When this finds you, I will be in Rochester, New York, on my first professional gig as a theatre artist. I’m going to be a production assistant—and merch seller—on this tour of the Christmas classic The Miracle on 34th Street. It is an opportunity only made possible to me by the kindness of strangers, as well as perhaps the desperation of a theatrical company scrambling to find a PA last-minute.

I’m eager to see new places, contribute to a fast-paced theatrical process, and cultivate plenty of creative fodder for my writing. I’m also thankful for my supervisors and coworkers at the Reading Team, who are happy to treat my seven-week absence as a sabbatical rather than a goodbye, and were overjoyed for me when I mentioned I snagged the position. My students were overjoyed, too, rather by the fact that they wouldn’t have to deal with Mr. Michael’s reprimands for the rest of 2025 than by anything congratulatory.

I’m will be thrilled to have more to share about the production in the weeks to come. For now, I wanted to share an account of an experience I had back in the beginning of October.

At the onset of autumn, my friends Nell and Ali invited me to join them for a longstanding tradition of theirs—a trip to the Renaissance Faire. This would be their first time attending the occasion in New York and my first Ren Fair at all.

The following prose is a bit of a summary, a bit of a reflection, and a bit of a highlight reel. I’m thankful to have had the opportunity to take part in this adventure.

BACK TO BEFORE

Before we traveled back in time, we went to a place outside of time.

The suburbs of New Jersey aren't like small-town Massachusetts. The latter is farmland, rolling hills speckled with strip malls and winding roads, punctuated by the occasional overpass. There was something about New Jersey where I felt the presence of NYC, however many miles away—a car, a train ride—thrumming, tall.

And yet—despite that—a cul de sac is a cul de sac and a suburban development off the main drag is just that as well, and in the pitch darkness of all of eight P.M. we could have been on Ryan's street back in my hometown, hundreds of miles northeast.

Ahh, America.

We stepped inside Ali's home and I had been there before, it was the houses of two separate friends from home—Massachusetts, that is—all in one, family photos on the wall and dark granite kitchen of the aughts and Star Trek memorabilia on the walls and even the smell of the place, comforting scent of carpeting and stuffed animals that have been hanging out for a little bit waiting for someone to shake the dust off. A towel rack the shape of two moose smiled at me as I used the bathroom and a quote about “the road to a friend” hung above the basement door, exactly where I would expect it to be.

Ali's got half a decade on me and so this place was frozen in time a little before my family home was, with the young'uns having moved out and her parents free to finally have the place to themselves early 2010s rather than late.

First thing we did once shoes were off and bags were on the ground and bathrooms were located was throw ourselves on the floor of the living room and take in the carpeted ground for a long, long time.

“Floor Time,” Nell dubbed it. We soaked that house in from its foundations.

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Our car ride from New Jersey to Tuxedo Park, New York was a mostly-continuous musical theatre sing-along, another blast to the past for me. Despite having grown up on musical theatre, my time spent achieving a B.A. in Theatre Studies actually saw me grow more distant from the discipline—the roles tended to go to B.F.A. students, and I didn't pursue enough club theatre or other such extracurriculars to maintain my edge. My active enthusiasm for theatre culture retreated behind the dignified veil of study and career-seeking. When the songs blasted in the car, I, smiling, abstained from opening my mouth.

We knew the Ren Fest would be packed and so we left what we figured would be an appropriate degree early, subsequently arriving early, as well, by modest standards. There was something purgatorial about the desolate dirt parking lot full of costumed young adults, outfits plucked from various milieus both fictional and historical. In my plain black shirt and marginally jaunty striped shorts, I was an outsider. I found myself desperately making judgements about the anachronism of the various fairgoers’ costumes in order to create some psychological distance for myself before, deciding I didn’t know nearly enough about Renaissance England to do so, I discarded my criticisms. After all, I never lived in the thirteenth century—I cannot truly attest whether or not Shrek was one of its inhabitants.

As we walked up to the main gates of the festival, we were ushered along by fey folk and yeomen speaking in all manner of accents out of the modern United Kingdom. There was certainly a carnival atmosphere about. I was relieved that my friends and traveling companions, like me, were dressed in outfits that gave a respectful nod to ye olden days without having actually been handmade upon a spinner’s wheel in a thatch-roofed cottage. I tested my key phrase for an Irish accent, assessed whether I would be able to maintain it over the course of the day. How badly did I need to fit in with the cosplayers? Not so badly. No accent, Michael.

