Carmen of the Carnival

Another week, another featureless fairground. She says she lives in Michigan but is on the road for nine months a year. She has been doing this for twenty five years. How does home even feel like home? Going to your home is like a sailor getting shore leave, a refreshing break in a strange land.

I ask her if she likes it. She pauses and looks up, trying to think of the right words. The answers my question better than any words could. I say "you're just used to it?" and she seems to agree in a weary manner. She says it's good because her family is with her, her grown and almost grown children and even a baby grandchild. A modern day gypsy without the ornate wagons or curses. I say that there is a lot of worth in having family close in such a manner. She seems to agree but also says there are many fights. Being so close and so intricately tied to each other does cause friction. She says just last month her husband and adult son had an argument that boiled over into fisticuffs, the issue was not mentioned but it had time to ferment into a violent brew that ended in some stitches. 

In sheer naivete, I ask if she gets to at least see interesting things in the many towns she gets to visit. Of course it was a stupid question. It's all business. Drive in, set up, work long hours, then back out. The only thing she gets to visit is the Walmart closest to the fairground. There is no wonder, no joy, no sense of adventure in this travel. 

Travel is my passion. I look at truck drivers and long for the opportunity to ride the open road like riders of the days of old. Romanticism has no place in the life of a carny, so it seems.