Hangin' Ten in GB DUUUUDE?

For my birthday (June 21st for those of you miscreants who forgot) PAB offered me, in the form of a "voucher" or coupon of the sort that children give their parents for Mother's/Father's Day, a trip to Pembrookshire, the beach in South Wales. PAB had brought an extra bodyboard from France and his wetsuit from middle school. It's always a sad day when a woman discovers that she once was (or even worse, now is) the size of her male companion, though at 5'11" I've never quite fit the dainty mold...

I waited patiently for a good weather weekend, which I am fortunate came within one month of my arrival. On Friday PAB came home from working ecstatic that BBC weather reported sunny skies and 75° for Pembrookshire on Saturday. We packed in a mass frenzy (although I was reminded of our disappointment with Air Tattoo I allowed PAB to act in the only way he knows how, anally and thoroughly). Saturday morning we packed the car to astonishingly blue skies and rolled down the windows for fresh air. We crossed the bridge (engineered by the French, best civil engineers in the world, information grace of PAB) that separates England and Wales and entered into Welsh country.

Wales is not all that different from England, though they strive to prove their independence by any means necessary. All sign were written in English and Welsh (or Cymraeg as you like). Exit Here, allanfa 'ma. No Hard Shoulder, Na 'n anawdd ysgwydda. I felt that we had entered some terrible German/Yiddish/Arabic twilight zone. I don't know how many people in Wales actually speak Welsh, but I imagine it is close to the number of Gaelic speaking Irish, meaning that the signs in Wales are all but futile attempts to conserve a dying and forgotten language. But I do admire the strong pride and the anti-Brit sentiment you find in Wales, Scotland and parts of Ireland.

Save for the multi-language signs and occasional "Museum of the History of Wales", Wales had much the same rolling hills and intense greenery of its ruling neighbor. We arrived at the beach early, and were greeted by a surprising number of...surfers? Perhaps others are aware, but I had NO idea that there was a surfing culture, of all things, in the U.K. I mean, honestly! Board shorts look much less cool when worn with a turtleneck and scarf! But here they were, bleach blond hair in their full body wetsuits. I actually saw one surfer struggling into his wetsuit while sipping tea from a travel container in his left hand. "Dude, pass me the biscuits"

PAB and I brought our bodyboards and wetsuits down to the beach and what we found there epitomizes G.B. 100s of surfers crowded into a tiny cove, all very respectful of each other, excusing themselves for the slightest infraction on someone's surf space, and waiting patiently for the tiniest of waves. Having spent most of the summers of my childhood on the beaches of Hawaii, I found the waves hysterical. PAB and I needed fins to even bodyboard and these silly Brits were going to SURF!? In addition to the sad spectacle of the waves, it was COLD. The kind of weather were Floridians and Californians are inside by the fire, NOT sunbathing on the beach. PAB and I did not have a favorable first impression.

But after 30 minutes the morning clouds disappeared, the sun came out in full force (mitigating the 65° weather) and I realized that despite their mediocre waves, all the surfers seemed to be having a gay, old time. I squeezed myself into PAB's wetsuit (making me into a flat chested blue condom) and waddled down to the water in my fins. We waited, with the other patient surfers, for a decent size wave, and suddenly, riding atop the wave on my bodyboard, I was transported back to age 10 and was overwhelmed by a giddy and immense happiness! PAB had been afraid of my reaction to the cold (not that you can feel a thing in wetsuits, they are the wonder of the cold climates), but after the first wave it was me who was pulling him back into the ocean for another and another.

The beach was eventually filled to the brim (reminding me again of how compact the U.K. truly is) with kids playing cricket and rugby on the beach, catching crabs in pools left by the tides and Brits using their disposable BBQs to cook sausage and corn. The entire day was, as the British would say, "absolutely lovely". After an entire day of beach bumming, PAB and I headed to the funfair (every British seaside resort MUST have a funfair, it is mandatory) for what we hoped would be greasy, fresh fish and chips. We found what looked like a small trailer set up outside the funfair, advertising "faggots and peas" (yes, faggots, apparently some type of sausage made of the worst bits of the pig, anus and all, I pray this is not where we got the American usage from). The fish and chips were everything I hoped for and more, the grease from the fresh caught cod literally soaking into the fries below. I was overwhelmed with the satisfaction of getting exactly what you want, when you want it.

