The Fair

Nearly every July since I was four, my family heads to Mississippi, where we lived for several years, for the week-long Neshoba County Fair, otherwise known as Mississippi's Giant Houseparty. No, seriously, that's what they call it (and that's exactly what it is).

When July rolls around on the years we can get there, it's hard to know who's more offended as Tiffany and I prepare to make the trip: our San Francisco friends who can't believe we're paying to go to Mississippi where they think everyone is a pot-bellied hick or our Mississippi friends who can't believe we still live in San Francisco where they assume everyone is a pot-smoking hippie (okay, the Mississippians have a point here...).

These stereotypes run deep. The first time Tiffany and I took a road trip through the south, about a year after we'd started dating, my dad worried for our safety.

"Just be careful," he started as we talked one day over a couple of burgers. "Don't... well... don't act gay."

But Tiffany and I made the trip just fine. We acted the way we always act and only had one scare when we blew a tire on a long stretch of highway somewhere in Alabama. We inched our way to a nearby off ramp and a deserted looking gas station and held our breath when two men in an 18-wheeler pulled up behind our car with its equal rights sticker on the back windshield. Guess what those two men did:

Helped us change our tire.

Similarly, the first time I took Tiffany to the Fair, some members of my family fretted. But the Fair is one of my all time favorite places; it has most of my all time favorite people and many of my all time favorite foods. It's a place where the biggest decision you make is which drink to pour into your plastic cup when you walk down to watch the horses at the red dirt race track. Or whether to wait until after supper to have your first slice of caramel cake. Or where to hide your slice of caramel cake if you want it to still be around after supper to eat.

I couldn't imagine not sharing all that with Tiffany. Still, before we went, I told her everything she needed to know: all about how my Fair friends and I used to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl until we were sick, all about Lindsey's Lemonade and the fried dill pickles and chicken-on-a-stick at Penn's, all about the cabin's iffy plumbing (cross your fingers, close your eyes, and flush. Also, have a plunger handy.).

When we got there, we held hands walking around the red dirt track at night like every other couple and when I introduced her to my Fair friends, guess what they said?

"Nice to meet you."