My last visit in 2011 was a nightmare of throngs and throbbing headaches. But my husband has been looking forward to this all year. Besides, I am a fantasy novelist who likes Game of Thrones and Dr. Horrible; I belong here.

And this year I have come prepared. I have a prescription for my chronic headaches this time and something else: oxytocin.

Here, at Dragon Con 2013, I will need a lot of oxytocin, a hormone that the brain releases when you are with people you identify with, creating feelings of happy kinship. This means I am inclined to like those who share my love for critical thinking and Star Trek, or to have an insatiable urge to hug a Wookie.

I need to remember the oxytocin, so that if I get too impatient with the crowd, I can remind myself that these are people who share my interests, so that my oxytocin can replace my anxiety with a feeling of calm solidarity.

Of course, oxytocin can also generate hostility and scorn toward non-conforming outsiders, but at Dragon Con, most everyone is there because they want to be.

But when I see the registration line, I can feel it seeping away, all of my oxytocin falling into the uncompromising fires of Mount Doom.

At Dragon Con I always suffer from denial when I see the lines. The line, I think, cannot be this long. No line anywhere or at any point in the history of the world has ever been, or ever will be, this long.

Long, unmoving lines frustrate me; worse, they make me feel unlucky.

When my brother and I used to vacation at the beach during the off season, we always felt lucky; having so few people there created the wonderful fantasy that the universe was working in our favor; discounts, close parking spaces, ocean front rooms for almost pocket change; clearly, the beach loved us.

At the time “beach luck” seemed like a mystical force, but looking back, I know that the feeling came from having a lot of people-free space around us. There was no luck; there was no one there.

But every year there seems to be twice as many people at Dragon Con as the year before, and every year that sought-after feeling of being lucky fades.

The outdoor registration line looks far from lucky. In costumes everyone looks like cartoons and I trace the line as far as my eyes can see. Many blocks later, I end up about a mile away from the entrance under a depressing bridge.

Dragon Con requires patience; more than patience. It means setting aside your personhood and submitting to herd-dom.

But my husband Donnie has been looking forward to the trip for months, and complaining could ruin his fun. For him I try to settle in and summon an enlightened mind-set. Suffering is caused by desire, I remind myself. Stop envisioning the front of the line as if it is the entrance gate to heaven. Live in the moment. Look. See? Spider Man. Even better. Steam-punk Spider Man.

It kind of works.

It is warm and humid, and my mouth feels dry, but near the doorway I make a wonderful discovery; luck, it turns out, is here at Dragon Con after all.

I see a concession stand, an oasis, where Cokes are submerged in deep trays of ice, dewy drops of condensation beading on the can walls, irresistibly cold, a darkly sweet blast of bubbling refreshment waiting to happen.

I am reaching for one when a woman guarding the door announces that if you buy a soda, as soon as you come onto the building you have to throw it away.

I only have three minutes to debate the issue before my part of the line moves indoors. I would not have had time to even take a sip.

At least the line moves quickly. An hour from when we got into line my husband and I have our name tags with real names and self-chosen nicknames. I am Zelda, and my husband is Link.

The hard part is over – I think. The fun begins.

All of the joys of Dragon Cons past seem to converge with the present moment: the celebrity meetings and the photograph of ourselves posing giddily beside Edward James Olmos of Battlestar Galactica.

But while I like the celebrities, my favorite thing about Dragon Con is the discussions. They make me feel like I am in school again, just to learn, without any tests, and only about things I already care about.

My husband and I usually camp out at the Skeptic track. I even have a shirt for it, an aqua blue cotton t-shirt with the word “Skeptic” marching across the front. The fabric is thinning, though, from so many launderings, the edges of the letters beginning to blur.

So the first thing I want to see is a Skep-track discussion called “Why Mensa will never solve world hunger;” my husband and I start walking toward it.

Walking. It is the main event at Dragon Con and one few mention or record on video.

Dragon Con is scattered over multiple hotels, some of them connected, and they all make up a confusing maze of booths, signs, and shops, a dense amorphous crowd streaming in and around them.

