The line to the porta-potty is about a mile long, I received by text from my husband, who was dutifully waiting by the side of his seventy-four-year-old father. It sounded like there were quite a few people that were regretting drinking all that pre-dawn coffee.
I looked to the horizon, where many people stood in the way of a perfect view of the mountains and the growing pink color to the east. The children were sitting at my feet in the grass with their coats pulled tightly around them. I felt disoriented, and looked about to see if anyone else knew where exactly we were supposed to be, or in what direction we were supposed to be staring.
People were scattered everywhere, all having either fought the traffic or used the park-and-ride to make it to the dawn view of a few hundred hot air balloons. It apparently was the fiftieth anniversary of the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta, but I cared nothing about an anniversary. The kids and I would have been satisfied with one or two up-close viewings of a hot air balloon take-off. We got so much more.
About fifty feet away I could see someone testing out the fire-blower-whatever-you-call-it-thingamajig in preparation for the big liftoff. The fire shooting two feet into the air lit up the darkness vibrantly. Some folks had brought chairs and were reclining back with throws over top of them. Others were standing around in a huddle eating soft pretzels out of a cardboard bowl. I decided it was way too early for pretzels, and the cold grass wasn’t as bad as having to lug those chairs onto the bus.
Time ticked away and nothing seemed to be happening. Dawn arrived with brilliant colors, and my husband and father-in-law even returned from the trenches of the porta-potty line. The kids got excited when suddenly they spotted the basket to one of the balloons, but there was no activity around it. More time ticked away. My father-in-law, an Albuquerque native, began to bring up the chances of it being canceled.
“Excuse me! Please move back! We need space to set up!” A robust woman in neon pink came storming across the ground. She and her fellow neon pink wearing ladies reminded me a bit of rhinos in slow motion, slowly charging at the humans that were benignly scattered around them. We all moved back about fifty feet.
The balloon was laid out like a big picnic blanket able to hold about ten families and their picnic baskets comfortably. People towards the front, by the basket, were busy in activity, but the neon pink team of ladies stood idle, as guard rhinos.
Suddenly someone was singing the national anthem, and it didn’t sound horrible like the last time I heard it at a 4-H cattle show. I suppose the fiftieth anniversary of anything requires a little more pizzazz than a 4-H cattle show. Someone in the crowd said that the mayor, or maybe it was the governor, was inside the first balloon that took off. Whoever it was, he could very well have chickened out and made his secretary take his place, because nobody could see who was in that thing. It mattered not; the first balloon to take off was exciting!
Then suddenly a row of balloons behind us began to inflate, and they were all pressing into each other’s space tightly so that there was little visibility between them. They were like an enormous monster mooning us with a lot of extra butt cheeks. Then suddenly another row of balloon-butt-cheek-monsters appeared in front of us, and another vaguely visible behind it. And onward. Rows, and rows, and rows of eager balloons, waiting for the okay.
“There’s a screw-driver!” My son pointed at one that had taken to the sky as a one-story sized handle with a silver projection pointed downward.
“A teddy bear!” My daughter shouted. There was debate as more and more took to the sky and we strained and waited for them to rise higher to see what their design were. A British flag, various tropical animals, many bright colors and miscellaneous, and them all entering the sky like super-sized Chinese lanterns. It was super-sized Chinese lantern rush hour. They drifted up, making beautiful dots in the horizon, and some were closer, and some right smack in front of my vision, all floating there like an illustration for a young artist learning about distance and perspective.
One row would take off, only to reveal another behind it. They just kept coming, until the audience began to pass onto the next psychological stage of viewing. First, there is confusion. Next, awe. Then is the sensation that you had witnessed a fairytale in action. Lastly, over-stimulation. The eyes and mind grow spoiled, and magnificent foreign balloons become less foreign and magnificent, and the children began to ask when we could leave.
Somehow three hours flew by. Everyone in the crowd was ready for breakfast. (Except for maybe that lady eating the soft pretzels in the cardboard bowl.)
We slowly made our way off the field, and slowly to the bus, and slowly back to our vehicle. A few blocks away I saw that IHOP had a line trailing out the doors and into the parking lot. Every breakfast-serving restaurant in town was probably running out of scrambled eggs or orange juice around then.
We drove on toward my father-in-law’s house, who definitely had eggs and orange juice in his fridge. It was a relief it was over—it was the one thing we had specifically planned to do on our road trip, and I was glad we had managed it despite wind or rain that could have ruined it. I was glad it was over.
I looked out the window again and caught sight of a swarm of balloons, like massive bees flying around on the horizon. I remembered the fairytale part again. I was pretty sure I had just witnessed some sort of magic.
After four days spent in Albuquerque, it was time to move on to Colorado…
And to this day you can still hear them say, "How the hell do we get down from here!"
Worst case scenario they end up in The Land of Oz. They've just got to click their heels together three times. There's no place like home! There's no place like home! There's...
Yeah, or David Blaine shows up outta nowhere holding some helium balloons being all like, "I'll save you," sounding all monotone n shit.
I've got this image of a David Blaine rescue going something like this: "I'll save you! Right after I pop your balloon and send it plummeting to the ground and just before you slam into the concrete I will slide my hands really fast and magically in front of the camera and you will be transported safely to the ground and probably only have one or two broken bones." All done in monotone.
They would probably just prefer to go to the Land of Oz.
The Land of Oz does sound a lot more appealing than The Plane of Blaine.
Somehow that sounds pornographic to me...yes, I don't think anyone really wants to go there.
I haven't been to a balloon fest in a hunnert years !
There used to be one here and it was pretty many balloons, but that appears to be a lot bigger. It was a lot of fun to see them take off and then see so many in the air at the same time. Back then I thought I would like to take a ride one day, but not now.
You know you are getting old when the thought of getting in all that traffic, parking far away in a field and pushing through large crowds to get anywhere.... makes you happy not to go ! Yep... that would be now.
Back in the day though, it was a lot of fun. You'd see so many people you knew or had known and hadn't seen in years.
I hear you. I hate crowds. Actually, I dislike a lot of the people in society :) That is the beauty of a vacation I guess - it gets you out of your routine. I'd say considering the wonderment of seeing that many balloons made dealing with that many humans worth it. Apparently back in the '70s this festival was more like you are describing. Smaller time, mostly local people, you knew a lot of people there. Now it has gotten its "international" status, so it is just jam packed with strangers.
What a fun experience! I'd like to see that some day. I loved your description of the people and the balloons and the event.
Thanks for stopping by. It was a neat experience. It was something very memorable for the children, and us adults too :)
A brunch party of soccer moms in hot pink and hot air are nothing to scoff at.
If I were a man I'm sure that brunch party would have been a lot more exciting. Actually, it would have been pretty exciting as was, but nobody brought the mimosas.