I returned to Bristol with a sunburn, and although it hurt, it was a wonderful reminder that there is in fact SUN in England (or at least in Wales)! An amazing birthday present, one that reminded me that G.B. is what you make of it!

Master of the Universe (at least my own)

Just a quick note to let everyone know that I have been accepted into a Masters programme in Modern literature at the University of the West of England!!! I am still dumbfounded that while I was rejected from 5 teacher certification programs, I was accepted to my first choice for a M.A. Regardless, I will be studying what I love and after my year of nerdiness (the M.A. program at U.W.E. is only 12 months) I will have a two year work visa in the U.K., making it much easier to find a job :) It will be strange to be sitting in a desk again after a year at center stage...I'll have much more sympathy for the professor if he's nervous or doesn't grade papers as quick as I would like him to :) Anyway, I will start at the end of September, so until then...ABSOLUTELY NOTHING...I should enjoy being able to read whatever suits my fancy (which at the moment is Candace Bushnell's "Lipstick Jungle", I feel like I can justify it because she is an ex-Rice student), I have forgotten what the student life is like...

I have included the website for the Masters programme, in case y'all want to see what I will be studying (nerds tend to believe that others are as interested in their studies as they are) :)

http://www.uwe.ac.uk/hlss/english/maenglish.shtml

LOVE Y'ALL!

Just Another Day in Paradise...

My second event to be cancelled by "Mum" Nature! First, the infamous two hour delay in cricket. Second, Europe's largest air show "Air Tattoo" (and the event PAB was most looking forward to, perhaps even more than the baptism of his godson)! You know the weather is B-A-D when the world's large aircraft, the A380, can't take to the skies! The whole cancellation was made even more depressing because PAB had made little lists of what we needed to bring, he had printed out a map and scouted the area for the best views of landing and take-off, chairs and ice chest already in the car, he had me on lunch duty, 8 little sandwhiches all neatly wrapped in cling film...This is when I say it's better to be UNprepared! If an event is cancelled there is no cleaning or unpacking, just "Oh well, maybe next year"...

Having been in England only three weeks and having already had two outdoor events cancelled, I am beginning to understand why museums and underground transportation are so popular...It is amazing though, that when the weather is nice (meaning "sunny intervals") EVERYONE (and their little dog too, but seriously, EVERYONE in Bristol has a dog of some sort) is outside. The park behind PAB's house can't be more than a mile in length and there were 100s of Brits walking merrily back and forth. It makes me happy to see everyone outside at the slightest hint of sun; Floridians and Californians--do NOT take your weather for granted!!!

We took the sunny opportunity to fly PAB's kite, a gift from yours truly from the Boeing store in Clear Lake. The kite is shaped like a plane (with star spangled wings, HOORAY!) and actually has a little man inside with a parachute who is released by a timer. Even people who don't like airplanes get excited :) And the plane flew spectacularly...except when the little man was inside. PAB said that only Boeing would design a "plane" that could not hold passengers. Next time I'll get him an Airbus kite...

I am still waiting to hear back from the English Masters programmes (and going a little mad in the process). The pictures at the top of the post are of the Bristol flat; the American flag and the purple Volvo are PAB's :)

Why don't they celebrate Independence Day in England? And other irrelevant questions.

This past Friday was actually not my first 4th of July spent in the country least likely to celebrate America's day of independence. The first 4th of July I spent in the land of the Redcoats was with my parents, in the year of our Lord Bushhole 2005. I remember riding the London Eye on this holiday and thinking how much more joyful the experience would have been with some American sunshine, BBQ ribs and fireworks. It is no surprise that the English do not recognize a holiday where Americans cry in one proud voice "Bugger off Brits! No more of your puddings and digestive biscuits!" There are a few restaurants in London that serve "traditional American cuisine" in honor of the holiday, but the menu seems to be modelled off McDonalds and they still offer toffee pudding as a dessert.

On this 4th of July, in a desperate attempt to make a celebration of it, I insisted that PAB invite his Italian friend (thus making our celebration of America multinational) for an all-American dinner (of frozen pizza and salad with ranch) and my specialty American flag cake. This cake epitomizes the kind of American uber-nationalism that fuels movies like Borat and Team America. That being said, I have made the cake with my mother every 4th of July since childhood and it never fails to rally up a love for my country (or at least an appreciation for its hokiness).

