The Spring Festival

             I think I have made it clear that I am not a morning person. Getting up before 12 p.m. is an exceptional struggle. So, one can imagine the horror I felt when I found out I had to be in Philadelphia at 8 a.m. for The Spring Festival.

            When my phone started ringing at 6:50 a.m. (I like to sleep until the last possible second) it felt more like a bomb than an alarm. Somehow, most likely with the help of a higher power, I got up and made it to the city by 8:05. (The extra five minutes came from my much-needed Dunkin Donuts stop.) 

            Once I arrived in Philadelphia and found the vendor parking spots, it was go-time. My boss introduced me to a pleasant and knowledgeable lady named Phyllis, who was running the logistics of the event. She had all the supplies and sent us on missions to deliver them to their respective businesses. Each business had a tent and the tents spanned down Walnut Street from Broad St. to 19^th St.

            Just as I was wondering how exactly we were going to get these heavy supplies such as charcoal bags and piles of linens all down Walnut Street, I saw something that lit up my world. Suddenly, it didn’t feel like it was 8 a.m. and I was about to work an all-day festival. Instead, I felt like my dreams were coming true. In front of me, were three golf carts. With the keys inside. I felt like a kid on Christmas.

            Why were three golf carts so exciting to me? Ever since I was around 15, it has been one of my bucket list items to drive one of those bad boys. I think back then it was because I didn’t have a license and it was the only vehicle I could operate. But there I was, 3 years post-license, and practically doing cartwheels over the possibility of driving one. Little did I know at the time, I would develop a love/hate relationship with that seemingly harmless machine.

My foot and I riding on the back of a cart pre-festival.

            On my first supply delivery, another volunteer around my age drove the cart. I tried to subtly let it slip that I had always wanted to drive one, and she took the bait. She offered to let me drive on the way back and unknowingly helped me fulfill one of my life goals. Driving a golf cart around a closed-down street through Center City Philadelphia at 8 a.m. was an experience to say the least. There were a bunch of obstacles such as tents and police cars and I felt like I was playing real-life Mario Kart.

            I was then sent on a crazy mission to go buy twenty hand soaps and twenty hand sanitizers at CVS for the hand-washing stations. Have you ever heard of anyone spending almost $90 on soap? Well, now you have. I took the golf cart on this expedition, which meant I had to drive it on streets with actual moving traffic. I even asked a cop if I was allowed to do so, and he responded with a coy smile and “I’m not going to look.”

            After casually checking off an item on my “list of things to do in life,” I continued to help with the supplies. People were asking me questions about supplies and about the event in general because I had a radio, which made me look very official.

Me being legit.

            Before I knew it, the event had begun. My job was to help out at the Pennsylvania Liquor Control Board tent. There was a wine tasting at this station. In the past, there had been “spill buckets” which patrons would spill their unwanted wine into. My job was supposed to be to dump out these buckets when necessary and keep the event clean and flowing smoothly. However, the woman in charge of the event had forgotten to bring the spill buckets this year. I offered to go buy some at the CVS I had been to earlier. I was instructed to get 5 large baskets. I figured that I would not be able to carry them four blocks, so I decided to take the golf cart. (Also, I really wanted to drive it again.)

            This turned out to be the biggest mistake of the day. While driving the cart in the morning when the street was relatively empty was a dream, trying to navigate through Walnut Street while the festival was in full swing was a nightmare. I could barely get through the hoards of people and many of them were not willing to make room. I guess this was a good sign for the festival because a lot of people were in attendance, but it was horrible for someone trying to drive a golf cart through it. At one point, a homeless man tried to stick his cane in the cart as I was attempting to drive down the street, if that’s any indication of how this was going.

            Getting to CVS took exponentially longer than it should have, and I began to get nervous that the wine tasting was being ruined due to lack of spill buckets. To my dismay, CVS didn’t have anything even remotely close to buckets or bins. I went to the market down the street (still in the golf cart) and settled on getting four Tupperware containers.

            The drive back to the PLCB tent was even worse than the drive to CVS. When I was a few blocks away from Walnut St., these kids that looked around my age jokingly asked for a ride. I shrugged, laughed it off, and kept driving. Around 30 seconds later, I heard a voice say “nice day.” I turned around and the kids had jumped on the back and hitched a ride without me knowing. At that point, all I could do was laugh.

The deathtrap in action.

            After I dropped the hitchhikers off, I decided to drive on the sidewalk to avoid all of the people. I saw that it would be a tight squeeze in between the tents and the stores, but I thought I could make it through. Even though passing by the first tent was snug and difficult, I did it. The next tent appeared to have more room between the poles and the store. Piece of cake, I thought. Wrong. There was a door-stopper sticking out of the sidewalk that wedged me between the wall and the tent pole. I was completely stuck. I started to draw a crowd. A kind, saintly gentleman, whose two kids I think I scarred both by almost running them over and cursing in front of them, benevolently led me out. People were staring and it was horrible. Just as I reversed out of the trap and began to cheer and celebrate, I backed into a tent. No damage was done, except to my dignity.

            I finally got back to the PLCB tent and triumphantly handed the manager the containers. She promptly told me she didn’t think they needed them anymore and I promptly wanted to scream and cry. Instead, I returned the deathtrap (known to some as a golf cart) to its rightful place.

            Because I was no longer needed at the wine tasting, my boss told another volunteer and me that we weren’t needed until teardown. We walked around and observed the festival. I was surprised by the amount of people and vendors there. Looking around, it was evident that the event was a huge success.

           

The Festival in full swing.

Since I had about two hours to kill, I invited my dad to come check it out. He took a while to get there, so I hung out in the VIP section with my coworkers. It was a good sign that we had time to relax and have fun, because that meant that there were no crises or disasters that needed handling.

            Once my dad arrived, I showed him around the festival. Before I knew it, it was time to start teardown. My job was to take down and collect the signs at each tent. My lovely father helped me and together we completed the job relatively quickly. My coworkers were very appreciative (and emotional) about my dad helping and “how good” I was. Soon, I was released and able to go home.

            If I learned anything at The Spring Festival it’s that tons of effort and planning is worth it to make your event run like a well-oiled machine, and to never drive a golf cart through a festival.