Growing up, the Ann Arbor Art Fair was a summer staple. My parents went annually, sometimes with me, often without. Some years they bought art, often they did not. The street food. The colors. The people watching. The sounds. Some of the best memories of my childhood and one of the best parts about growing up in Metro Detroit.

We began taking our son, now 17, when he was just an infant. We’d papoose him into the Bjorn carrier and attempt to slipstream through the crowds, the front man clearing the way. Then, as a toddler, we’d wind the stroller through the impossible crowds, leather-sandled feet bouncing and bobbling the way. We’d let him hop out to try out a wooden toy or for a lick of an ice cream cone. Then, as a young boy, too big for a stroller, he’d beg to come with us, promising to walk the whole way. Of course, a half an hour in, he reconsidered. Never mind the deal. Carry me, Daddy. Rookie error on our part.

We’ve had hot years, cooler years, dry years, and years so humid you felt you’d melt into the asphalt a minute after stepping out of the car. One year, we dodged torrential downpours by ducking into the awning of a restaurant. We watched the panicked artists pull their goods into the tent in a panic and close down their canvas walls.

As a student at the University of Michigan, I lived along Forest Street for some time, a prime parking locale. Art Fair weekend was the only time my paid parking was null and void. Off limits. It said so right in the rental contract. We could park there as long as we paid “art fair” parking prices. Otherwise, here’s the number to Brewer’s Towing to collect your car.

Last night was one of the better nights for art fair. The weather was perfect. Warm in the way a July night should be, but not hot. Dry. No sticky backs of knees or sweaty shirts clinging to your underarm or a river of sweat flowing down the side of your face. I even caught a hint of a breeze from time to time. We strolled down Main Street, up Liberty, across State Street and back down William. We didn’t stay long. We ate and did a quick loop, but we got our $20 worth of parking and took it all in.

Everyone was in good spirits. We watched Mr. Bubbles and the dancing girls. Outside of Cherry Republic, I sat down for a rest and chatted with a friendly MAGA fan sharing the “good news” of the coming election we’re damn sure to win. We saw various artists putting their crafts on live display.

I even “accidentally” photographed a friend in front of the Michigan Theater sign. It seemed befitting to find him at a place like this. Last time we were together, we wandered the streets of Yanesen in old Tokyo, Japan much the same way. Looking. Seeking. Discovering. This felt the same. Everyone feels like a traveler here. I would run into him two minutes after the photo was taken but didn’t notice him in the photo until today. He (plaid shirt) and his wife (white cross-body bag) are crossing right in photo of the Michigan Theater sign above.

Turns out not everyone is a crowd-going fan. We ran into this poor pooch on the way to the car who wanted nothing to do with the sights and sounds. Maybe he took notes from my son on how to get carried. There are many fans of the Ann Arbor Art Fair . . . about half a million over the three days . . . but I guess you can’t win them all.

Until next year . . .