Costumed knights in Sopot in the square before the church. Then the miracle play jerks to life. A chop strikes home, straight to the skull, a head is bloodied. A distressed girlfriend in a genuinely long dress to the rescue. Paramedics and paramedicine, then the others fight on as the fallen and his girlfriend disappear into an ECNALUBMA.
So I sit at the start of the street. A marching band gathers. Is this parade for me? Yes, this parade is for me. A police car parts the crowd. Girl twirlers in tiny yellow and black shorts, high black boots, black hats, a tuft of yellow feathers in each hat. A brass band full of people who also may have been wearing something. People carrying flags in the shape of people skins, floating scarecrows. People on stilts from the powerful people-on-stilts union. People with radios controlling the crowd should twirlers and trombones work us to a froth. Horses and a carriage. The knights minus one, who is getting a backless gown and a tetanus shot and looks somewhere. Generic common folk, though with newer diseases and sharper teeth than their models. Four-wheel-drive trucks. Three 1950s American convertibles with fins. They all head for the pier. We bolt. Two loud American hogs late for the parade resplit the scattering crowd. Then the seam closes.