The Festival of Nations was mostly four days of sitting around for me, tooling leather bookmarks and wrist bands and occasionally selling someone a book. Nevertheless, I came out of it exhausted. The reasons, I think, are two.

One, it was an overdose of humanity for an introvert. Attendance was smaller this year than last (a mixture of the bad economy and the first nice weather in weeks, we think), but even so there were times when the crowds were insane, the babble overwhelming. Especially when kids were blowing those little ceramic bird whistles they sell, which emit a piercing warble.

I know multicultural festivals are supposed to bring us together and remind us how much we all have in common, but I’m not convinced the final result isn’t to remind us how different we all are, and to make us wonder how we’re ever going to get along with people who dress like that. (But that might just have been my mood.)

A young boy in our group reported speaking to one of the vendors, who was selling a marionette he designed himself. When told people were complaining that his puppet fell apart after two days, he replied that that was indeed a product failure. “It’s supposed to fall apart in one day.”

I hope, for all our sakes, that the bird whistles also fall apart after a day. Otherwise I suspect there will be an uptick in child abuse by parents all around the metropolitan area.

The other reason I was exhausted, it turns out, was that I’m anemic again. I had some tests done, and found out today (to my great relief) that I don’t have celiac disease, and so will not have to give up all breads and grain products. But I’m now scheduled to go in tomorrow for the Test That Dare Not Speak Its Name. Which means I’ll be doing things tonight no guy as tired as I am should have to do. Tomorrow I’ll be flying on Valium (which I like to think of as my reward for getting through tonight), but I’ll post something—possibly something coherent—if I can.

Here’s the makeup of a great blogroll: 50 Best Western Literature Blogs. To leave you with no doubt, these are lit-blogs written by 50 people staying in Best Western hotels throughout the U.S. Essential reading, friends. Next up, 40 Super 8 Films Blogs. (via Books, Inq.)

In other fun press corp news, Craig Silverman has an article on how frequently reporters and announcers around the world said “Obama” when they meant “Osama.” He has a painful video of a Canadian anchor reading the news, saying “Obama” every time she meant “Osama.” Naturally, if it needs to be said, this is all Ted Kennedy’s fault.

Today was a vacation day. I spent it with the Vikings, participating in the annual Festival of Nations at the River Centre in St. Paul (I’ll be there every day through Sunday, in case you’re in the neighborhood and in the mood for a rainbow of multiculturality). I went in a little worried, because it had been announced that our usual parking ramp is closed this year, and we’d have to park somewhere else. I discovered that this “elsewhere” ramp was in fact that one I’ve always used. Sometimes I need a fresh reminder of just how out of step I am, in general.

Today was the Student Day at the Festival, a day reserved for school classes. So we spent the day watching students schooling, fish-like, past our tables. A few stopped to ask questions. (The strangest was from a young man who wanted to know how a Viking sword was swung. If anything in this world is self-evident, it seems to me, it’s how a slashing sword works, but when I made a small demonstrative sweep, he said I had made it clear for him. Well, God bless you, son. Say hello to your Amish parents.) I sold exactly zero books, but you don’t expect much from school kids.

I was waiting for an important call on my cell phone, which was handy in my pouch at my hip, but when it came I somehow missed it. I can only assume that the ambient noise (pretty fortissimo when the kids are in high spirits) drowned it out. I saw the “missed call” note, called back and left a message, but got no response.

The event closed at 3:00 p.m. today, so I rushed home to pick up my lawnmower from the shop, where it’s been for a day or so, and do the mowing that’s so desperately needed on my lawn. But wait! Can’t do anything loud until after 5:00, the time when the window for my return call closes. So I waited, and in the interval it rained on the grass. Ah well. Let it be written in the Great Book—I tried.

Probably no blogging from me tomorrow, as the Festival runs to 10:00 p.m.

Mary T. Lewis writes, “At its most profound, and especially in [German painter Caspar David] Friedrich’s work, the motif of a view through an open window celebrated the utter subjectivity of the painter’s vision at the very threshold that divided his world and the realm of art from nature.” There’s an exhibit of Friedrich and his contemporaries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The articles has some nice pictures for those of us who aren’t planning to make it over to New York this year.

Anu Garg, the wordsmith behind Word of the Day, is doing biblical names turned words this week in honor of the 400th anniversary of the King James Bible. Today’s word is Jonah. Other words will likely be Jezebel, Judas, and Jeremiah or Jeremiad.