Outside the gates, a crowd was gathered. From the balcony, a queenly woman and a salt-and-pepper scoundrel of a man had it out. Nell explained it was likely an introduction to the meta-plot which would be uncoverable over the course of the festival. I couldn’t particularly hear what they were saying. We were busy taking pictures of the flowers.

At once, there was a ruckus and a great stirring about, as if we were in a pot of water that had just reached a boil. The gates were open! Let the festivities commence! We bubbled forth onto the fairgrounds.

I immediately clocked the boothful of sweet treats—fudge! brownies! toasted almonds!—as we made our way in. Before us was a pond as tranquil as a mirror; the trees by its edge were reflected perfectly on its surface, treating us to a double-canopy of yellow-green leaves above and below. The sky was a clear blue. Around us, voices clamored. The low yawp of a horn sounded from somewhere across the water of the pond—from atop a rock, a viking man blew into said horn, a round wooden shield in his off-hand.

Our first visit was indeed the viking village that the horn had beckoned us towards, over the bridge on the other side of the water. A homespun assortment of reenactors prepared their cooking fire beneath a burlap-looking canopy; a sign next to a small outdoor forge advertised blacksmithing demonstrations at noon and four. At the smithy, a lad no older than eleven moved confidently among sooty-bearded men, cracking ore open with a hammer. They all appeared set in a quiet, industrious rhythm—the real hustle and bustle would come later.

On our way out of the village, we were waylaid by a faux-Dane offering to demonstrate viking kindling techniques to us. “I can’t show you for real because of the fire warning today,” he said, “but I can give you a feel for it.”

The Fire Flower is not a phenomenon unique to Mario, apparently—the vikings used fungi which are natural vessels for flame to store embers on their person for later. When the shrooms are properly prepared, they can stow smouldering embers for hours on end. I use the present tense because when he was done with his demonstration, the medieval pyrotechnician pointed us right towards a growth on the base of a nearby tree. “There’s some right there,” he said, and there was. We were stunned. It was, Nell remarked, like some improbable feature from a video game. Nature yet holds secrets that crackle, hidden, like cinders inside a mushroom.

Having left the viking village, we determined it was as good a time as any to begin our consumption of mead.

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The late morning was spent drifting in the pleasant buzz of honey alcohol. We wandered the grounds, took in the cosplay, and watched a man named Aaron Bonk snap flaming whips to the rhythm of his own beatboxing. The latter, admittedly, took a moment to grow on me. What presented as a little cringe at first—modest beatboxing, whips—grew more and more spectacular the more swords Aaron balanced improbably atop each other and the more leather implements he set ablaze.

Soon, though, it was time for the main event. It was time for the joust.

I have always had a fascination with knightly tradition. It's a love, I think, that dates far back to King Arthur-themed comics in the library and countless other fantastical books and movies and video games I consumed in my most impressionable squirely years.

I was absolutely pumped, then, when we got front-row seats and we got the knight in the awesome burgundy-and-gold regalia. When I say we “got” him, I mean the audience on the right side of the seating area was told to cheer for him and his horse, Eliot, as well as boo the blue knight. We obliged, I myself quite enthusiastically; there are few other contexts in which I have the freedom to shout “Knave!” and “Blackguard!” at a stranger on horseback (that’s pronounced “blaggerd,” by the way).

The joust was an opportunity for me to flaunt my knowledge of medieval warfare to my friends. For example, I was pleased to share that a more disciplined knight typically levels their lance at their foe later in the tilt, as the sustained effort of holding the shaft steady at a target for a longer duration might cause the tip to dip or waver. It was also an opportunity to learn more about my friends’ history with horseback. When I made an overeager quip about the horses’ gait, Ali corrected my terminology with a knowing smile. It’s an invaluable thing, spending time around people more knowledgeable than oneself.

The joust ended inconclusively, and the emcee promised more violence to come later. We headed on our way.

