Dear besties,
You would think that by the end of a 12-day festival of music, dance, theater and culture celebrating Sam D. Champ’s little canoe trip 400 years ago that this kid wouldn’t have anything left in the tank. Oh, how wrong you would be. While some people might have felt they have been entertained to within an inch of their lives over these last two weeks(my editrix, for one), I feel like I could go on for weeks, months even.
Truthfully, I couldn’t really go on much longer, which is good, since I have run out of underwear and there are fruit flies hovering over my dirty dishes. I blame Jay Craven, the impresario behind the festivities, for my slovenliness of the past two weeks. Of course, all good things must come to an end, including the waterfront festival, which rolled to a stop last night with the final presentation of “Aurelia’s Oratorio,” a dreamlike opus of whimsy and elan that felt like being stuck headfirst in a champagne flute full of effervescence. Or so said the event guidebook. Or so I paraphrased it.
This is what being French looks like.
