsy it took to appreciate Steve’s cloak, which I look forward to every year. Mere has thrown on her own cloak, and I can’t remember if I’ve seen it before. Maybe next year, I’ll get a cloak.
With them is their delightfully weird friend Chris, fully committed to a peasant dress. The skirt has pockets, and she wears a fanny pack, on her fanny, and covers it with a scarf, pretending it’s a bustle.
I adore Chris. She is such a fascinating person, with her career sliding along the unlikely spectrum of amateur geologist to physician’s assistant. Her stories involve blood, guts, amorous patients, and rocks. She likes Doctor Who and even nerdier stuff. I’ve always gotten the impression she never thinks much about me (not in a bad way, just that I’m unremarkable). As we walk through the vast planes of cars, she sticks to my side, and we don’t run out of things to talk about. I may have a little crush.
Our first stop is the tunic store. From the outside, it appears small. Mere and Chris are trapped inside for an eternity. Steve hangs out with me, and we discuss historical writing. Specifically, he wants to make a “99 Problems” joke in one of his stories, but it takes place in 1991, and that song doesn’t come out until 1992. (This is not, technically, accurate.)
We also discuss HEMA (Historical European Martial Artists), which Steve practices. I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about, but I dig his enthusiasm when he nerds out. We agree that a double-bladed sword is pretty stupid and will get you killed if you aren’t Ray Park.
The reason Chris and Mere take such a long time is because they are trying clothes on. Chris wears her peasant dress in a paper bag and a tunic over the rest of her because it breaths better than her previous outfit. Even better, it also has pockets. Unfortunately, she can no longer camouflage her fanny pack.
The chaos calls to me, and I peel away. I must see everything, and I know that Steve, Mere, and, Chris, are slow shoppers who never buy anything. My patience will fade long before we make it to the third vendor.
I skip the pottery places because the last thing I need is another mug, the artists because the last thing I need is something else to put on the wall, and the armorers because the last thing I need is a sword, wooden or will-probably-kill-someone-steel, mostly because there’s no space to swing anything in my apartment.
That’s not to say I don’t shop. I spend my coin on the Ring That Won’t Come Off, the Box of Holding My Pens, the Pin That Is Really Neat, and the Books with the Autographs.
This is when everything breaks down. I must return to the rendezvous point, near the front gate. This will be plenty of time. I’ll likely have to wait and people-watch for about fifteen minutes. But first, I pick up an Italian ice from the only vendor who speaks like she’s in a Renaissance Faire speak. In Colorado, everyone spoke fluent Huzzah.
When we had arrived at the Faire, I didn’t think to grab a map. This was a huge mistake. I actually believe I can navigate via landmark, but no signs are familiar to me. Given my porous memory, this is no surprise to anyone but me. When I do recognize vendors, it’s because I just passed them a few minute ago. The meeting time arrives, and I’m trapped in this tesseract. If I panic right now, no one will blame me. However, I simply give up and take the next available bench, parking my swag and messenger bag.
I want to draw or at least take pictures, but if I do, I’ll miss the parade of swords, blousy shirts, leather armor, the pointy ears, the leather armor, the metal armor, the cardboard armor, the time travelers, the Pumpkin Lady, the Mothwoman, Doctor Doom, the Guy with Pirate Tights and Boots and a Hawaiian Shirt, a Knight Who Says Ni, the Waldo No One Can Find, lots of Drunk Dudes, and the Guy Wearing Twenty Pounds and a Crucified Kermit the Frog on his Back.
Almost immediately after I text to tell them I’m lost, Steve, Mere, and Chris find me, one left turn away from the rendezvous point. They are in good spirits. The party has grown by four—a small family and Benny, a class act whose company I’ve always enjoyed.
When the wanderlust claims me again, we’ve learned our lesson from last time. Mere gives me her map, and Steve finds exactly what I’m looking for. When I arrive at my destination, my expectations are low. I’ve attempted to procure the services of a specific kind of vendor, but the earliest they could fit me in is 5:30, and I predict I won’t be conscious at that point.
This time, however, I’m ushered inside, along with a slice of cake earmarked for my tarot card reader. Her name is Casey. She asks me how my day has been going, and I respond that you can’t be sad at a Renaissance Faire. She notes that there are many children who have had happier days. I point out this is a symptom of too much fun. She tells me she has a pacemaker that recalibrates itself every five minutes, meaning she loses the ability to talk for a few seconds. This does nothing to affect the reading.
I used to be married to a tarot-card reader, and I try to visit one every time I have a chance. Everyone has their own style for laying out the cards. In my experience, the more traditional the spread, the weaker the reading will be, not counting Zack from the Bazar, who has a unique layout but is bad at this. Zack is a treasure.
Casey is the most chaotic reader I’ve ever had. She tells me her talents come from channeling, and she asks me if I believe. I lie. Casey shuffles the deck violently until certain cards fall out, which she lays out in front of me. Eventually, the table is covered, and she interprets.
Casey is a good reader. She knows exactly who I am by just a few minutes of small talk. She can see depression, addiction, tedium, exploration, and a new relationship in my future. This is only the beginning. The cards are very thorough.
Satisfied, I go searching for the group and find instead a fish filet on a croissant. I note they put everything on croissants here, including ice cream, just like they did in the fourteenth century. I smother the fish in tartar sauce and enjoy the show. It’s after lunch, and inebriation has spread through the crowd. No one is sad at the Renaissance Faire, though some are very, very drunk. I could have stayed there without my friends, watching until the sun went down.
My friends, now numbering nine, text to tell me they’re looking for me at the psychic’s. I savor my fish-on-a-croissant and find my way back. We’re tired now and all shopped out, so we just hang out in the middle of the path and trade conversation partners.
That’s when the most incredible thing happens. Steve, Mere, and me are blessed with a story and a lesson from someone who may have been fae.
We don’t last much longer. Everyone goes their own ways. The couple, one of whom is named Jessie, leave together, the family of three leaves together, Chris leaves with Benny, and I go with Steve and Mere. I feel like a child who is having so much fun, but I hold it together. Goofy smiles on our faces, we take the long journey home.