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There were a number of times I asked my friends what we ought to be doing at various points in the day, to which they replied that it was less about the itinerary and more about the vibes. The Ren Faire, they said, isn’t so much about packing in as many activities as possible—rather, it’s about following the flow of one’s own interest, people-watching amidst a crowd of dedicated hobbyists, soaking up the atmosphere. It is an exercise, as my urban studies-trained sister might put it, in dérive.

We wandered across a glass blower, and watched as his glowing orange pitcher took shape alongside his idle philosophical perspective: “When people start to raise their voices, they stop listening.”

We stopped for lunch, and I made the mistake of ordering a gyro; ordering food at a rural fair outside New York City, especially food of any culinary tradition outside the white American standards, is a recipe—ha ha—for disappointment. I should have stuck with something more akin to chicken tenders or those massive turkey legs that are a Ren Faire staple.

We caught the end of some stage combat, and I made a snooty remark about how it was relatively tame; I have high standards for stage combat (the best I’ve ever seen probably remains this series of low-fi training videos by a coupla British blokes at the Bristol Old Vic).

We drank more mead. Nell wanted to stop for coffee, and Ali and I figured it was as good a window as any to reup. The best was definitely the session-style honey mead. Ugh, the vikings knew how to ferment their honey. Sometimes the old ways are indeed best.

Eventually, with the sun high in the afternoon sky, it was time for the next joust. Our knights were back at it again, Eliot eager as ever to tilt even as his fellow horse, Bob, switched out with a stablemate, Bo. This next bout was performed before the Queen, and both knights were veritable braggarts. After another inconclusive set of rounds, the emcee herself had to stand between Sir Moon and Sir Sun as they drew swords and nearly came to blows. It certainly seemed to foreshadow an explosive conclusion to come. The crowds had grown, and the shouting from the stands grew more enthusiastic as the audience dug into their knightly fandoms. I would come to blows for the honor of the Burgundy Knight of the Sun.

By some confluence of factors, I found myself having to make frequent use of the lavatories throughout the day, which proved to be fortuitous; on one such trip, I ended up running into, entirely by chance, a fellow Ithaca Theatre alum just a year below me, who happened to be stage managing the joust. We caught up: they’re pursuing their master’s or some such academic achievement in New York state, and the Faire made for the perfect summer gig. They described days filled with fantasy, evenings camping with their companionable coworkers after the sun set and the rabble returned to their busses and cars. The conversation only ended when their duties to the joust and my desire to spectate that joust pulled us both away. I never saw them again after that, nor heard back from them after I reached out on Instagram. Small world, ships passing, et cetera.

The conclusion of the second joust brought us into the third and final act of the Faire. The hot sun beat down on us in blatant disregard of the autumnal time of year’s typical temperance. Our pace slowed, even as we committed ourselves to treading the full breadth of the Faireground. We sauntered by points of interest, piqued by many but seduced by few. I agonized over what food to spend the last of my cash on—Nell had the good sense to visit an ATM beforehand, and doled out the dollars I had Venmoed them for as a sort of allowance throughout the day. Another draught of mead batted its eyelashes at me, but I thiiink I abstained; the back of my throat was dry, and a heaviness was starting to creep into my limbs. I bandied about the idea of buying something—a sword, a belt, a curio. Maybe get started early on Christmas shopping? I resisted the urge. I had packed light, but my backpack was full. How long would the fantastical atmosphere of the Faire cling to a trinket? Memories of my time spent minimally-employed over the summer haunted me in the flash of light that danced across my credit card whenever I opened my wallet. I passed up the archery range—was my aim going to be as good as it used to be? and the dueling tent—would my companions throw themselves as eagerly into a test of arms as I wanted to?

In the days leading up to the Faire, I’d been fantasizing about the organizers of the event hosting a tournament where a select few audience members would have the opportunity to participate. Naturally, I’d prove my skill in a series of melees while my friends watched adoringly from the sidelines; I would coyly ask them for a kerchief or the like as a courtly favor before rallying myself to win the final duel against an experienced martial artist. “Wow! You’re good with a sword—where did you learn to fight?” “Oh, you know, I have a few HEMA YouTubers I follow. I practice on the side. Just sorta feels like instinct.” Fanfare, applause.

