Back Greetings. I am called Gavril Salazar and I have been asked to relate our experiences regarding our travels. I belong to the tribe of Gypsies known as Roman Morga. It is a goodly Tribe, full of beautiful dancers and wondrous musicians and other quite strange characters. I am among the strangest, as you will soon discover.
We earn our keep, such as it is, by visiting different places and offering our services as entertainers. It has been a long time since we have visited any large shires. The winter months were not especially hard on us, but we mostly kept to ourselves entertaining now and then at taverns and other places where we could earn a little gold. We were informed of a new festival in a shire called Koronenberg not too far from where we were traveling. A messenger was sent ahead for news.
Our messenger returned about the same time we had given up hope. He reported two festivals were about to commence, one in Koronenberg and the other in Helen Glen. We have occasionally visited the latter event, very large and boisterous but our kind does not seem very welcome there (but I am happy to report the attitude is changing). This Koronenberg festival, which is called Crossroads, intrigued us.
The leader of the shire hosting Crossroads was Master Tom. We have encountered him on many occasions, some pleasant, others not so. He had taken ill but was recovering, leaving some of his assistants to handle his work. They knew they were in direct competition with Helen Glen but were willing to try nonetheless. We were invited to visit the festival for a few days during its five weekend duration.
Our luck was with us, as our cousins from the Four Winds tribe had already set up stakes at the shire. Many of their number were away and up to no good at Helen Glen (impersonating nobles from what I have heard) and so our good cousins allowed us to stay with them. It did not take us long to completely take over their encampment!
Alas, our luck did not hold when it came to earning gold. There were few patrons to be seen (they were all at Helen Glen), and Master Tom had requested us not to beg from the patrons who were present. Instead, he would divide his earnings from the festival--derived from having patrons pay a small fee at the gate--through a complicated scheme of mathematical formulae. As we are just poor, humble, illiterate Travelers, we did not quite understand what Tom was doing. All we knew is we were being shorted of our gold, but we were stuck at the shire for the duration and could not complain lest we be thrown out.
The festival itself was small and pleasant. It appeared God Himself had visited this place in a rage, as remnants of once mighty trees and other vegetation riddled the ground creating the festival's strange surface. It was difficult to walk upon and nearly impossible to drive our vardos through. Oh yea, I had nearly forgot the adventure one must have to reach this place! Our vardos had to traverse through a long, windy dirt path that did not seem wide enough at times to accommodate our transports. There was even a stream running through the middle of the road threatening to bog down a few of our smaller vardos. And ne'r a sign to be seen to direct us. Once we made it to the shire, we were not eager to leave by the same route.
The original inhabitants of the land were also quite apparent. Field mice, snakes, spiders and an assortment of vile insects permeated the area. Food and personal effects were not safe. The shire was engulfed in a shroud of pollen and small flying creatures. The wind and the hot sun ensured most would stay inside the shelter of their tents.
This is not to say we did not enjoy ourselves. In spite of the elements and God's creations, we made the most of our time at Crossroads. Our entertainment matched or exceeded the other quality entertainment the festival had to offer. We were met by good friends from other such events. One of our own joined with a Spanish dancing group, sometimes undergoing rapid garb changes to perform with them and with us. Music and mirth was shared by all.
As a condition of our stay, we were charged with entertaining the Baron of the shire. Every day he would demand the "Gypsy treatment," and we were happy to oblige. He nearly forgot his vows on the same day of his betrothal when three fine Gypsy ladies treated him to a few minutes of innocent passion and seduction. His new wife did not seem to mind.
At one time, some of us were asked to fill in for the Baron's messenger. Our duty was to relay important news to several visitors of the shire. But when one would attempt to deliver these important message, he or she would faint as if one had died right on the spot. Indeed, this strange magic caused a poor patron to be surrounded by the bodies of Gypsies who were all trying to deliver the missive from the Baron. At last, one "messenger" did not expire when reaching his target; he just forgot what the message was. At this the curse is broken, as all of the Gypsy corpses arise and yell "YOU FORGOT??!." chasing the last Gypsy away.
Every day added to more Gypsy silliness. I believe this was the result of a new confection called Funnel Cake. It looked innocent enough: a simple pastry topped with a white powder. It must have been the powder, for after the treat was consumed, strange things began to happen. Ashiq was strumming his saz when all of a sudden he broke into a strange, foreign folk song about a "Proud Mary." On the last day, some of the Gypsies lost their minds and danced on the bodies of hundreds of insects, which seemed to grow larger and more hideous looking by the minute (they must have had some Funnel Cake).
