I don’t know exactly why it is that the Festival of Nations—four days in nearby St. Paul—somehow manages to be perceptually more exhausting than Høstfest, five days all the way off in Minot. But so it does. I have my theories.

Mostly I blame the venue. Our Viking group is always situated in basement space in the River Centre, all concrete and low of ceiling. It echoes, not only the clamor of voices, but the bellow of the vuvuzela and the shrill chirp of the warble whistle.

(Although I must concede that they moved us to a new spot, far nicer than the one we’ve had for the last few years. Close to the Men’s room, the water fountain, and the food court. Better traffic. I sold a satisfying number of books, except for on Sunday, which always seems to be slow. Perhaps the visitors are observing the Sabbath.)

I have also discovered, since getting home last night, that part of my exhaustion was due to the fact that I was coming down with something nasty. I dragged myself through work today, but I’m not sure about tomorrow.

There were pleasant happenings, however, for me to report. There was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, who brought her two little boys to my table and eagerly asked all kinds of questions, clearly delighting in opening the world to her sons.

There was the man who introduced himself as a native of Jämteland in Sweden, a region that was part of Norway for many centuries. He said his family traced their genealogy back to the kings of Man, which gave me the opportunity to talk about the book about the Vikings in Scotland I was reading.

And the tall, red-haired high school girl who wanted to know about the kings of Denmark, giving me an opportunity to discuss my theories about the centrality of Denmark to all Viking history. Turned out she was an exchange student from Denmark (couldn’t tell from her accent), and descended from the Danish kings.

So I won’t say I didn’t have some fun.

I’ll just say I feel about a decade older.

And now I shall go boil a mustard plaster for my chest.