Maybe that’s why I kept asking what we were supposed to be doing throughout the day. I think, secretly, I may have been hoping that this excursion into a fantastical setting would offer a window into some more profound escape, as if I might wander over a bridge and find myself in Narnia. I would just like to be a knight, the sort who could go home to electricity and a hot shower at the end of a day of questing. I would like to have flashy skill with which I could impress friends and strangers alike. I would like to live in a world where I could prove myself in some direct way to a goodly monarch, to could know my worth in my deeds.

Escape never quite found me there. At one moment, I think perhaps buzzed on mead, I remarked in jest to Ali and Nell, “Where’s the action? Where’s the foe with whom I may test my skill in mortal combat?” and I actually got a reply from a passerby: “It’s me. Let’s go right now.”

It was a guy in a kilt, speaking in good-humor. I turned around and he grinned at me, reiterating his challenge. I could only fumble in response, complimenting his highland regalia. I didn’t want to make a scene. For all my daydreaming, I wasn’t sure how to seize the hand of an experience that had stretched its arm out to me.

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As time went on, it became clear to me how loosely the term “Renaissance” applied to this event. For every knight in shining armor I saw, I noted an equal number of Shreks and anime characters; for every geographically-suitable Sir George’s Garden I saw, there was a questionably-placed Ryujin Pagoda. Was the nebulously “Asiatic” aesthetic at such places inclusion, or exoticization? I know which way it seemed to me, at least.

The Faire is less about verisimilitude, Nell remarked, than it is about fandom. To journey into the past without artifacts and firsthand sources is to journey into a world we can only imagine, and if we’re already in the realm of imagination, why not bring our whimsy and a favorite story or two?

For all my love of fantasy and sci-fi—and Shrek—I find myself more compelled by the thought of simulation, in this context, rather than fabulation. Few exhibits at the Faire compelled me more than the viking village, with its band of reenactors striving for historical fidelity. What an incomparable experience it would be to immerse oneself as much as possible in—something comfortably approaching—the actual way people had lived!

We spent a long time at the viking blacksmith, watching them root around the embers with their tongs. “Can’t kindle the whole forge today,” the smith grimaced. “Still under a fire warning. It’s gonna have to be nails this time.”

Legs tired from a day on my feet, I crouched low, picking at grass, my gaze rapt. That boy from before, splitting ore by the fire. The breath of the ashen bellows, sparks dancing. I could have watched them make nails all day.

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Simulation. Sleeping over at Ali’s childhood home the night before had seemed a strange, suitable liminal experience for such an event. I’d spent the night staring at the shadows on the wall of her brother’s old room, in a place I felt I knew well but had never existed in myself. I thought about a boy I’d been.

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After the smithy stop. 

The shadows began to stretch across the ground, and we looked for ways to fill the time ahead of the last joust. We stood awhile at the back of a small amphitheatre with tree stumps for seating. There was a posse of bards leading songs and revelry. I sang along in a quiet voice, swaying back and forth. Eventually, the jongleurs cleared out, and the resident Shakespeare troop took their place. It was showtime—time for some truly period-accurate entertainment.

What followed was more of a comedic “best of” of Shakespeare’s repertoire than a full performance. Ali and Nell are massive fans of The Bard, and you should consider acquiring the tabletop game they wrote about him and his characters; it was fun to see their joy at the performance. The actors were certainly very capable, and excellent at performing Will’s work. I suppose I might have been tired by then, or perhaps I’ve just been fortunate to witness a high proportion of quality Shakespeare. Maybe I was otherwise simply blind to the immense talent of the troupe. I just wasn’t star-struck. Am I just so out of practice that I can’t recognize a phenomenal performance? I wondered. I envied the knights and the nobles and the actors. I missed—I miss—being onstage. I’m scared my eyes aren’t as bright as they were.

We ducked out in time to make our ultimate return to the tournament ground. Waiting in line for the porta-potty, I thought about summer camp, Shakespeare in the park; I remembered the feeling of seeing a grassy courtyard and costumed actors around me and knowing I was in Arden.

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Sundown. The final bouts. The stands were completely full this time, the crowd stretching all the way up the hill behind the benches. We stood at the top, amidst a few satyrs, a Shrek or two, and a handful of ninja. Each event had seen us viewing from further and further away as the jousting drew in greater and greater crowds. Now, Sir Sun and Sir Moon were just gleaming specks, Eliot a graceful dun smudge.

