The first warm Saturday in June, I found myself wedged between a woman carrying three funnel cakes and a man in a Viking helmet at the Riverside County Fair. Neither seemed aware I existed. The funnel cake woman stopped — completely, instantly, without warning — to examine a booth selling bedazzled phone cases. Viking helmet, meanwhile, was practically stepping on my heels, huffing audible sighs as if my leisurely three-mile-per-hour pace was a personal affront to his festival experience.
This, mes amis, is festival season.
I love festivals. I genuinely do. The energy, the music floating over from distant stages, that particular smell of fried everything mixing with sunscreen and optimism. Festivals are where we come together as a community to celebrate art, culture, food, and our collective willingness to pay eight dollars for lemonade.
But sweet mercy, the crowds.
Festival crowds operate under their own peculiar physics, governed by laws that would baffle Newton and Einstein alike. Bodies in motion tend to stay in motion — until they don’t, at which point they stop with the aerodynamic grace of a refrigerator dropped from a helicopter.
The Sudden Stopper is perhaps the festival crowd’s most fascinating specimen. This person walks at normal speed, giving no indication of their intentions, and then BAM — full stop, right in the middle of the thoroughfare. No pull-to-the-side. No over-the-shoulder glance. Just an immediate cessation of forward momentum, usually to check their phone, consult with their group about which stage to hit next, or reconsider their life choices.
The four people behind them execute an emergency accordion maneuver, colliding in a domino effect of surprised grunts and spilled beverages. “Oh, sorry!” the Stopper says cheerfully, as if this were an act of God rather than a decision they made with their own two feet.
Then we have the Tailgater. This festival-goer has apparently confused the pedestrian midway with the 405 during rush hour. They walk so close behind you that you can feel their breath on your neck, sense their impatience radiating like heat from asphalt. You can practically hear their internal monologue: “Why is this person walking? Don’t they know I need to get to the craft beer garden IMMEDIATELY?”
Here’s the thing, though — and I say this with all the warmth in my heart — if you’re in that much of a hurry, friend, pass. Use the passing lane. Execute the maneuver. We’re all thinking it: you need to move over and let ’em get by.
This is where I must tip my hat to highway courtesy, which somehow never made the journey from asphalt to festival grounds. On the road, we understand this dance. Slower traffic keeps right. If someone’s moving faster, you create space for them to pass. We’ve developed this whole beautiful system of mutual respect and efficiency.
But at festivals? Apparently, this knowledge evaporates like morning dew. Instead, we get the Passive-Aggressive Parade: the tailgater huffing behind the oblivious stroller, neither willing to break the stalemate, both suffering needlessly.
And then there are those magical moments when you’re trying to move against the current — attempting to exit the main stage area while everyone else is flooding in, or swimming upstream toward the bathrooms while the masses flow toward the food court. You become a salmon, battling against nature itself, executing a series of “excuse me’s” and sideways shuffles that would make a ballroom dancer proud.
I attempted this very maneuver last weekend, trying to reach the exit while thousands poured in for the headliner. It took me twenty minutes to travel what Google Maps would optimistically call “500 feet.” I made eye contact with the same woman in a sunflower hat at least four times. We became friends. We may send Christmas cards.
But here’s where it gets good, where my faith in humanity reasserts itself: the food court.
There’s something almost sacred about the festival food court. Yes, it’s chaos. Yes, the lines are absurd. Yes, you’ll pay prices that would make a movie theater blush. But people are happy there. Patient, even. We’re all united in our quest for sustenance, and somehow, magically, we’re better behaved.
And you can never go wrong with a turkey leg.
This is not hyperbole. This is festival gospel. That enormous, primal, caveman-sized hunk of smoked turkey is the great equalizer. The hedge fund manager and the art student, the retiree and the teenager — all standing there, grease running down their chins, gnawing on what appears to be the drumstick of a small dinosaur. In that moment, we’re all just hungry humans, and it’s beautiful.
The turkey leg vendor never has a short line, yet somehow, that line moves with remarkable efficiency. People know what they want. They order, they pay, they move aside. It’s festival choreography at its finest.
So here’s my modest proposal for festival season: let’s take that turkey leg energy and apply it everywhere. Check behind you before you stop. If someone’s tailgating, step aside and let them pass. If you’re the tailgater, actually pass instead of breathing down people’s necks. And when you’re swimming upstream, remember — we’re all salmon here, doing our best.
Festivals are too wonderful to waste on frustration. The music is too good, the art too interesting, the people-watching too premium. We can do better.
Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a turkey leg with my name on it, and I need to execute seventeen sidesteps and four “pardon me’s” to reach it.
See you out there, friends. Watch for sudden stops.
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