Comic-Con 2018: 24 hours, 5 lines, 1 plea for mercy

Here in San Diego's Comic-Con International, fandom s' expresses more ways than you can count. One of these ways is to queue. For hours. Sometimes people camp overnight to hang an audience spot for a sign.

Panels promises something from footage never seen before to behind-the-scenes anecdotes to trailers. This year, as a Comic-Con beginner, I had my first glimpse of the madness of the line, where viewers assemble folding furniture, talk about superheroes and Star Wars (a lot of Star Wars), and sometimes look halfway away. spend the time.

Here are five lines that I have been waiting for here.

The Press Line for Dr. Who's Panel H Hall

There are, without doubt, few more gifted than a journalist with a press card for an event popular of Comic-Con. And I was, at the very least, quite delighted to dodge the hordes of Hall H and easily catch a new seat to catch new BBC Doctor Who actors and showrunners who were making their first big joint appearance.

It turns out that this will be my first and best line of the event up here. It's small, with reporters and bloggers chatting about Comic-Cons's past. There is even some hiding when the sun begins to cook all the others in sight. We wade with our passes. The rest of the day will go down quickly.

The line for the Ex-Girlfriend Crazy Panel

Arriving an hour and a few changes in front of a panel for the CW Crazy Ex-Girlfriend's musical, I'm experiencing my first slow horror of trying to find the end of a line. It winds through two endless corridors. Someone tells me to go outside. I've grossly underestimated the popularity of the show and cautiously asks a woman behind me if she's expecting, in fact, the Crazy Ex-Girlfriend board. She is. Everyone is. I nervously Google the capacity of Room 6A and start haggling with the gods. When I finally arrive in the room, there is still a lot of space. I wonder if we are all being tested.

The line of a Friday Hall H bracelet

Thursday night, I am deluding myself into thinking that it will be possible to catch a bracelet that will allow me to d & # 39; enter the main programming room (Hall H) and have dinner again. But while my aching feet and I walk, walk and walk and probably ask four different volunteers if I head in the right direction, my dream of a smothered cheese burger and a glass of ice-cold beer dies. Quickly.

When I arrive at the end of the line, across the street from the convention center, on a sidewalk overlooking the water, the scene is serenely misleading – if you ignore the other nerds waiting and you focus on a distant point somewhere on the water. Time passes, the sun sets and a woman in front of me begins to tell mythical stories of volunteers in flashing and bright vests that end up scanning our badges, give us bracelets and let us go home. After a few hours, I no longer have water, everything hurts me and I am not sure I have ever had a home.

The Hotel Shuttle Line

Bracelet Attached to the Wrist, It's Time to Start Again A Trek Across the Pedestrian Bridge Near the Convention Center Up To The Shuttle That will take me back to my hotel. Surprise: There is a line to get on the bus. I squint at all the buses that stop to see if it's the right color. A guy behind me is hovering near my elbow. I will fight him if necessary to keep my place in the line. Two buses and a small black pickup truck that you could rent for a bachelorette boy / girl bachelor party come and go before I get to sit on something with an engine and wheels. I look out the window thinking about the jerky bag that's waiting for the hotel curator's dinner.

The line for Hall H Friday

After doing five hours of sleep on Thursday night, I'm back in the waiting for a reunion group to celebrate the 10th anniversary of the Dr. Horrible. Along the blog. I line up, and in minutes, the volunteers hand out the bracelet that I waited for hours last night. Is existence futile? The survey says yes.

It takes more than two hours to crawl to the convention center, from one tent to the other, going through the body odor. Trapped by my own thoughts, which mostly revolve around snacks and soles of shoes, I put them on my Twitter followers until my battery starts to die. After putting my phone in my pocket, I have time to consider the wide variety of small foldable seating options seemingly on the market. Who knew? In the end, I do it in the panel, without anyone giving more than a passing look at my precious bracelet.

I show a vitamin C tablet and dream of a better pair of sneakers.

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