As the emcee took her place at the podium, she had a special announcement for the assembled audience. This final act was going to be “PG-13,” a violent spectacle. Parents with young children were advised to beware.

My eyes darted to two little blond kids perched on a rock in front of us. They looked on with wide eyes, cherubic in their repose. Their parents didn’t seem to mind.

I wondered how much gore these Ren-folk were possibly going to spatter the festivities with. The air grew cooler. The sun was dipping lower.

Earlier, I had been yelling for death and bloodshed. It seemed a safe bet; the Blue Knight had been a major douche throughout the day, and the Burgundy Knight, though still braggadocious in his own right, was clearly being portrayed as the lesser of two assholes. We launched into our usual cheers and jeers as the knights paraded around the arena. Ali, Nell, and I speculated over how much the whole affair could be scripted, down to each split shield and skewered ring.

I felt a numb sense of foreboding when the Burgundy Knight of the Sun, Duke Something-or-Other—Larrison?—threw a fit after the first exchange. There had been some slight to his honor or the like, and he was gonna make sure eeeeeveryone knew. Come on, man, I thought. You were doing so well. Just keep being the good guy.

After the next bout, he flung intemperate remarks towards the emcee. C’mon, Burgundy. What’s gotten into you? I exchanged glances with Ali. We knew a heel when we saw one. It certainly seemed as if our sun-heralded fave was being positioned as such. We could only watch powerlessly as he continued to pick fights with the ref.

Finally, the man hit his boiling point. Having lost the joust—due to point deductions he had only received as a result of his petulance—he dismounted and drew his sword, wresting the tourney’s prize from the emcee with his free hand and throwing it to the ground. Steel rasped, the Blue Knight’s sword was out and the distance between the two of them disappeared. There was a brief clash of steel—here we go! a good melee!—before the Burgundy Knight backhanded the Blue Knight and a gout of blood flew from the latter’s face.

My jaw dropped. It was stage blood, of course, but the sheer volume and pressure were extraordinary. It was far beyond any sort of bleeding that seemed appropriate for a knuckle to the nose, but the statement was very clear: the New York Renaissance Faire was going to give its audience the carnage they sought.

The Blue Knight, the Knight of the Moon, was doubled over and our side of the crowd was cheering. Our man turned triumphantly to face the crowd, soaking up the validation for his treachery. That’s what’s agonizing about discovering you’ve been cheering for the heel and then knowing they’re the heel—it makes their every victory not another step up a mountain, but rather another pace towards a gallows.

Two ladies in dresses, Burgundy’s own squires, ran towards him to placate him, and he wheeled around and cut their throats with a single stroke. Fountains of blood. The two innocents collapsed to the ground. I buried my face in my hands, but I was peeking. It was all for show, so did it matter if my guy was an asshole as long as he won?

The Moon Knight’s squire was the next to intervene, a man who’d been referred to as Sir Ramses. This man’s odds are good, I thought. He’s an underdog, a side character stepping up to the plate to play a hero. He’s dressed in all black, dashing regalia. And, pivotally, he was also very hot. Nell had swooned when they first saw him from across the jousting field, and I was inclined to swoon along. Handsome and heroic—what could go wrong?

Plenty, it turned out, but not before Ramses’d had his time in the limelight. This was a bold exchange of swordplay, the new combatant giving Burgundy a substantial run for his money. The squire pirouetted and parried and even had Burgundy on the back foot for a period of time, but it was not to last. In a cruel turn, our knight-turned-knave battered past Ramses’ defenses and slew him in another spout of blood. Nell and I were despondent—they more due to the tragedy of the lost handsome gallant, I more because I knew the man I’d cheered for could not rack up such a kill count without a penance being paid.

Sir Burgundy stomped towards the emcee once more. In an earlier round, she’d put herself bodily between a beefing Sun and Moon, sword in hand; here, we almost expected her to be the one to put the errant rowdy out of his misery. Now, though, she backed away, a damsel in distress, and who came to save her but a recuperated Blue Knight. It seemed as if the dead squires had kept Burgundy occupied long enough for Sir Moon to catch his breath.

