I've always been lovestruck with carnivals, especially old spectacles where the cotton candy booths are tiny wagons on wheels and pictures of beautiful flapper circus girls from carnivals past are pasted on the sides of every booth, tent and wall. Everything about carnivals makes me sigh - the midnight neon lights, the sticky sweet food, the ten-story ferris wheel with every gondola looking more like a big pink tea-cup than an actual seat. Something about the idea of staying up all night to just bathe in electric light and ride clattering rides is so appealing to me - like a little girl in the backseat, I'm a moth to the flame of those exploding lights calling my name from the side of the road. It's that childhood instinct to press your nose against the glass and scream "Pull over! There's a carnival!" Although the grown-up in me says to keep driving, to ignore the candy apples and dart-board games, that little girl in the backseat never quite wants to give up being young.
I always pull over.