When my family moved here eight years ago, one of the first local events we attended was the Folkmoot Parade of Nations. Still at an age when to be seen with one’s parents was akin to being drawn and quartered, I grudgingly followed the family to Main Street for what I figured would turn out to be just another boring parade. Boy was I wrong.

It is hard to describe the wonder an 11-year-old feels when confronted by her first real taste of foreign culture. Up to that point, I doubt I’d ever even heard a foreign language spoken in real life, but suddenly, there I was face to face with dozens of real people who actually came from all the places I’d only dreamed about in fifth grade geography. People from places I’d never heard of and couldn’t pronounce. I don’t remember all the countries represented in that year’s festival, but what I do remember is that, for me, that parade was like a religious awakening. I was hooked.

As young as I was and as glamorous as they appeared, I never particularly wanted to be a dancer. I wanted to be one of the serious-looking people marching alongside the dancers, shooing kids out of the streets and mumbling into handsets while they wearily surveyed the crowds. I lusted after that walkie-talkie. I dreamed of being a guide.

Thus began my quest to infiltrate Folkmoot. I got involved in Spotlights Youth Theatre, a group that, among other community services, volunteered with the festival. So, over the next few years I would spend two weeks in July helping to sell T-shirts and other Folkmoot paraphernalia. At major performances, Spotlights would also sell refreshments and its members were allowed to see the shows for free. It was at one of these performances that I got my first taste of being a guide. The guide for China got sick and asked if anyone would be able to help run their booth. I suspect that by now you can guess who was the first to jump at the opportunity.

This brief tryst with the other side turned out to be an encouraging experience. They spoke English beautifully – Thank God — were unnecessarily grateful and displayed this gratitude by showering me, and anyone who acted like they knew me, with little gifts. I was in hog heaven.

The next summer was my lucky year. I got a call from a friend who informed me that she had just gotten a job as a guide for Folkmoot. It never occurred to me that they would hire a 16-year-old, but they did, and that summer marked my first as official Folkmoot staff.

Here’s where I’m supposed to tell you that my group was loving and easy to deal with. That the weeks flew by and ended with fast friendships and a mutual respect for one another’s culture. That would be a lie.

Even under the best circumstances, to say that guiding is stressful is a gross understatement. More often than not, the guide is the group’s alarm clock. Believe me, it is no easy task rousing 30 grumpy dancers who are suffering from jetlag. Speaking of jetlag, you get to suffer right along with them because sleep is impossible when all those dancers are having a get-together at 4 a.m. If your group forgets a costume, instrument or performer, guess who gets to arrange for their retrieval? Guides also have to take turns stage-managing shows. So, assuming your group is friendly and cooperative, this may be the worst you have to deal with. If your group was like mine that first year, things can get scary.

First, my group was notoriously tardy and of all the Italian phrases I did learn, “Get the hell on the bus!” was not one of them. Another difficult job that a guide is faced with is saying no. No, we cannot go see the Statue of Liberty today. No, Hollywood is nowhere near Waynesville. You get the idea. My group hounded us for three things: at 12 a.m. they wanted to go meet girls; at 2 a.m. they wanted to go to a pub; and at 7 a.m. they wanted to go to Mass. Hmmm. At the time, I barely had a license, much less a car to take them, but I had yet to master the “bad-cop” aspect of guiding, so instead of explaining the logistics of this, I would send them to my co-guide. Cowardly? Yes. Necessary? Yes again.

I was so stressed during this time that I literally did not eat or sleep. I came home 10 pounds lighter and exhausted physically and mentally. Poor me. Yes, well before you start sending me sympathy cards, know that it wasn’t all bad. It was very flattering to be serenaded by half a dozen Italians, even if every other female in the vicinity received the same attention, and despite some cultural variances in etiquette, they weren’t bad people. I even got a postcard from Italy after they’d gotten home. And of course there was the parade. This time I was the serious-looking one with the handset, shooing kids out of the street and keeping an eye on the crowd. My dream had come true.

After that year I took a break. I went back to selling T-shirts and went to a few late-nighters that were hosted by groups that my friends were guiding. Then, last year, I decided to try it again.

Here’s where I’m supposed to say that history repeated itself and I’m through with Folkmoot forever. Fooled you again.

No, the stresses of being a guide did not suddenly disappear, but last year I was armed with two more years of life experience and a director who was willing to take charge of the troupe. Last year was the incarnation of the Folkmoot I had dreamed about as that 11-year-old watching the parade. My group was from Chile, and they were nothing like the Italians. They were all friendly, considerate, relatively punctual etc. etc. Last year’s Folkmoot really did end with fast friendships and a deep cultural appreciation, but not just between myself and my group. All the groups really bonded, and I felt as close to many Indians and Venezuelans as I did to my own group. I’ve kept up correspondence with many of the performers from my group, and I’m not exaggerating when I say they inspired me to continue with Spanish all through college. I could not have been with a more encouraging group of people if I had hand picked them all myself. And at the parade they dressed me up in their costumes and let me carry the flag.

So, that is the happy ending to the love affair that began eight years ago. I’d like to think it’s not really over and that even though all the summers in my foreseeable future will be filled with internships and summer school, that I will be able to stay involved with Folkmoot, whether in writing about it, going through old photos, or just sharing how valuable something like Folkmoot is — not just for those who get to be guides, but for the entire community.