What does Eliot think of all this? I wondered. This bloodthirsty rider of his is soiling his good name.

The horsey performer was nowhere to be seen. Probably grabbing an apple and some water in whatever part of the stables served as his green room.

Back on the killing field, it was clear that there was no twist of the plot now that could prevent the foregone resolution of this bloodshed. Ali, Nell, and I looked on as, in one final clash between Blue and Burgundy, the former bested his nemesis and sealed his victory in one final fountain of pressurized blood.

The victor raised his fist, the emcee shouting his victory to the crowd. Four dead bodies lie in the blood-soaked sand for another moment—then they, too, hauled themselves to their feet and bowed with the rest of the cast. I nodded in acceptance, still disappointed that my man had lost, if relieved a righteous end had been put to his rampage.

Ah, well. The day was almost over. We were hungry. I needed to pee again.

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The Ren Faire was slated to end with a Sunset Ball on the chessboard green, where, earlier, Robin Hood had bested the Sheriff of Nottingham in a life-sized game of wits.

We neglected the dance. Instead, we hunted down a fried onion blossom we’d been tantalized by earlier, asking around bartenders and stall proprietors in the midst of closing up shop.

Success. We spent the last moments of the festival at a dirty picnic table in the midst of an emptying town square, wrapped in the waxing twilight. Around us, the pub-crawl posse staggered along their final stops; a jaunty troupe of performers danced to their last call; cooks and cashiers exchanged the day’s counts and remaining stock. I spent my very last dollar, a four-stack of quarters I’d taped together and tucked away in the event of an emergency, on an extra cup of fry sauce for the onion. It was an emergency—the sauce went great with the greasy blossom.

The three of us talked and plucked at the bloom as the last of the sunlight faded. We talked about the festivities—Ali and Nell concluded that this Ren Fest did indeed rival that of Maryland, their old-time fave. But we spent most of this time talking about family. I looked forward to Thanksgiving, and Ali told us more about her home. Nell mused about an upcoming trip to Quebec. It couldn’t have been too long we sat amidst a day’s worth of picnic table crumbs and talked. It couldn’t have been too late in the night. Despite that, it was a long stretch of time, it felt, that we sat on the benches and shot the breeze while searching idly for the stars. The sky was purple.

Seven P.M. It may as well have been midnight. It was dark as we made our way back out through the front gates. A host of knights and nobles and peasants and fey waved cheerfully goodbye to us and the trove of Shreks as we left. I was smiling, too, glad to be a part of someone’s reason to work a job they love. I wondered how many summertime trysts and fantastical romances took place between the cast and crew over the course of the Faire. They all seemed happy. I was, too. My friends were with me.

One last porta-potta before we hit the road. It being unlit, the only senses with which I could navigate it were those of touch and smell. I cannot recommend the experience.

Traffic didn’t keep us hostage on the way out. We found our way through tree-lined roads to the motel, Nell at the wheel.

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A wiser author than I would end there, but much of the magic of the trip was in the company of my friends, beyond simply the day of Renaissance revelry.

After we’d checked into a perfectly passable motel, we made our way to an establishment that was practically the platonic ideal of an American diner. Atop a faux-granite booth table we dined on classics like milkshakes, caesar salad, and pancakes. The place was sparkling clean and quiet, a sharp contrast to the rest of the day. The waitress exchanged quips with us as we absorbed our food.

My favorite part of a party has always been the quiet that comes at the end of it, the moments after the freneticism has been wrung out in revelry and all that’s left is a sort of peaceful openness. 

Ali and Nell picked each other’s brains about the day’s events. It wouldn’t be accurate to say I felt like an intruder in these moments, but there’s a strength and a long history to my friends’ connection with each other that allowed me to be a learner as much as a participant.

Just as we had run out the clock on the faire, we started to run out the clock on the diner. I pilfered one of Nell’s fries as we left, to the amusement of our waitress. We were full, but we were running on empty. Now the day was over. There was a bit left to the adventure, but that would come tomorrow. For the time being, we went to bed.

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After I had failed to sleep soundly, alone, in a quiet suburban bed, I hardly expected to do any better under the covers of a shared motel room. My sleep that night, though, could almost be described as restful. Watching the morning sunlight creep through the blinds, I was pleased; this time, it felt more like being greeted by the sunrise that accompanies Franklinian sleep habits, rather than the finish line of a grueling wakefulness marathon.

