The Renaissance Festival is a celebration of medieval Europe through dress, conduct and battle. It’s also a nerd paradise. Men and women from all walks of life dress up, eat turkey legs and shop in outrageously expensive stores. I didn’t dress for the occasion, but I did shop. The garb and food are fun, but I was bored, exhausted and ready to go within the first hour or so. Everything was so stagnant and similar – it just lost its appeal quickly. So it was a welcomed – if disturbing – breath of fresh air when I found the pickle merchants.
I can only imagine that the Renaissance committee chooses the pickle merchants with these criteria: obnoxious, persistent, and loud. As I walked around half awake I was greeted by the sound of, “Pickles!” The sheer volume of their voice was like a punch in the face and everyone in the vicinity reared back like they’d been hit. So it just wasn’t detoxing me, that was a relief. Still, my anxious mind searched the area for the disturbance. Then I made eye contact with a pickle merchant.
A barrage of pickle propaganda quickly spewed from his mouth directed at me. I gave the standard uninterested wave and tried to look as fatigued as I felt. He didn’t buy it. He stepped out of his booth and started to pursue me, continuing to talk about pickles. I ignored him hoping he would back off, but this only made him angry. As I walked away something struck me in the back of the head. He had thrown a pickle at me. I wasn’t angry – it was food after all. I picked it up, brushed it off, and took a huge bite out of it. I would say it was a winning situation for me, even if pickles aren’t my favorite snack.