I am vaguely aware of all the people around me wearing interesting costumes, but the crowd bears down on me like an army of ring wraiths, trailing an exhaust stream of body heat.

It is too much; my mind is boggled, my synapses scattered. My effort to get to the next point of interest becomes a brutal battle to find a secure place to stand, much less a clear path forward.

At Dragon Con personal space is never secure but in constant jeopardy. Someone is always bolting toward you blindly at break neck speed. Elbows jostle and poke.

I remember the good times, but all I can see is the crowd; I, of course am not part of this crowd. I never view myself as part of the crowd, but always as separate, always alone and always against it.

I wonder how many people here think they are the crowd.

Because my brain has checked out to get away from everyone, my husband navigates and finally we make it to the Skep-track discussion.

I love the presentation. The woman speaking, a former Mensa member, makes the point that people deemed by IQ tests to be “geniuses” are not necessarily rational. A high percentage of members believe in alien visitations or astrology, for example, or other discredited belief systems.

Unfortunately, not all of the Skep-track topics of discussion are so provocative this year; all of the topics seem like ones we have heard before. Besides there is no James Randi this year, no Neil De Grasse Tyson or other luminaries of rationalism.

Congratulating ourselves and other skeptical attendees for being rational while saying things like “correlation is not causation,” seems like a poor reason to stay.

We wade back into the churning sea of people, becoming insignificant, restless drops.

Dislodged from Skep-track, we are uncertain where to go. We walk, finally, to the signing room, the happy place where I got my picture taken with Edward James Olmos, the place where I met “Data” from Star Trek.

I cannot see over the crowd that locks me in on every side, cannot see the celebrities at the tables at all but Donnie, who is taller, sees better. He scans the room for Adam Savage from Mythbusters, but cannot find him anywhere.

However, he tells me who is there, including the mom on Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

But the magic I remember is gone, and we head back to our hotel room. On the way Donnie is limping; he has hurt his knee.

Not good. We stop at a CVS and Donnie buys a knee brace. The lines are so long at the food court, we buy sandwiches from CVS, and sit at a table while Donnie wraps his knee before beginning the limping journey back to the hotel.

The Westin hotel is a soaring circular tower with over 50 floors. As a result, the elevators require the patience of a nun. The doors rarely open. When they do, it is packed and its occupants are shaking their heads or yelling no.

But after a lot of waiting we make it back to our room. The relief is like a cool gentle rain shower on a hot day. I have so much clear space around me: the silence, the emptiness; it is paradise. I never want to leave.

But this is Dragon Con, and there is too much Donnie wants to see and do, and he is not about to let a hurt knee stop him, even if it means pain, hospitalization, or as a last-ditch measure, amputation.

For supper we eat at a Chinese restaurant with friends, Randy and Melissa, a couple we have not seen since we moved to Florida. Even though I am an introvert who ordinarily hates prolonged group dinners, I am happy to see them.

They always add surprising layers of interpretation to the shows and movies we like to watch; they are ninjas at this. Being with them sometimes feels like being in a graduate literary course, only instead of deconstructing works by T.S. Elliot, they unearth nuances of shows like Battlestar Galactica, Lost, or Fringe.

After eating with them I feel relaxed and more hopeful about the next couple of days. And since most of my oxytocin is depleted, I have to conclude what I have suspected all along: that I genuinely like them.

For breakfast the next morning, we get into line at a Starbucks downstairs. I am pining for a cinnamon raisin bagel but they only have plain ones. No problem; I can just add jelly or strawberry cream cheese. Of course, a national chain of a coffee shop like Starbucks will have jelly.

But there is no jelly, no flavored cream cheese; only the plain savory sour kind. I glop it onto my bagel. I am okay with this, I decide. I am far too mature to quibble over something so trifling.

Soon we are walking, slowly, through the crowd. Donnie is limping, and I am concerned about him.

I am also agitated; the volunteers directing the crowd are always yelling and sound angry. “Take out your badges! No, not there! Up the ramp! Move! Move! Move!”

Every year I have gone to Dragon Con their voices have gotten louder and angrier, but this year they verge on hysteria.

