Confetti in my notebook, a stranger's stew, and dancing badly — notes from the happiest crowd I ever joined.
I had planned to pass through the town in an afternoon. Then the square filled with bunting, a brass band tuned up like a lawnmower with dreams, and a woman pressed a paper cup of stew into my hands with the words: you look hungry for the festival.
She was right on both counts. The stew — pepper, patience, something smoked — remains the best meal of my travelling life, and I have eaten my way across three deserts since.
Say Yes to the Stew
What followed was eight hours of small joys administered at festival strength: a children's parade with one very committed dragon, a dance I was taught in thirty seconds and performed for three hours, confetti that is probably still in my notebook as I write this.
Joy is a skill. It can be practised, preferably in crowds, ideally while slightly out of tune.
Writers are professional observers, which is a polite way of saying we stand at edges. That night the edge dissolved. Strangers taught me choruses, corrected my steps, and fed me without asking for anything — the purest transaction I know.
I left the next morning with ringing ears and a full notebook, reminded of the thesis behind every book I write: go toward the music, accept the stew, dance badly. Some of the best research looks exactly like a party.
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