TreasureFest’s funky new vantage point

Mermaid junk was everywhere. There are fewer mermaids in the waters of Neverland.

The eastern span of the Bay Bridge doesn’t get nearly the aesthetic attention it deserves. Unlike the western Willie L. Brown section of the Bay Bridge, the eastern portion doesn’t even have a name, much less appear on an NBA team’s logo. But there it sits, serving millions of drivers every day — and finally shining on its own as the backdrop of last weekend’s TreasureFest.

I hadn’t attended TreasureFest since its 2016 move from the west side of Treasure Island to the east. Then it was known as the Treasure Island Flea Market, and it allowed San Francisco to show off from across the bay, flawless as a Nancy Meyers film set. Postcard perfect, sure. But without the scenestealing skyline, TreasureFest now feels appropriately funky.

At its core, TreasureFest is a vintage and independent art fair that takes place the last weekend of the month from February through November. It costs $7 to get in, but as we arrived on Sunday morning, someone was wandering around the entry tables trying to give away an extra ticket. It’s all very casual, very friendly. Kids and dogs are encouraged to attend, which is suddenly of interest now that I have a kid who loves dogs.

In his crisp San Francisco Giants baseball cap, my friend Brock pushed my son’s stroller past vendor after vendor. Occasionally, they’d pass a colorfully dressed mannequin posed before a makeshift DJ table that managed to project dance music from speakers I could never locate. My little Leo was particularly enamored with the dozens of dogs in attendance, who in turn were enamored with the seemingly disproportionate amount of dogfocused products available for sale. Second to the “Dog Mom” stuff was mermaidthemed paraphernalia.

My favorite booth served as a performance piece as much as it did a vendor. Shoppers were welcome to select a weathered slab of wood and then don work gloves to sift through thousands of rustic metal letters and shapes. Once a message was selected, the harried vendors would stamp holes into the metal and permanently affix it to the wood, each letter charmingly askew. Most of the shoppers chose custom signs, like “Patti’s Pool” or “Smith Family,” but before the day was over, I’m guessing “Mermaids Welcome” came to life. Again, mermaid junk was everywhere. There are fewer mermaids in the waters of Neverland.

The best part of this booth was the stonefaced team hard at work making custom signs in real time. I didn’t dare ask them a question. I got the impression that dumb inquiries weren’t tolerated and if you couldn’t figure out the system, you weren’t getting a sign. I’d give that booth its own HGTV show if I could.

A hilarious pair of vendors dealing in vintage clothes talked me into a used denim jacket embroidered with “Sesame Street” characters. A relic of the 1990s, the jacket is a size or two too big for Leo, but for $5, he can grow into this fun find. Brock, meanwhile, invested in a macrame wall hanging, having bonded with the macrame artist herself.

We had a great time connecting with the folks running some of our favorite booths. Brock considers himself a fragrance enthusiast (or “fumehead”), so he enjoyed chatting up indie perfume makers, while I befriended the motherson vendor team selling handmade beaded jewelry made by Ugandan widows. As I purchased a necklace, I imagined that one day Leo and I might partake in such a worthwhile endeavor together, me selling earrings to strangers and him swiping their credit cards in his Sesame Street jacket.

Each TreasureFest weekend has a theme and this one’s was “Hawaii,” which translated to a surf band performing near the food trucks. We headed over there after a couple hours of shopping to discover plastic Adirondack chairs set up atop AstroTurf. A children’s section, completely surrounded by bales of hay, offered a dozen or so tricycles and kids’ games. Nearby, grownups played cornhole or aimed their chairs to admire the East Bay.

Brock headed off to buy lunch, leaving me to accept compliments on the attractiveness of my child like a proud pageant mom. I was in heaven. When he returned from the food trucks, lumpia in hand, Brock announced, “The 12yearold in charge runs a tight ship.”

Characters are everywhere at TreasureFest, which is absolutely the best part of it. TreasureFest isn’t as Instagram immaculate as the Renegade Craft Fair or as terrifyingly massive as the Alameda Point Antiques Faire. It’s sweet in its simplicity and weirdness, much like my little Sunday morning family.