I hadn’t any desire to lay around in the lightening room as I waited for my friends to wake up. I slipped into my clothes, buckled my shoulder pack over my back, and eased out the door, hoping I didn’t let too much daylight in behind me.

Our motel was nestled along a stretch of road amidst a great green expanse of forest and field. I made my way down along the sidewalk, cars racing by me in the blue morning light. There were a fair number of sports cars zipping past. Seeing the place in the daylight for the first time, it struck me as a great spot for a joyride, sweeping turns rolling up and down the hills, close enough even to the city for a day trip.

A brilliant arc of sunlight set an emerald highway sign aglow: “CENTRAL VALLEY.” It felt like the town I’d grown up in. Could’ve fooled me.

I checked my phone. Ali and Nell had woken up. It was time to head back to the motel.

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The diner’s breakfast options had tempted me, but time constraints and a creaky wallet made the motel’s toast and Raisin Bran all too viable. I got a primer on Disney’s Dancing With the Stars from Ali and Nell as the guy at the front desk brought out a fresh jug of milk; we were back on the TV schedule’s clock. Sunday morning and the ordinary interests of the week, the month, ahead.

We had resolved to go on a hike while we were amidst nature, and settled on a place called Goosepond Mountain State Park. It was pretty discreet as state parks go—we couldn’t identify any plausible parking aside from some broad gravel shoulders along the side of the highway, and one asphalt affair that seemed pretty far from any trails. The only apparent landmark nearby was a cattail-lined boardwalk through a marsh at the base of the mountain—perhaps the titular Goosepond. The stroll forbode a summery October day to come: it was around ten A.M., and already warm and humid.

Each of us expressed a readiness to move on to our last destination of the trip, a delightful farmstand cidery, but we couldn’t quite shake the desire to get a real hike in. Taking one last bet that the adventure Alltrails had advertised actually existed, I jogged up the side of the road to scout the territory one last time. Just as I was ready to pack it in—lo and behold!—an inconspicuous metal gate stood before me, a rutted dirt trail winding up a hill. I called back to Ali and Nell, reporting blue blazes on the trees and beautiful scenery ahead as I dashed up what I could only now assume with confidence was Goosepond Mountain.

Pennings Farm yet awaited us, so we hiked on a timer, eager to take in as much of the woods as we could before we left. There was a carpet of leaves on the ground before us, and the yellow leaves yet on the trees created a golden canopy above. As we walked, our chatter fell mostly on talk of theatre, and of that subject mostly our desire to be doing more of it. We talked about the past—school, former projects, branching paths. And then, as we focused more on putting one foot after another, we fell quiet.

It was warm, and the air was heavy and quiet. The silences felt peaceful rather than painful. I looked around me at the crumbling pavement cutting through the forest and was reminded of the rail trails back home. Home? NYC was home now. “The rail trails back where I grew up.” I couldn’t shake the feeling that home will always be more the places betwixt the trees, though, my path the paths amongst them.

As we made our way down the hill and back out of the woods, our conversation picked up again. All of Ali and Nell’s friends are getting married, it seems. New homes being wrought the next day and the next day and the next. 

Soon, we could hear the cars again.

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Our last stop was for the sake of partaking in the time-honored fall tradition of apple-picking. There’s a spot Nell and I were familiar with not too far from the Ren Faire, and we all decided that fresh fruit personally plucked would be just the thing to bring home to the city with us.

The road to Pennings was another sing-along experience, still a tentative one for me. The Michael that could and would jump in at every tune, who would listen through cast recordings while he exercised, seemed like a different person. When had he left me? Was it after high school that I forgot him on the worn bench press in the basement? Sometime during quarantine, snuffed like Ithaca College’s ghost light? More than ever, I found myself not knowing the songs, the words, the melodies.

It wasn’t a generational thing—plenty of Ali and Nell’s playlist selections were from contemporary musicals. Rather, I had let myself be left behind. I didn’t have my finger to the pulse, or maybe I was numb to it. Ali and Nell sang songs new and old that they’d sung together hundreds of times. I listened. 

