The first group of people who I befriend ask: "What is your totem?"
My totem? Yes, they say, your totem. As in a totem pole? Yes, that's right. A totem. An elevated, distinguishable object carried by the group leader so members of that party can find one another. Cases in point: the Terminator, and Lionel-Waldo.
I went to the festival not knowing anyone. It was a fabulous, care-free-free bird decision inspired by the lovely, independent concert-goer and fellow music-lover, Caitlin Bartley.
Friendships were formed at Bonnaroo - and love was in the air - so long as you had a fan, a spray bottle, or Starbursts in your purse. Then, everyone around you loved you as if they had never felt water on their tongue or back, or tasted food on their lips.
Naps were necessary. I chose shade...
The night ended with an Amish donut, which was $4 well spent. The glaze still dripping off of what appeared and tasted like a giant Krispy Kreme, but better.
Since, I've said my goodbyes to the kind folks who took me in. I've retired my sandals. Washed my feet seven times. And, am still trying to get the braid out of my hair. My voice is still hoarse from singing too loud to Mumford & Sons and Hozier. My arms are heavy from dancing until 4 AM. And, had I been wearing a Fitbit, I likely would have acquired the maximum amount of steps on that wristband... It was one night of glory, surrounded by good vibes, high-fives, peace and love. A spectacular dream with a '70s filter, where for this one day, there was not a care in the world.
