My town really knows how to throw a party. It seems like every month or so they close down the main street to traffic so that people can flock to the downtown area, walk around, shop a little, eat a lot, and generally have a grand old time. But none of the parties my town throws compares to the party that’s going on right now. Right now, just like every year at this time, there’s a whole carnival in town, complete with a tilt-a-whirl, ferris wheel, pony rides, cotton candy, and historical reenactment.

Along with traditional carnival fun, this festival includes a grand showing of vintage cars. I’ve never lived anywhere before where so many people had vintage cars, and I’ve never lived anywhere before that took such pleasure in showing them off. I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s someone on the city counsel or events planning board or some other such group who’s a vintage car devotee because no matter the occasion, there is ALWAYS a parade of cars. In fact, I think there’s been a parade of cars every day of the current festival.

I’ve been here just over a year, now, so I think I’ve seen the full array of street-closing, vintage-car-boasting festivals now. But yesterday I realized that I really am NOT from this town when, while driving home from some excursions to a near-by town, I thought to myself, “I might as well do my grocery shopping now, while I’m out of the house already.”

This is a very small town. It is heart-shaped and bisected by a highway. I live at the top of the West lobe of the hear, my work is at the top of the East lobe, and the downtown area runs through the East half of the heart. Just to the east of and parallel to the highway (which is currently under construction, by the way) is the main street which gets closed off for each of these periodic festivities. So with highway traffic, vintage car parade, and carnival traffic all clogging the highway, getting from my end of town to the shops one mile away was a slow affair. I had twenty minutes to contemplate the sparkling chrome detail of the 50s-style pick-up truck ahead of me, the children laughing on the merry-go-round, and the milling teenagers who were trying desperately not to show their friend that they really would have liked a ferris wheel ride or two.

And yet, there’s no way to resent this type of traffic. Even as I made my way back, ice cream melting in the trunk, chrome bumper in front of me blinding me with every new angle of the setting sun, I wished this carnival would last for a week rather than three days.