For Joan and Joe

The heat was blazing, especially for what is known to Minnesotans as "early fall." As we waited in the forever-long line of anxious autos, the orange-vested parking attendant was visibly amused. Laughing. It was rumored he was heard whispering stanzas from Dante's Inferno. At least that was the word from the binocular-toting passenger in the backseat. We inched our way forward, toward the Mecca of tradition.

When at long last we turned the corner, the orange vest now directly in front of us, hope faded as he shooed his powerful flag to his right. 'Unforeseen circumstances' and 'unearthly peril' didn't cross our minds. We were simply another pawn in his diabolical game. As we four-wheeled it through the overgrown brush, nearly plucking off costumed sojourners en route to our parking spot amidst the sea of dusty SUV's and Ford Fiestas, the anticipation grew. 

Thoughts of overgrown turkey legs (and legless turkey institutions scattered in their wake across the Heartland) and high entertainment filled our imaginations. Until we started trekking toward aforementioned city on the hill. 

We traversed with others along dusty roads, down gorges, over the river and through the woods, down long dusty roads, through marshes, down long dusty roads and alas! the sight was finally heavy upon us...a small speck of castle in the distance...or was it mere illusion? Another 45 minutes, past hundreds, nay, thousands of empty parking spaces, dirty booger encrusted kleenex overflowing our pockets, eyes burning from the floating dirt...and we had reached the grand entrance. 

Welcome to the annual Minnesota Renaissance Festival.

And it was only then we started getting haggled.