Since Dragon Con does not cap the number of attendees, it is never sold out, and some have suggested setting population limits. But why make changes when the impressive head count must be evidence of success?

But if for no other reason, caps should be set to spare the precarious sanity of the volunteers. I have never seen them like this. An overweight twenty-something volunteer managing the sky bridge appears on the verge of exploding, his face a dangerous fire hydrant red. He booms, “People on the right, stay on the right! People on the left, stay on the left!” Maybe he is only trying to do his job, but he comes across as a bully.

A girl next to me eyes him with contempt. “Shut up, asshole,” she says.

Maybe I am going about this all wrong; maybe, rather than fighting the crowd, I should just let go and try to enjoy the crowd. I am told that there are people who become deliriously happy around mobs of people. If only I could turn myself into one of them I would be in ecstasies.

I open my mind when my opportunity to learn crowd love arises. Donnie convinces me to stand in line for “Once More with Feeling,” a classic musical episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I am a huge fan of the series and I have happily listened to the soundtrack countless times, alone.

But it seems silly to me to stand in line to hear music that I could more easily listen to at home. I point this out to Donnie, and he says, “But the crowd energy. All these people, they like what we like.”

I try to understand, and I think I do a little, but maybe I could understand better if the registration line had not drained away so much of my oxytocin.

Following the directions of a volunteer worker, we line up near the top of an escalator, hugging a rail. It appears that we are in first in line, and Donnie says, “I think we got lucky. This is the balcony level. I bet we’ll get a really good view.”

Lucky?

My question is soon answered. Our line is led downstairs and we end up on a back row, far from the stage. But I try to keep an open mind.

When the show begins, I start to enjoy the music. People sing along, clap, and pump their fists; they hoot and scream; it reminds me of a high school pep rally. Actors on the stage mimic the ones on the screen, but I can barely see them from where I am.

Not bad. But then it all turns dark. There is a character in “Buffy” named Dawn, a teenage sister who magically arose late in the series. Every time Dawn comes on the screen, the crowd breaks into angry jeers and boos. Calls of “You suck, Dawn!” shake the room. Or “You should kill yourself. Your whole life is a lie!”

Although I realize that this animosity toward a fictional character is supposed to be humorous and charming, I find myself wanting to rush up onstage, wrap my arms around Dawn, and shield her from the verbal onslaught; I have to remind myself that Dawn is a two dimensional fictional character who cannot hear or be hurt by the abuses slung at her.

Catapulted back into the hell of elementary school, I am reminded why I am not a big fan of mob energy.

What have I gotten myself into? I wonder. Is this Once More with Feeling or Lord of the Flies?

For the rest of the trip, we attach ourselves like barnacles to the apocalypse survival track. Unlike many there, we are not eager for the world to end, but it is relatively uncrowded, and at least it is a place to sit; because it is raining, most of the discussions we have attempted to get into are standing room only.

I am drowsy for most of it, because of my headache medication, and I only absorb a few things. I learn that if you are ever stranded on a deserted island, fishing is a bad way to feed yourself. It takes to much time and energy; you would starve.

I miss a lot of life-saving tips due to my drowsiness, but I do manage to take away one thing: I should never try living in the wild.

The rest of the trip is a montage of costumes, crowds, and hunts for places to sit and eat. It is a blur of faces, a network of escalators, and a press of bodies walling me in on every side.

On Monday it is all over; I am relieved to be, finally, going home. I pack happily. I miss Florida. I miss the swimming pool. I miss my cat. But it is done. I made it.

My stomach is gnawing, but soon I can get my bagel downstairs and we can head toward the Marta, then to our car, and home.

But when we reach the elevators with our luggage, everything stalls. The few times the elevators open, they are already glutted past capacity. Getting on the elevator with our luggage seems impossible.

We can take the stairs but we are on the 22nd floor, and it is a long way down, and since Donnie has a hurt knee, we wait. Minutes pass. Nothing changes.

I eye the digital numbers accusingly. This trip is supposed to be over. In my mind, it already is. So why I am still here, still feeling frustrated?

This was supposed to be a vacation, but I have spent most of my time standing in lines, weaving through crowds, being yelled at, and waiting at elevators.