Habit is returning to something over and over again. Love is when still makes you sing. 

I hummed along where I could.

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There’s a darling little township or the like outside Pennings that I believe is referred to as an artist’s commune. Apparently, we’d found them in the midst of a festival. The quaint thoroughfare was abuzz with foot traffic, people young and old window-shopping and calling out to each other and bustling about under the shaded patios of restaurants. For a moment, I was worried we’d never get to Pennings. If the town was this busy, how would we reach one of the main attractions nearby?

Thankfully, though, the steady line of traffic thinned out with every intersection we crossed beyond the main road. So did the trees—the sun irradiated the grassy hills before us. We hung a left and followed one of those hills upwards, grateful to discover the orchard still had parking left.

When an attendant asked if we wanted to pay the fee for apple picking, we hesitated. We were hungry, thirsty, and tuckered out from our walk. We resolved to eat first and see where that found us.

Pennings was packed. Its dining area consisted of a lawn on yet another sun-drenched hill, this one dotted with food trucks and wooden tables and shockingly few umbrellas. We got our cider flights and a bag of doughnuts first, and wandered the picnic area, desperate for shade or even a chair.

There was none to be found of either. We reapplied our sunscreen, balanced our flights in our laps and on the sloping grass, and toasted one after another to having reached the end of the journey. Holding my twenty-dollar petri dish of chicken tenders in my hand, I found myself yearning for New York’s food options, cheap eats of every variety. No competition to keep these people sharp, I mused, gnawing on an unremarkable tender.

The sun had a way of sapping our energy, exposed as we were out here. A kind party let us know when they vacated their table so that we were able to swoop in after them and sit down; the shift proved to offer us a small second wind. Nell broke out a set of brain teaser books, and we puzzled through riddles and would-you-rathers. One prompt had me reflecting on my ability to design a city of the future, and I imagined a city with more trees than the sparse lawn of this apple orchard. And green roofs. And community gardens. I found myself thinking about college again, Conservation Psychology with Professor Caldwell. Nell chuckled at the notion of a former Theatre Studies major who thought he might design a city of the future. With what expertise? It was a fair point. I was just thinking about the woods again.

My specifications for a city, for a town, for a home, are fairly humble—mainly, I’d simply like to have a canopy.

It’s far too hot for apple picking, we decided. Better to quit while we were ahead. We finished our cider flights, and I took one last look out over the hills from Pennings. It looked an awful lot like Ithaca. 

I thought back to a visit to a cidery much like this one. There’s a picture from that time, moments after I’d graduated, where my parents and I are on a rolling lawn, reclining in adirondack chairs. We look out over the hills after the monumental events of the day and it’s just the three of us and the sunset, purple and orange.

The picture is that sunset, and my mother a little further away, eyes closed, soaking in the spring evening; my dad, closer, turns his head to me, tired smile on his face like we’ve just climbed a mountain. Them and the setting sun and the valley that goes on forever.

Here and now, the day was bright. Ali, Nell, and I had gotten our cider to take on the road and our farmstand goods to go home with us. It was time to make our way back to New Jersey. There was a train to catch.

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Lying awake in Ali’s family home, in her brother’s old bed, I couldn’t shake the sense that I’d stepped from the present day into a block of amber. What did that make the Renaissance Faire, then? I didn’t find myself transported wholeheartedly into a world of fantasy; I’d found myself wandering a realm I feared I had some detachment from, floating instead of seeking; in the woods, I found myself retracing the steps of my childhood, wandering a new path in a new place of a familiar variety.

As I write this, I don’t know if anything changed in me as a result of the trip. It would perhaps even be aggrandizing to say it had. Something changed outside me, though, something reflected in my friends’ invitation to join them in their journey and my willingness to partake in whimsy for whimsy’s sake. I was ready to yell myself hoarse for a horse, ready to absorb the philosophy of a glassblower standing before a golden-hot flame. I was ready to follow the joy of the people I trust, to dérive through the world, even if I didn’t know where I’d end up.

The ride back to New Jersey saw us swooping by a lake glittering through the trees, saw us racing along the vast open highway, rushing past fields and strip malls. There was one last round of show tunes to be enjoyed, and we were all warmed up.

This time, I was singing.

—

Michael