At 4:30 p.m. Friday afternoon, all is calm inside my fourth-story apartment on Main Street in Bethlehem.
Normally, I can say the same of the street down below. The most action I ever see or hear outside my windows is a morning rush at Johnny's Bagels.
Musikfest has infiltrated my 'hood. And, as the hours pass and the sun begins to set, Main Street transforms from small-town U.S.A. to something I can only describe as a combination al fresco food court, bar, open-air market, concert and high-school hangout.
The smell of fried food wafts into my windows and the annoying sounds of an incessantly rattling tambourine and squealing teen girls disturb my peaceful existence.
I can't resist the smells, nor tune out the sounds, so I grab my plastic mug and set out on a quest for beer and funnel cake.
I fall in line with the mass of mug toters, filing down the road toward the beer tent like zombies.
Making my way down the strip, I'm nearly trampled by teens, scurrying about in search of their cliques. As far as the eye can see there are short, short denim skirts, but, thankfully, no breeze.
Perhaps I look like a person in need of counsel; a psychic leaps off the sidewalk to ask if I'd like my fortune read. I politely decline, aiming for that powdered-sugary prize.
Walking down the winding path down to Handwerkplatz, I watch in wonder as women try to keep their balance in heels and wedges.
In flip-flops, I'm not exactly dressed to impress. But at least I won't fall on my ass before I've even begun drinking.
At the bottom of the hill, I make my way to the ticket booth to trade my greenbacks for another form of paper currency. I struggle to decide how much money I'm willing to part with for an evening of excessive eating and drinking and settle on $15.
Even though I know I'm here for the beer and funnel cake, I tease my taste buds and make myself earn that gut-busting meal by walking the festival grounds first.
At Volksplatz, I practically run into everyone I know. I make small talk, but move on quickly. I stop briefly at the Olympus tent to pick up a free paper fan, which I inappropriately use to pretend-paddle passersby in the butt.
I cross over a bridge lined with Y-chromosomed 20-somethings scoping out females. And I'm almost disappointed when I don't get holla'ed at.
Walking alongside the railroad tracks on my way to Festplatz, illuminated balls hang overhead in trees and it actually feels romantic, a nice contrast to the meat-market atmosphere on the bridge.
In Festplatz, I pause at the polka tent. I edge closer to the floor, hoping a little old man will pull me on and twirl me 'round till I fall over with dizziness.
Instead, a college-age guy sporting a Polo shirt with a popped collar is pulled from his posse by a woman who insists on showing him some steps.