Things became more bizarre after the festival closed. But I am aware some other has already related that part of the story.
As I reflect upon our adventure at Crossroads, I am regretful this may be our last time. Master Tom's misguided ambition is beginning to seriously conflict with our own extravagant plans. We have set ourselves up to be present at a host of other small events, so at least we will not starve. Not yet. I will continue to report where our travels take us.
Your humble Scribe,
Gavril
Following is a telling of the events following the Tribe's departure from the faire:
So here we were, ready to consume a delicious meal at Knowlwood's (voted best Gypsy hangout according to a recent survey), when three well-groomed young men in suits walk up to our table and inquire: "Are you a Communist?"
Despite our answer, they flung some of us out of our seats and accused others. Undaunted, we broke into a chant of "Lenin! Lenin!" and played a mazurka on our kazoos. Our agitators left, totally bewildered; all in another day of Tribe Roman Morga.
In order to detail the events that led to this confrontation, I must start at the beginning...
The beginning was the close of a successful Sunday at the Crossroads Riverview Renaissance Festival. Our last day at Crossroads was most enjoyable. Again we took over the encampment of our Four Winds cousins. Again we performed two glorious shows. Again there was little monetary compensation for our work. Again the bugs took over our area by the end of the day
Now, as you probably know, bugs and other vermin are the regular denizens of the site. Earwigs and spiders have been terrorizing Gypsies since we started the event. But Sunday was different. Jim caught a gopher snake. And when we started tearing down the Four Winds encampment, it was literally crawling. Gypsy men came to the rescue of the frightened Gypsy women by stomping on the pests, quickly evolving into a demented game seeing who can stomp the most critters. (Accompanied by the cry "PRICE CHECK! Are you de one?" STOMP! "No, you're not de one.")
After it was decided to break from Gypsy tradition and feast at Knowlwood's, we made the hazardous trek to escape the participant parking and wait for everybody outside before the main road. When my dirty car reached the rendezvous point, it was met by a shower of water from squirt bottles and coolers. The Gypsies were becoming sillier by the moment. Brian made donuts with his truck. Vehicles driving out were treated to a line of Gypsies waving back in unison. One vehicle came back. Uh-oh!
What Gavril missed was Tareef's clap-trap vardo keeping up with Boris' mad ride out (imagine: vroom...some smoothness caused by air passing beneath the wheels...BANG!, BANG! Repeat until arrival) Not to mention the demented windscreen wipers insisting on remaining active throughout.
A man got out and invited us to a Wild West festival featuring single-action shooting and reenactors who take their job much more seriously than any Faire nerd. It's in October. We are thinking about it...
Again, Gavril leaves out incriminating events: At the last stop before entering the Kowlwoods, we in Tareefs' vardo begin playing upon it...loudly; This inspires Ashiq to pull out the Saz and join us from Jimals' vardo ahead of us. At that moment a poor, unsuspecting woman pulls beside us in her vardo, with her dog. We only hear "WOOF! WOOF!" We all look over to see the shocked woman and her dog staring at us, you could almost hear "What the...." coming from both of them. We drive off giggling manically.
Finally the rest of the caravan arrives, and it's off to Knowlwood's. When we get there, we are immediately confronted by people who ask why we are dressed the way we are. We return the blank stare and reply: "It's Sunday!"
We decide to sit out on the patio, and several patrons nearby quickly wolf down their food and leave. As we are ready to dig in to our fine food, two girls followed by an entourage of other teens come up to our table.
"You guys are just what we need. Can you help us with a school project?"
Their project was to create a videotape for their Esperanza High School history class dealing with the witch-hunts of the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC) led by Senator Joe McCarthy. We were the Communists to be expunged by some right-wingers. You know the rest.
At the request of Kisa, this previously ignored episode is added: It seems that Ashiq, becoming bored took one of his now-cold french fires, added antennae (the fancy toothpicks for his devoured sandwich), a dollop of milkshake courtesy of Iñigo, and as the crowning touch, a fried mushroom as flying saucer transport. Accompanied by Inigo's sound effects, this creation reduced Kisa to a giggling mass on the ground. This in turn set the rest of us off into gales of mirth--just as the poor patrons tought we were done!
After we left the restaurant (with the patio now virtually empty save one brave soul), we saw the students across at the Starbucks. We march up and accuse them of being Capitalist Pigs, breaking into a patriotic kazoo rendition of "America." Then we left for home.
There is much in my tale I have omitted that will be destined for Gypsy legend. Perhaps you should be there next time so you do not miss out!
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