Around here, the Ann Arbor Art Fair is a summer staple. Growing up, my parents went annually.  Sometimes they took me, often they went alone. Some years they bought art, most often they did not. The street food. The colors. The people watching. The sounds. The art fair accounts for some of the best memories of my childhood and remains one of the best parts about living in Metro Detroit. 

We began taking our son, now 17, when he was an infant. We'd papoose him into the Bjorn carrier and attempt to slipstream through the crowds, my husband the front man clearing the way. Then, as a toddler, we'd wind the stroller through impossible crowds, his leather-sandled feet bobbling at the bow.  We'd let him hop out to try out a toy or a for the lick of an ice cream cone. Then, as a young boy, too big for a stroller, he'd beg to come with us, promising to walk the entire way. Of course, a half an hour in, he'd reconsider. Never mind the iron-clad handshake deal from an hour ago. "Carry me, Daddy" he'd whine.  Rookie error on our part.

We've had hot years, cool years, dry years, and years so humid you thought you'd melt into the asphalt a second after stepping out of the car. One year, we dodged torrential downpours by ducking under a store awning. We watched the artists in a panic, pulling their goods into the tent and cloistering themselves behind flimsy canvas walls.

As a student at the University of Michigan, I lived along Forest Street, prime parking locale. Art Fair weekend was the only time my monthly paid parking was null and void. Off limits. It said so right in there in the rental contract. We could park there as long as we paid "art fair" parking prices. Otherwise, here's the number to Brewer's Towing and good luck finding your car.

Last night was one of the better nights for art fair. The weather was perfect. Warm in the way a July night should be, but not hot. Dry. No sticky backs of knees or sweaty shirts clinging to your underarm or a river of sweat flowing down the side of your face. I even caught a hint of a breeze. We strolled down Main Street, ate at Palio, made our way up Liberty, across State Street and back down William. We didn't stay long. We got our $20 worth of parking and took it all in.

Everyone was in good spirits. We watched Mr. Bubbles and the dancing girls. Outside of Cherry Republic, I chatted with a friendly MAGA fan sharing the "good news" of the coming election we're "Goddamn sure to win."  We saw various artists putting their crafts on live display.

I "accidentally" photographed a friend in front of the Michigan Theater sign. It seemed befitting to find him at a place like this. Last time we were together, we wandered the streets of Yanesen in old Tokyo in much the same way. Looking. Seeking. Discovering. This place feels kind of the same. Everyone is a traveler here. Two minutes after photographing Mike (plaid shirt) and his wife, Lauren (white cross-body bag) crossing right in front of the Michigan Theater sign, we stopped and chatted about art.  I wouldn't notice him in the photo until seeing it in the computer the next day.

Turns out not everyone is a crowd-going fan. We ran into a poor pooch on the way to the car who wanted nothing to do with the sights and sounds of the fair. (Maybe he took notes from my son on how to get himself carried.)  There are many fans of the Ann Arbor Art Fair . . . about half a million over the three days . . . but you can't win them all.

Until next year . . .