Jared links to a list of Christian urban legends. These are things like the Eye of the Needle gate outside Jerusalem and a rope tied to the high priest when we goes into the Holy of Holies (in case he dies there). I’m most disappointed by this one: “Voltaire’s house is now owned by a Bible-printing publisher.” I thought that was true, at least, that it was true within 100 years of Voltaire’s death. Bum.

Discussion continues at Trevin Wax’s blog.

One thing I neglected to tell you about, when I reported yesterday on my Viking weekend, was the singular honor paid to me during the Great Feast held on Saturday night. I was given a seat at the table of honor, which is pretty cool if you’re a Viking buff.

The feast was impressive. I over-ate. Almost all the food was certified “available” to the Vikings, but I suspect few real Vikings ever enjoyed a meal that tasty.

Part of the programme called for “the passing of the horn,” a tradition in which a horn of mead is passed around the hall, and each participant, when the horn comes to him, gives a greeting, tells a story, sings a song (nobody did that), or proposes a toast. I told one of my favorite true Viking stories, “The Tale of Thorarin Nefjolfsson’s Foot,” as recorded in the Saga of Saint Olaf. I give it below, more or less as I related it Saturday night.

The king and his men were in Tunsberg [a market town near present-day Oslo] one summer night. Among his retinue was Thorarin Nefjolfsson, an Icelandic merchant. Thorarin was a tall, thin man with a long nose and large hands and feet. He was not famed for his physical beauty.

The nights are short in Norway that time of year, and King Olaf woke before the rest of his men and looked around him in the morning light. He noticed that one of Thorarin’s feet had stuck out from under his blanket. He contemplated that foot for some time.

When his men woke up, King Olaf said to them, “Men, I have been awake a while now, and I’ve seen a sight worth seeing. A man’s foot so ugly that I’d be willing to bet there isn’t an uglier foot in the whole town.”

All the men looked at Thorarin’s foot, and agreed that it was indeed the ugliest they’d ever seen.

But Thorarin himself said, “I’ll take that bet, my king. There are few things in the world so strange that you can’t find a match for them. I happen to know where I can find an uglier foot right here in town.”

“It’s a bet,” said the king. “Whoever loses will have to perform a service for the winner.”

Then Thorarin pushed his other foot out from under the blanket. It was no prettier than the first, and on top of that the big toe was missing.

“I win the bet!” he said.

But King Olaf said, “Oh no. The first foot had five hideous toes, while this one has only four. Therefore I win the bet.”

The moral is: Never gamble with a politician.

The Phantom Tollbooth opened up author Michael Chabon and infected his entire circulatory system. He says, “It was while reading The Phantom Tollbooth that I began to realize, not that I wanted to be a writer (that came a little later, at the mercy of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle), but something simpler: I had a crush on the English language, one that was every bit as intense, if less advanced, as that from which the augustly named author, Mr. Norton Juster, himself evidently suffered.” (via Books, Inq.)

For many years I’ve been a little disappointed with Norwegians in Norway, because their “traditional” Easter observance in contemporary times has nothing to do with church, but rather involves taking a last ski trip to the mountains, and reading mystery novels.

This year I went away for Easter myself, on a strictly non-religious errand, so I stand self-condemned. I think if I’d realized the Return of the Sun event in Missouri was Easter weekend, I wouldn’t have done it. But I didn’t catch the subtle signs, like words on a calendar. And once I promised I’d go, I figured I’d better follow through.

On top of that, I really wanted to film some footage in an authentic setting for my book trailer. So I sacrificed Easter both to my Viking avocation and to my business concerns. Which makes me a hypocrite. I think there’s a lesson there.

I now know what Vikings smelled like. They smelled like smoke. Spend any amount of time in a building heated by an open hearth, and your clothes will be permeated with smoke. I don’t object to this. It’s actually rather pleasant (I’ve smelled a whole lot worse in my time). It’s just a point of information, based on experience.

It’s a long drive to northeastern Missouri from Minneapolis, but Mrs. Hermanson made it in good form, even getting pretty reasonable gas mileage, considering all my baggage. Her newly restored four wheel drive came in handy in rural Missouri, where it’s been raining a lot. Although I lived in Missouri for a year long ago, I’d forgotten the particular slippery quality of that state’s clay-based topsoil.

Ravensborg, “Viking Sam” Shoults’ as yet unfinished Viking fort, is located near Knox City, Missouri. The web site is here. And here’s a Picasso album of photos of the weekend. You’ll see me in picture number five, along with Sam’s son John.

Continue reading My weekend among the Vikings →