The folks and the festival (day two)

In the a.m. the car radio rings true. Sit on a trunk of mosquito spray and sweaters, Pharrell sings to me, woke up in the clothes I had on last night. Damn. I must have passed out.

As it was: a stranger sleeps soundly in a lawn chair round the ashes. Wake to stories of fistfuls of mushrooms and hits of acid. Check the bottle—still half full—admit I laid head down at an embarrassingly early hour.

Meet mother and order poutine breakfast, show her which acts are circled in the program. Long day ahead: Oka, Arrested Development, Greg MacPherson, Andrew Bird, and the Dodos.

Lay the blanket down and let the sun roast.

The folks and the festival (day one)

The DJ spins an electro riff and the crowd erupts feet airborne and hands sky-bound. The beat is pulled back and given sitar and violin to mix with. It’s east and west, club and countryside, rap and reggae and electro warped into world music.

Purple pumps down on the empty field stretched out behind the audience, time to take the children home and start the party. Delhi to Dublin and back again, circus performers spin down strings on the walk towards Cat Empire.

A green wristband grants entry to the campground, but I stick to the plan and with the pack, hike across a pitch-black grassland and provide a distraction during the sneak in. The fence doesn’t stretch long or far enough, provides an easy entrance.

Rendezvous between First Aid and porta-potties; find a fire to sit round. Crack the tab and guzzle the first drink down.