A good convention is almost a ritual space — a time and place away from time and place. Once you step through that glass door and swipe your badge, you could be anywhere, anywhen; the hours pass by outside and you don’t notice. It’s almost as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist — you are at Comic-Con. You have always been at Comic-Con. What I’m trying to say, here, is that I’ve barely been here 24 hours and I already don’t know which way is up or really what day it is. Mallory, I hope you’re less disoriented than I am.
(Mallory: Nope, I’m equally disoriented. I have barely any idea where I am at any given time.)
Wednesday is usually fairly quiet here. The convention’s not officially open yet, although Preview Night starts at 5:30 and almost immediately the show floor is swarmed with fans lining up for autographs and merch; one of my roommates scored an ultra-limited edition resin sculpture of an adorable dumpster fire. (One of only 12 available per day! Ah, the joy of the hunt.)
