Today I went to the New Mexico State Fair.
I have written before about how much effort it can take to just go outside. Crowds add another layer. They gather somewhere, and I consider going somewhere else.
Lately, I have been trying to renegotiate that arrangement.
There are things I want to see, places I want to go, and afternoons I would like to have without first calculating how many other people might be having them. I am not expecting to become someone who enjoys standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers. I would just like a little more say in where I spend my day.
So I went early.
Almost at opening, with rain coming down and most children still in school. I had purchased a five-dollar flash-sale ticket that morning. One day only. Use it today.
Apparently, even my reluctance has a price.
Five dollars got the conversation started.
The accessible parking was free and fairly close to the entrance, which I appreciated. When walking requires some thought, the distance between your car and where you are going becomes part of the outing before it begins. Having that part be manageable made it easier to enjoy what came next.
I entered without the usual wall of people.
There was room to walk. Room to stop and look without feeling that I was obstructing someone else’s afternoon. The rain had made the day less attractive to some people and a little more possible for me.
I was grateful for that.
The rides looked good. The people on them appeared to be having a wonderful time, which is exactly where I prefer my amusement-park excitement: happening to other people.
I watched from the ground.
There were T-shirt vendors everywhere. Plenty to look at. Bright signs announcing things that could be fried, things that could be put on a stick, and things someone had apparently decided needed both.
But I had come for one thing.
Fair Food.
There is a particular optimism involved in arriving at a fair hungry. You imagine that somewhere between the entrance and the Ferris wheel, someone is preparing something that will justify the price, the walk, and whatever conversation you later have with yourself about your choices.
I looked at the photographs on the booths. I looked at the food people were carrying. I walked and waited for something to call my name.
Nothing did.
That surprised me.
At my age, I have been to quite a few fairs. I have eaten quite a bit of fair Food. Perhaps some of what I once experienced as excitement was simply the pleasure of encountering something for the first time.
You cannot ask every afternoon to give you that again.
Still, I was willing to let lunch try.
I found a stand selling Alligator on a stick and deep-fried boudin balls. That seemed promising. Two foods I associate with Louisiana, a place whose cooking has never suggested to me that seasoning should be approached with fear.
I ordered both, found somewhere to sit, and ate.
Or, more accurately, I began looking for the flavor.
Both tasted unseasoned to me. There was the Food itself, the fried coating, the expectation of something that should have arrived with it.
I kept waiting.
Louisiana would be disappointed.
I wondered whether anyone cooking those dishes had ever lived there. That was my disappointed appetite talking; I had no way of knowing. All I could say was that the Louisiana I expected to taste hadn’t made it into my order.
Food carries a place into rooms that place will never see. Someone takes a bite and forms an impression. Of a kitchen. Of a region. Sometimes of people they have never met.
That is a considerable responsibility for a paper tray.
I don’t expect a fair booth to reproduce somebody’s grandmother’s kitchen. I know there is work behind that counter, and I know a disappointing meal does not tell me everything about the person who prepared it.
But I had hoped for more than the shape of the thing.
I wanted the seasoning.
I ate both dishes anyway.
Then I stood up and wondered how two small portions had made me feel as though I had gained twenty pounds.
There should have been more pleasure involved in feeling that full.
I kept walking.
After a while, that familiar feeling began settling over the afternoon.
Been here. Seen this. Done that.
It is an easy conclusion to reach as you get older. Sometimes it is accurate. Sometimes you really have seen enough T-shirts and fried Food for one day.
But I wonder how often familiarity makes us stop looking before we are finished seeing.
I had arrived with an idea of what would make the trip worthwhile. The Food was supposed to be the reward for getting myself out of the house and through the entrance. When it disappointed me, I was beginning to let it speak for the whole Fair.
Then I saw the African American Pavilion Art Gallery.
I had never been inside.
In the middle of all that feeling that I had already done everything, there was a place I had yet to explore.
I did not go inside today. I plan to visit soon and give it time, attention, and an essay of its own here on Salt, Ink & Soul.
But noticing it interrupted my mood. I had been walking around thinking about how familiar everything felt, and here was something I still knew so little about.
I could leave the rides to the people enjoying them. I could decide the boudin balls had let me down. Still, there was a reason to come back.
And nearby, something else caught my attention.
A prominent marijuana dispensary had set up a tent.
At the New Mexico State Fair.
I smiled.
I do not partake. I had no plans to start. But there was something quietly amusing about seeing that business with a booth among the other businesses, participating in the ordinary machinery of a fair.
I have lived long enough for that sight to surprise me.
No purchase was necessary. I could simply stand there and notice how much the scenery had changed.
A few minutes earlier, I had been thinking I had seen it all.
Apparently, I had not.
I would have preferred better Food. Let the record show that I have not become so philosophical that seasoning no longer matters.
But I was glad I went.
I had found a way to be somewhere that could make me uncomfortable. I had given myself an early start, a quieter entrance, and permission to enjoy the day at my own pace.
For once, the crowd had not made the decision.
I had.
And somewhere between a disappointing lunch and making a plan to return, I stopped deciding what the afternoon should be.
I looked around.
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