Gosh where to start. People fly in from all over the world. Exorbitant ticket prices. Every hotel booked. This is serious sh*t.
Garden geeks galore, and these flower enthusiasts are a cult packed with a cast of characters. The escalator ascending to the entrance of the Convention Center had a sign saying hold with confidence, so I did. Four sharply dressed women asked me where the entrance was which was the first I don’t know of several I don’t knows scheduled for the day. What about me looks confident enough to problem solve? Didn’t they see me clutching the escalator rail with an obvious lack of confidence?
My party joined forces with theirs and together we found the entrance. But then we couldn’t shake them. My party of three grew to a party of seven in an already jam packed flower show on its opening day. I hate when people wander away from the herd unannounced. Then you have to backtrack to find them.
But let’s get to the flowers. An overwhelming experience. There was the hanging shrub trimmed to look like a greyhound. William Shakespeare decorated with a variety of colorful leaves. A phallic looking cactus. Even a fife and drum duo donned in Revolutionary War costuming. They weren’t wearing flowers so I surmised they were an entertainment only entry.
I went to the help desk and met three charming women who sit on the Philadelphia Botanical Society. Two of them donned Chanel jackets. I started with the one that didn’t.
She explained that every entry is categorized either by presentation, type of flower or type of plant or even place of origin. Experts in all the flower types judged the entries the night before opening day, so ribbons and accolades were in place for the opening. Lots of honorable mentions. No losers in flower land.
I tried to be a bit of a jokester when I asked so who the heck is watering all these plants?
Turns out there’s an entire irrigation system installed for the week long event. Some exhibitors prefer to water and tend to their own stuff. All the upkeep happens after midnight. Some stuff their arrangements with buckets of ice to keep them fresh. Frigidity. The temperature in the Convention Center was arctic.
I likened the Flower Show to the Westminster Dog Show. When I lived in New York I went almost every year. I’d sneak behind and watch the groomers do their thing (those poor poodles) and also spotted the nervous presenters and judges. One year I unintentionally got shoved into twenty Irish Setters and all of sudden found myself in their pen and was assumed to be a judge. I did some nodding and prodded a couple setters then exited lickety split before anyone asked to see my credentials. Seeing how loose security was, the following year I made up a laminated badge that said PRESS. No one bothered me. I even got to hobnob with the dog owners drowning their sorrows at the bar on top of Madison Square Garden.
They convinced me the whole thing was rigged and that the judges were paid off. I found it all fascinating, and their predictions were about 85% correct!
I don’t have evidence of fowl play at the Flower just yet … but next year I plan on making a new laminated badge that reads JUDGE and sneaking into the Friday night awards session looking important. I’ll crack the goings on those Philadelphia Botanical Society gals are covering up.
Check back next year for the inside skinny.