I grew up enamored by fantasy worlds. Film, books, and even music would often take me on all sorts of adventures by fueling my imagination. I would pick up sticks off the ground and pretend they were swords, as many children did. I would make bows and arrows out of Jasmine tree branches and yarn. I longed to be part of the universes I saw on television—places inhabited by witches, fairies, and knights. I wanted an armor, a blade to wield.

I started collecting daggers at seventeen, bought a sword, and kept immersing myself into fantasy worlds through reading. By that point, I already knew renaissance festivals existed, and I made it my long-term goal to attend one at some point. I was a teenager without much freedom in the sense of being able to go to events on my own, or with friends, so I knew some time would have to pass before my parents agreed to let me go anywhere that was not school without them. Still, I collected clothes and props during my thrifting runs for years, just to be prepared.

Finally, the opportunity arrived, and on Saturday, September 19, I embarked on an adventure to the St. Louis Renaissance Festival. I drove the regular, uneventful two-and-a-half hours to my partner’s house, with three bags of luggage, despite the anticipated shortness of my visit (one day-and-a-half). One bag was my school backpack, full of books and class notes that could not wait, no matter the recreational nature of my main quest. The second bag had overnight items, lounge wear, and other clothes I look normal in, like shorts and t-shirts. The third bag was filled with makeup, chains, necklaces, skirts I would layer for the event, my brown boots, a dagger, a potion bottle, and a sword. Apart from my own outfit, it contained another three outfits I put together as options for my partner to wear—a blue, velvet, flare-sleeved dress, a long black skirt, a corset belt, another belt to hold the weapons, a short black skirt, a chemise shirt with ruffled sleeves, a leather vest, and a long, plain black dress that could be combined with accessories to elevate it to the fantasy standard. Witch, pirate, or emo witch were the options.

This last bag was seemingly unnecessary, but the clothes demanded that space. It was an elaborate costume, despite its last-minute origin. A long-sleeved chemise-like dress I got at goodwill like three years ago for the purpose of a costume like this, a long, green skirt with golden embroidery details at the bottom, a corset-like top with a renaissance-inspired print on the front, a body chain I bought at an anime convention, which resembled a shawl, to put around my waist to add an overdress layer to contrast with the skirt, a pearl belt, and a waist chain I would pin to ornate my hair. Every single item surfaced from my closet, all pieces I had acquired long ago.

My partner, Sage, and I were on a budget, as college students often are, so we looked for ways to avoid having to pay more than what we already anticipated for food or collectibles inside the fair. There were a few options to earn a free ticket: donating blood, a coat, a costume, or canned/nonperishable food. I found an old, still functional coat, and my partner had decided to donate some cans of food. Yet, it was not until we arrived at the location that, while looking for more specific instructions on where to go to receive our free tickets, Sage realized the canned food donation was a “buy one, get one” situation. So, they decided to donate blood instead.

The weather was disgustingly humid, and the sun felt like flames on my shoulders and face. Thankfully, Sage has a better constitution than I, which meant they were able to give a pint of blood without hesitation and still enjoy three hours of endless wandering around the fair, even with the heat and relative lack of water.

I found it funny that I was offered the opportunity to donate blood at the ImpactLife mobile center several times while Sage was there. I eventually had to tell them that I already had an appointment on Monday, but I made the mistake of disclosing that the type of donation I was scheduled for was platelets, giving the phlebotomists more incentive to encourage me to give blood then and there. The strategy they used to try to convince me was guilt-tripping. One of them said, “We’re in critical need of your blood type,” and that almost got me, but I realized the weather and my meager lunch would not let me enjoy my adventure if I chose to contribute with a donation. I am already low on iron pretty often, and I did not have enough water that morning, spending most of it getting ready. I was certain a pint of blood less running through my veins would make me eat dirt before we even got to the actual entrance.

Regardless, the coat I had for my ticket worked, and we were able to enter St. Louis’s land of fantasy, overpriced cocktails and turkey legs, and awfully entertaining historical inaccuracy.

The hellish weather was overcome by the kindness of the people all around (for the most part). I was sweaty, had my hair down, and was wearing multiple layers and knee-high boots—a sensory nightmare I constructed for myself. But I still felt whimsical, even with my bangs sticking to my sweat-covered forehead.

I watched a joust and cursed the non-existent dialect coaches of the performers, but I still smiled broadly when my partner cheered and booed with the crowd, immersed in the world around us.

The petting zoo was one of my favorite parts because I got to see a gorgeous owl and a couple of baby goats! I love animals! The snakes were also stunning, but I could never dare to touch them. I have an aversion to the texture of the scales.

I got to shoot a bow after almost ten years, and I also tried some not-so-awful cocktails, like a strawberry margarita and Mermaid water (rum, orange juice, blue food-coloring, and some sort of soda). But most importantly, I saw three ladies in costumes so tremendously accurate to Tudor fashion I almost fell to my knees. The hanging and slashed sleeves, along with beautiful snoods and cauls (hairnets) that adorned their hair, immediately caught my attention as Sage and I avoided a “faire tramp.” It was a delight to see such a specific fashion reflected in a place so well-known for its enchanting vagueness.

By the end of the afternoon, my feet were more than tired. My spirits: depressed at the memory of the tags on the swords I fell in love with and the persistent heat. Still, I enjoyed myself, and I was able to be a queer little creature without internal or external judgment for a few hours, and I was happy… until I reached my car. The moment I sat down, I began feeling immense pressure around my entire skull, from my jaw to the crown of my head. It hurt to open my eyes and it hurt even more to close them. My stomach felt empty, yet bursting, and nausea was all I could think about. For fifty minutes, I tried to focus on the music coming from the stereo as Sage drove us back to their home, but nothing helped. My contacts were dry, my hair was soaked in sweat, my feet burned with exhaustion, and the layers of clothes I had on stuck to my skin. I thought I was going to pass out for a moment, as I cried from the pain and exhaustion, but I ended up being okay.

A hot shower later: my hair was clean, and my afflictions gone… for the most part. The headache stayed for the rest of the time I was awake, but not to the point of distraction.

Overall, it was an eventful first time at the Ren Faire. I will definitely come back next year.

Edited by Karissa L Geisinger and Carter L. Myers