Thursday, September 29, 2016

Zoe vs. the Renaissance Faire: An Elizabethan Tale of Wonder, Revelry, and No Small Amount of Suffering

Good morrow! Gather round, ye knights and knaves, ye bawdy wenches and virtuous wives, and hear tell of Zoe and her visit to the faire of Elizabethan times, where sweet maidens fair and queens and kings---as well as pirates and the occasional elf---came together in the woods to frolic and carouse and play dress up for adults, the last an excuse to don outfits most inappropriate almost anywhere else on God's green earth.

Renaissance Faire
Twas a long journey we undertook on Sunday morning to get to the faire, and those traveling in our conveyance were both short in stature and patience.
When we arrived thither, we immediately went in search of physical relief, which we discovered in the area overseen by Sir Porta John, a provident gentleman indeed. That bodily need met, complaints were uttered regarding the procurement of victuals. 
We located the food court, though it was like no court presided over by any sovereign I know, being awash in crude picnic tables unfit for nobles such as I decided I would've been had I lived back then.
There we acquired the small pieces of breaded chicken so popular with today's (and mayhap yesterday's) child but that, alas, Zoe now perversely forswore. Verily, she protested in such strong terms, only deigning to eat a handful of the thin fried potatoes, that her mother ended in eating the chicken herself---though she honestly could've given it a pass---because the price had been dear, and, besides, she eschewed waste.
Anon, the child let up a hue and cry, and we made haste again to the land of Sir Porta John, the poor child claiming debilitating cramps in her gut. This was followed by a refusal to walk, and so the father didst carry her.
Twas it the plague? Nay, to hear her keening it was worse.
Presently the woeful child lay upon a bench and, with most piteous whining, requested that her mother rub her back.
Zoe revived by and by, a happenstance queerly coincident with her friends acquiring swords. Of a sudden the color came back to her visage, and she petitioned her parents to purchase her a weapon. In a trice, she was outfitted with a sword whose color was pink but also black and white. 
For shield she had a choice amongst different fearsome beasts emblazoned on their fronts. Would she choose a dragon or a gryphon? A lion, perhaps?
Forsooth, Zoe chose a most terrifying unicorn, of a purple hue. But, by my troth, this mythical creature sparkled in a way that said it could be quite dangerous if provoked.

Don't let the purple unicorn and pink sword fool you; Zoe's a killer.

Following the joust, during which the father again carried the moaning creature, the mother prevailed upon the child to pose for a likeness. It took many, many tries, after which the much-beleaguered woman went in search of an alehouse.
Alas, the only drink to be found was the watered-down swill called Coors Lite, and so the mother repaired to the coffee shoppe. Thither, having spent all her ready money at the armorer's, she purchased a venti iced chai with her Visa.
To those who would point out the anachronisms, I offer this update of an Elizabethan curse:
"May thy iPhone battery be cursed with a short life and thy posts on the book of face go unremarked upon."
Thence we began our journey home, stopping once at a King of Burgers, for Zoe was finally hungry.
To paraphrase the bard, all's well that ends pretty okay.

Zoe: 148; Universe: 0

For more of Zoe's hijinks, follow me on Facebook and on Twitter at @zoevsuniverse
I need a win here, people. 

Prithee, uncommonly attractive lords and ladies, click here to subscribe.

No comments :

Post a Comment