On the waterfront

We went down to the harbor yesterday for the annual waterfront festival. This year it was coupled with the Volvo Ocean Race (formerly the Whitbread Race, which always struck me as curiously close to "whitebread" --- not the best analog for a sport that already has an image only slightly less elite than polo. But I digress.)

The combination of the events meant that in addition to the usual weekend crowd of tourists with fanny packs strapped to their jorts, there were knots of people in quasi-nautical attire (topsiders, plaid shorts, belts with whales, or flags on them). Then there were the people who are actually part of the whole ocean race thing; they were easier to spot because they were wearing nautical anorak versions of NASCAR suits and they usually had a leathery look and either really expensive sunglasses or a preternaturally squinty expression [from all those years before the mast, presumably].

All of which meant it was really, really crowded. But the weather was perfect, and we had a great time. We did lose a hat and a sippy cup along the way. I can guess that each was pitched out at some point when we were navigating the crowds on our way back to the car. He'd tested my reflexes more than once with his little matchbox trucks, but they must have made sufficient noise to attract my attention as I pushed the stroller.

The hat, I can only imagine, landed with little more than a cottony flop, like a lone maple leaf falling in the Catskills. Or something.

In fact, I probably wouldn't have noticed as soon as I did except for the fact that we were heading west back to our car, and I could hear a little voice crying out "Bright. No like it."

I don't even have a theory on the cup; it's made of plastic, so I should have heard some kind of small thud. There were hordes of college-agers wandering around, so it was probably picked up, emptied of its contents, and promptly made into a bong by a guy whose name is Steve but whose friends call him Turtle. So the karmic wheel spins...

Speaking of "no like it," Samson got his first taste of the formerly novel and now ubiquitous Incan pan flute music. Since he's so crazy for guitars, I thought he might get into it. Nothing doing. He listened for about four seconds before offering up a summary judgment of: "Leaving. No like it. Sam." Which is probably not a good sign for the genre, given that kids Samson's age are about the only ones at this point that haven't heard these Zamfirs of the Andes.

Items lost but not found aside, it was a terrific day. And while I can't say Samson was all that interested in the sailboats, there was a Volvo pavilion that featured all manners of Volvo products, including the BL 70. Sadly, there was no test drive offer on this particular vehicle.