{"id":4515,"date":"2010-09-08T14:29:35","date_gmt":"2010-09-08T18:29:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=4515"},"modified":"2010-09-12T18:32:41","modified_gmt":"2010-09-12T22:32:41","slug":"notes-from-a-renaissance-faire","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2010\/09\/08\/notes-from-a-renaissance-faire\/","title":{"rendered":"Notes From a Renaissance Faire"},"content":{"rendered":"
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At Ren Faire, all women are wenches. But the constant sexual innuendo is tiresome.<\/p><\/div>\n

I remember a woman with a pear nestled between her breasts. That\u2019s what most traumatized my pubescent self the last time I went to a Renaissance Faire, somewhere in Marin County circa 1989.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m here to report that nothing has changed two decades later at the New York Renaissance Faire: all women are wenches. T-shirts that read \u201cBoss Wench\u201d and \u201cWench Magnet\u201d greet you as you enter the Tudor-style gates.<\/p>\n

This is the kind of place where it\u2019s always acceptable to just throw on a corset. \u201cPeople should just admit they want to come just to wear a corset,\u201d says Emily, one of the friends I dragged along with me, as she eats a turkey leg. In fact, the line between fetishwear and Ren Faire costumes is alarmingly thin; the chain mail shop sells armor fit for battle, but it seemed to be doing a much more brisk business in belly chains.<\/p>\n

What I was even more confused by were the horns, raccoon tails, and fairy wings on sale, as if Renaissance England was some sort of catch-all fantasy world where Magick Reigns. Weren\u2019t there a lot of nuns per capita in the renaissance? I didn\u2019t see a single nun, nor one Queen Elizabeth, though I did spot several pirates (it was Pirate\u2019s Weekend at the Faire), a sole leper, many gypsies, and a few teen boys in black robes that inspired me to write \u201cheavy goth element\u201d in my notes.<\/p>\n

Ren Faire is supposed to be lusty and ribald, but the constant and unsubtle sexual innuendo is tiresome. \u201cNo one eats sausage like Austrian women,\u201d says one of the seventy-five actors, this one dressed as a drunk Austrian noblewoman. Her maid, who is flirting with a group of men in Ed Hardy t-shirts drinking mead, says, \u201cI always swallow, never spit.\u201d The sleaziness never really lets up. \u201cI see you like my balls,\u201d one vendor at a glassblowing booth called out to me. I don\u2019t think that was very period appropriate.<\/p>\n

Personally, I was much more excited at the prospect of being a maiden for the day. There was hair braiding from a shop called Rapunzel\u2019s, which mildly piqued my interest, but what I was really after were the floral garlands. I spent at least ten minutes trying on a variety of them\u2014fake yellow flowers, fake blue flowers, feathered\u2014as a moon-faced teenage girl helping me told me very solemnly, \u201cI\u2019m here for thee.\u201d I went with a leaf-wheat-baby\u2019s breath combo, hoping I resemble a Botticelli even though I\u2019m wearing cut-off denim shorts.<\/p>\n

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