Funny, I have never been a huge supporter of the U.S. of A., never one to hang a flag outside or cry during the national anthem. I willingly spent a year of my American college experience abroad in Paris and even more willingly uprooted myself to the U.K. But somehow, despite my failing patriotism, the moment I hear a European badmouth America in that contemptuous, elitist, "You do know that the average American eats McDonalds 5 times a week" way some dorment nationalist pride within me fires and I find myself adamantly defending fast food, gyms with elevators, Hollywood and 6 lane highways as public transportation. There are many things I do not like about America, but nothing irks me more than hearing Europeans, who lovingly eat our fast food, drink our Coca-Cola, wear our clothing and watch our films, talk as if nothing worthwhile has come out of America post-colonialism. If you were to take all of the American TV shows off television, American films out of cinemas, American music off radio, France and other European countries would be sadly quiet, deprived of the large part of their mass entertainment. I would bet a large baguette that more French have seen C.S.I. than have visited the Louvre!

With that said, I adore Europe--30 hour work weeks and 5 weeks of paid vacation, 5 hour meals and an equal number of courses, wine with lunch, churches that have existed longer than our Independence Day, tea breaks, cobblestone streets and public transportation that does not include a light rail--and there is nowhere I would rather live. Just don't f@ck with the U.S. of A. unless you are a fully qualified American. Only we know how bad it really is.

A belated Happy 4th to my loved ones in the ol' country!

London Reaches a Record High of...83°?

It tickles me that the English invented sunhats. Since there is so very little sun indeed on this little island. Though I must admit that on Wednesday, the first day of sun in my week of British living, I did see more sunhats than one would see anywhere else in the world (except perhaps at the Kentucky Derby).

Wednesday I visited the lovely city of Bath. I had read on-line the previous night of Bath's rich history and Roman landmarks. When I stepped off the train I expected to be stunned by architectural marvels and crumbling 14th century facades. Instead, I was greeted by a myriad of the modern age, blue tarps and whining cranes, promises of landmarks in the near future (2008 crossed out to 2010) and men in hard hats whistling at female passerbys. England seems in quite a hurry to compete with its English speaking neighbors across the ocean; tiny cafés have been replaced with Pizza Huts and small clothing boutiques have been overrun by GAP and American Apparel. I would like to start a campaign "Leave Britain old!" (I am sure I would be joined by many old men carrying knobby wooden sticks and memories of the second World War)

One thing I can say for her Majesty's land--it is GREEN. A green that even Kermit the frog would be astounded by, ashamed at his own paleness. I interviewed at Bath Spa University for a position in a Masters programme (yes, the British spelling) and as the bus progressed down the one lane country road (which was never intended for buses of any sort) the countryside progressed into deeper shades of green, greens that Texas does not possess.

The university itself was located in the middle of farming land, rumored to be owned by the Prince of Wales, full of bleeting sheep and braying cows. It reminded me so of Magnolia High School, haystacks and longhorns forming the schools perimeter. Right at home. Bath Spa's facilities are, as the Brits would say, "dodgy", but what they lack in industrial beauty they make up for in 14th century castle ruins and public footpaths along the lakes. I took my lunch outside a small, open cottage (I hoped was intended for the purposes of passerbys) and felt that I had entered some sort of enchanted forest. It reminded me so of the Redwall books I had read as a child, I would not have been the least surprised to see a mouse or mole run by dressed in religious garb preparing tea for a visiting Badger Lord.

I ate lunch by the lake, enjoying the sun on the hottest day in record for Great Britain (sad that 83° is a record for summer heat), watching a family of swans make their way across the lake. And then I felt a small droplet. I looked up at the smattering of clouds and thought "surely not". I kept eating, refusing to believe that the sogginess in my sandwhich was caused by anything other than the mustard. Eventually, when the letters in my book began to run, I gave up to Mother Nature (who seems to reside permanently in Great Britain) and moved inside.

The rest of the day passed in a drizzle and a constant self-berating for being so stubborn and optimistic and not bringing the darn umbrella (as PAB had suggested many times that morning). When I tried to look up at the Bath Abbey or the historic Roman baths my glasses were covered in rain droplets. The once cute cobblestone streets became slippery. And surely enough, as soon as I made my way back to the train station, the clouds cleared and the sun popped in.

The answer to my problems seems to be a later sleeptime. The sunniest part of the day is always in the late evening (as the sun refuses to set here until at least 10:30 P.M.) Perhaps I should practice night tourism. I could, at the very least, have a reason for owning a sunhat.