Heaving bosoms, cod-pieces, and Tudor accents; these were the essence of the 2004 Maryland Renaissance Festival, located about 25 minutes away in Crownsville (near Annapolis) and currently enjoying its 28th consecutive season. It was my first visit to a festival of this sort, and as such, I was determined to keep an open mind. Admission was $17 for adults -- no student discount -- and even though my friends and I got in for free, my quest was to determine whether it was possible to have $17 worth of fun at a Renaissance Fair.
Our first stop was necessarily the costume rental shop, since even in walking across the parking lot to the gate it was obvious that we were underdressed. There were hundreds of people frighteningly over voting age, bedecked in various stages of Renaissance enthusiasm. Braided hair and bodices were standard for the ladies, and as for the men? You better believe it was cape-and-velour-tights season.
I was about to pay $20 for a Rogue outfit, but I balked at the elastic ankle-bands and, since I was writing an article and would have to conduct interviews, I decided to stick with maintaining ye olde semblance of professionalism. My friend, however, opted for the Fair Maiden costume, which consisted of a white blouse, a mauve ankle-length skirt and, of course, a bodice. Ten minutes of cleavage manipulation later, she emerged the comeliest wench this side of the Thames.
The Festival occupies a large swath of lightly forested terrain adjacent to a field, which served as the parking lot. Though the ground was wood-chipped, there were trees all over the place, which gave everything a real, unsanitized feel, which I liked. The fairground was in the basic shape of a huge porkchop, and was divided into several wide avenues which were lined with shops, stands and games.
By this time it was 12:30 p.m., and we were ready for something to nosh. A sucker for a big hunk of meat, I was immediately drawn to the Steak on a Stake, with a side of ye olde curly-fries. (Before I go on, I should mention one of the best and most surprising aspects of the day: saying "ye olde" before every noun didn't get old.)
The food was delicious, cheap and plentiful. There was the obligatory fair fare, hot dogs and sausages and such, and then there were the supposed Renaissance favorites: pork pockets, fried cheese and, of course, bagels. The setup of the Festival was such that you were never more than 15 yards from food and drink or 50 yards from beer. The beer was $2 and $3 a cup, and the serving wenches weren't overly conscientious about ye olde ID, though they did check. The "meade" was $2 and tasted like cheap white wine with honey; when attacking bees caused me to spill, I was half relieved.
By the early afternoon things were beginning to pick up, and pretty soon costumed revelers lined the streets. As I mentioned, there were various stages of Renaissance dress, from the I'm-taking-this-too-seriously (my friend was yelled at for using a cell phone while in costume) to the I'm-using-this-as-an-excuse-to-look-really-trashy. A Sherriff-of-Nottingham-type boasted a thick black cape, black tights and a silver-studded cod-piece: shudder. Later, my jaw dropped at a woman of, shall we say, ample bosom, who was wearing nothing above the waist but a metal bra. None of the passersby seemed phased, since this sort of bawdiness was apparently an acknowledged aspect of Renaissance reenactment. Indeed, in the back of one of the several Renaissance paraphernalia stores on the main drag, we discovered a wall of a different sort of paraphernalia: love-cuffs, whips and leatherware aplenty, enough to satisfy even the most discriminating practitioner of ye olde S&M.
Before we knew it, it was time for the Joust, which was brief and lame. The knight that we cheered for was about 60 and bore a distinct resemblance to Chef Boyardee, and his horse looked completely out of it. First, they attempted to poke their lances through a ring on a stick while riding their steeds; the Chef came up short. Then, they had to spear a small cube of foam; again, the Chef blew it.
Next, there was an exhibition in which the knights brandished wooden clubs and sought to bludgeon the opposing knight on the head. This was easily the most entertaining part of the show, including the joust proper, during which no one was even de-horsed. Maybe, since all the knights were over fifty, it was out of consideration for ye olde hip replacement; a knight I talked to after the show was actually in recovery from spinal fusion surgery. Oy. He had been a jouster for 20 years, and had recently attended the jousting World Championships, though he finished last. He admitted that he didn't joust full-time, and I was intrigued to know what his racket was on the side:
David Avruch: So, what do you do when you're not jousting?
Sir Barchan of Dingleberry: I'm an apprentice for the kingdom.
DA: Yah, I know. But what do you do for real?
SBD: I work for the kingdom.
DA: Ok, but for real this time, what's your day job?
SBD: I work for King George.
DA: No, seriously, what do you do?
SBD: (exasperated and with no accent) I work for the government.
DA: Jeez, gimme a break; I go to Johns Hopkins.
SBD: (nods understandingly)
I then espied a majestic procession coming over the hill, and, after a minor contretemps with an ornery lady-in-waiting, I was granted an interview with the King. His real name was Fred, and he'd been the King for three years; he worked as a video editor in D.C. when not ruling with justice and equanimity. Unfortunately, the interview was a bit disillusioning, the elephants all harnessed up for rides were depressing, and we needed a nap by this time; the Festival was quickly turning into ye olde logistical nightmare.
Fortunately, someone came up with the bright idea to eat again and drink more beer, so we did. This time I got big sausage, with fried ice cream for dessert. We played a few games: I couldn't do the one where you ding the bell by banging the hammer and I couldn't throw knives to save my life, but both were cool. A tarot reading by a woman wearing a soiled wig proved life-affirming, and with the buzz I had going I'd stopped noticing the general shortage of attractive people.
Either because we were exhausted and our abs hurt from laughing, or because we didn't want to be there after dark, we knew the time had come to call it quits from our very first, though probably not our last, Maryland Renaissance Festival. Was the adventure worth $17? In cleavage, easily. In fun, definitely.
