last night, thursday

I grew up in a dreary neighborhood of post-war houses, brick boxes built for hunkering down inside of. I'll never forget the light that turned on in my life when I discovered Takoma Park, a nearby town with grand, gingerbreaded Victorian houses, colorful playgrounds set in lush parks, and a shopping district of quirky, independent stores. The Takoma Park Street Festival, each autumn, was the highlight of my year. People dressed up in costumes of every stripe, with velvet, fairy wings, and garlands of cascading tinsel stars predominating. I would spend the whole day walking around, people-watching, eating exotic snacks from food stands, admiring the handmade wares for sale. It felt like my element, a temporal home.

Then I moved to Portland, and discovered Last Thursday-- a monthly "art walk" along fifteen blocks of NE Alberta Street. Modeled after First Thursday, the mass art gallery opening event in the yuppy Pearl neighborhood, Last Thursday is a street fair free-for-all with people hawking everything from jewelry on blankets, to paintings hanging on a chain link fence, to barbecue served from a front porch. It's touted to happen year-round, but it's really when the weather is nice that the whole mess is hot and lovely. It's normal to see fire dancers, bikes made from three frames welded together vertically, solitary people playing instruments on street corners for their pleasure alone, hand knit pet accessories, graffiti art on old records, and a slew of things to eat, wear, and look at.

I went last night, by myself, and it was both disappointing and perfect. It is my tradition to first get a slice of pizza at Bella Faccia, and walk around while eating, but the line was out the door of the restaurant. People were dressed in their finery-- piercings especially stretched for the occasion, dreadlocks colored, shoes tall, layers of clothing varied and tattered. I enjoyed taking in the scene and the delicious summer evening air, floating along through the dense crowd. I enjoyed not seeing anyone I knew, and being alone amongst so many people.

But something was missing. None of the art or goods or people grabbed me. There was no spark.

I don't want to be a naysayer who always thinks that the golden age is behind us, but it sure felt that way last night. Are twelve Takoma Park Street Festivals a year just too many? Have I grown up and moved on? Regardless of my letdown last night, I know that I will try again next month. It's still too nice-- if just for the walk-- to write off completely.