There has to be some luck here, at Dragon Con, despite the number of people; even statistically I must be due. A grain of luck. Where is it? I eye the elevator, my arch-nemesis of the moment. Open, elevator, I think.

Prove to me that you can be a nice elevator, that you are not a Mech Minion sent by Dragon Con to destroy me.

I want jelly for my bagel. No, damn it, forget the jelly, I want some frakking flavored cream cheese. I want the icy Coke I was forced to pass up. I want a seat where I can see the stage. I want lines that are indoors where they are supposed to be.

I want to be treated like a paying guest, not like cattle. Luck, where are you? Show yourself!

I glare at the elevator doors. They do not move.

Time passes. We sit. Nothing changes. “Ready to go down the stairs?” Donnie says.

My gnawing stomach is declaring emergency, so I collect my luggage and prepare myself for the long journey down.

I try not to think about the fact that I have spent the last few minutes mentally speaking to an elevator door. Our baggage rolls, but on stairs the rollers do little good. “We have to carry it,” Donnie says.

The luggage pulls hard at the tendons in my wrist. After four or five flights, my knees are wobbling. A lactic acid burn settles into my upper arm, causing me to loosen my grip. I imagine myself pitching forward. I change strategies.

I set the luggage back on its wheels, take a few steps forward, and pull it down. Thunk, thunk, thunk. Down it goes, stair by stair, behind me. It is a slow, clunking, torturous process; one flight, then another; behind me, a crowd gathers into an impatient knot.

I could let them all pass, but it would mean separating myself from Donnie, who, despite having a hurt knee earlier, is forging right ahead as if nothing were ever wrong.

I understand how they feel. A thought disturbs me: to them, I am the crowd.

Finally, a man behind me asks, “Can I take that down for you?” For his sake, and for mine, I thank him and accept his offer.

For a couple of flights my hands are free, but my face is hot. I feel chastised. Soon I have reached the bottom.

I go to Donnie. “How is your knee?” I massage my aching bicep. “My arm is still burning.”

“Huh. Maybe you need to work out more,” he says. “Join a gym. Build some upper body strength.”

Walking toward the hotel Starbucks line, my knees still wobbling, I stare at him incredulously.

“Some upper body strength?” I give him my best glare and let him know exactly what I think about his advice. I leave him then. I leave him to stand alone in line; I go into the area with all the tables, find the most remote corner available, and sit.

A while later Donnie appears and sets a bagel in front of me. “I was joking,” he says. I inspect my bagel and remember; last night at a restaurant I pilfered some strawberry jam from a table condiment basket. I take it out now, and spread the jam over the inner side of a half. I take a few tentative bites.

“Amazing how much your mood improves when you eat,” Donnie says.

Without looking at him, I continue to eat my bagel, the plain bagel, which is so much better with jelly.

“This time next year, maybe we could take a cruise.”

Ironically, the last time we took a cruise, I missed Dragon Con. Before it became an annual juggernaut to prove pop cultural loyalty, before the crowds got too big and took all the luck away.

“A cruise,” I say, “might be nice.”

As I watch the crowd milling around, in lines, or groups, or going home, I think about the simple things that attracted me to Dragon Con in the first place: childhood nostalgia, the books and movies I love; I could still enjoy those things on a boat.

We finish our bagels and gather our belongings. The Marta awaits.

As I clear my side of the table, I pick up the empty packet of jelly, holding it delicately, as if it is a rare gem.

Who needs luck anyway? I think. Luck is for role playing games, not girls who own skeptic shirts.

As I walk away, rolling my luggage, I look around. Will I ever be back? I think that one day, I will.

But right now a cruise sounds nice.

I can pack my Ray Bradbury book, the earmarked paperback of short stories I keep on my shelf at home, the one with “The Foghorn” in it, and read it on a ship surrounded by a clear silent expanse of ocean.

I exit the lobby.

Next year, away from the crowds, maybe I can rediscover the seeds of love that brought me here. Just me, a book, and the mind inside, a silent, simple conversation with an author I love.

Yeah. My luggage trundles behind me. I think I would like that.