Pigs, Pets and Pastrami

On Saturday we ventured down south to sunny San Mateo's county fair. We had intended to go last year, which seemed to offer much more, but for one reason or another we didn't make it. This year we weren't going to miss out and booked tickets well in advance. We had a great time and it was unlike anywhere we had ever been before and after walking round in an excited mesmerised trance, I now find it almost impossible to describe. I'll have a go though.

We got the train and then walked the remainder in the baking heat, remembering how lucky we are to live in San Francisco which is nicely warm but not too hot for my fair skin. We were the only pedestrians on the road which looked exactly like so many other American towns we have been through, and most people were sensible enough to be encased in their air conditioned cars. On route, we passed a so-called British pub, proclaiming food treats and darts. A quick peek in revealed darkness boarding on dingy, flock wallpaper, and a funny smell. Maybe it truly was a British pub after all, but today was not a day for Britishness, it was a day for embracing American culture, or at least for sneaking a peek at how a nation without a Women's Institute does their flower arranging.


Soon, we left any thoughts of Blighty behind as we stepped into an episode of the Simpsons. It was a strange and heady mix of farm animals, vomit-causing fairground rides, amazing community craft competitions, stalls selling things which people could never possibly need or want, or certainly wouldn't come to a fair to buy, like double glazing, but which seemed to be oddly attractive after an excess of either sugar or lard, also on offer in dizzying variety. As is typical, everything was proclaimed as the 'best ever', or 'all-American', which we now know is a form of short hand for this outlandish statement.

We didn't go into the 'Great American Petting Zoo' which did have a llama and Bambi to its credit, and we didn't visit the biggest pig in the world which had been sheltered in an enormous wind breaker and cost an extra dollar. We also didn't buy a Twister Dog, a hotdog on a stick with fried potato spiralled around it;

but we did visit all of the farm animals, and competition exhibits, marvelling at the skill and sheer audacity in turn, wondering at the categories and wishing that we had entered something. I probably would have gone for the table laying because I think it needed an injection of taste. Things were seemingly haphazardly arranged with limited care, although I'm sure there must have been some sort of order. It also seemed to be missing what I like to call the all important twee and tweed factor. Sometimes you need it just to cut through the garish. A few Morris dancers wouldn't have gone a miss either.

With our free M&M ice creams melting down our hands, we happily contemplated our favourite category, the 'Produce Pet' for 'pet's' creatively made from fresh produce. This had been imaginatively placed next to the smallest mature fruit or vegetable competition which was another joy to behold. There seemed to only be two entries in produce pet corner; one involving corn strapped to a sad wilting sunflower, and one involving a cucumber with a tangerine head, mouth arranged in a silent scream, marooned on it's back with frankly useless mange tout arms which would offer it no leverage to get back up, and topped off with a largely redundant tiny carrot tail. Or maybe that is the colour of cucumber fear? Either way, it was a clear winner.