T-3hrs: On Being Behind

Whooooooa, I haven't written a blog in forever...  And I have so much to write about!

Unfortunately, since arriving back from my trip, I've been focusing on getting ready for the Great Trip Home, which begins in just about 3hrs.  I'm on a bus from Swansea to London, flights from London to Keflavik, KEF to Seatac, Seatac to Sacramento, and then I'm home!  Only a brief 31hrs of travel including the bus, but not transport to bus or from airport.  It's going to be gobs of fun, I can tell.

I do have many many things to report, as I'm sure you know, so I'm going to try to get writing on this ridiculous adventure and queue up a few posts that'll go up once I'm near working internet again.  They will obviously go up long after they're written, so just check back about once a week (but first, check back this Friday!), and you'll be teased with little bits of my journey at a time.  London first, then Paris, then Germany.  And lastly, there will be a post about my trip home.  But don't worry!  That won't be the end of my blog!  I'll come back to tell you what its like being back in the US, what reverse culture shock feels like, and how much weight I've gained from eating nothing but white cheddar cheez-its and peanut butter (not together...).

Until then, my fearless followers, I salute you.

Wish me luck on my flight!

On Being Alive

I don't have anything to report, not really, so if you're looking at this and expecting a long in depth description of the nothings that I did while I wandered around in Cardiff on Wednesday, you can stop reading.  The problem is, I have again found the problem of having little to say about the trips I make.

Okay, so Cardiff wasn't meant to be a big excursion.  I didn't leave the St. David's shopping area except to go to the national museum.  And while that was interesting, there's not much to say.  It was a museum.  Better than I'd expected, not as good as the Natural History Museum.

I suppose the only thing to say about Cardiff really was that I thought it would be a good idea to wear Converse sneakers.  I figured it wouldn't matter, since I was only shopping, and I wanted to look a bit more fashionable.  Much as I love my sketchers, they're not exactly what one might call "fashionable."  So now I'm sitting in my living room, feet elevated, arches wrapped, wondering if tomorrow I'll be able to walk to the store and buy taco shells for cinco de mayo.  Such is life.

But I feel like writing a blog, feel like sharing with you the interesting thing that has been happening in my brain lately.

Earlier in the year I was staring some serious financial difficulties in the face.  Now, I am happy to report that I have saved enough to make, not only a trip to Germany to visit Lea, but also to stop in London and Paris along the way.  The tickets are booked, the hostel search has begun, and in less than a month I will be Europe bound.  It's more exciting than I can possibly put into words.  But it has also led to some interesting contemplation on my part.

For years I was sort of wandering through the education system, listening to teachers who liked to tell me that I wouldn't get anywhere, and maybe with the attitude I had, they were right.  But I wouldn't have had that attitude if I had more confidence, and constantly hearing about my continual failure wasn't exactly bolstering my confidence very much.  I was a dreamer, and dreamers have trouble paying attention to things they are told they have to pay attention to.  Sure, every so often we were given interesting books to read, poems to write, drawings to make.  I didn't hate all of school, but when a math problem was put in front of us and everyone else was determinedly scribbling away on their papers while I sat there completely baffled, I wasn't exactly a fan.  When the questions were about how George has ten apples and Miranda has eight pears and Bernie has six lemons, so how many sandwiches can their mother make?  And the answer is sixteen.  Just sixteen.  How the hell did they get that answer?  You can imagine why I struggled.

I went through school believing that, if I was lucky, I might snag a job.  If I was lucky, maybe I might marry rich.  Because if left to my own devices, I would be living with my parents until I died.

I finally dragged myself into an amount of self confidence at continuation school, where the teachers never once said I was a failure, even though I was literally there because I was a failure.  No, those teachers were the ones who smiled when I got confused and asked me to explain the problem as I understood it, and then help me to understand it properly.  These were the teachers who gave me credit for the work I wanted to do, the work I was good at, but still pushed me to do more, to do better, to do everything and anything, and who encouraged me to reach for something better than a job I could get, or marrying rich.  According to them, I should get a job not only that I could get, but that I wanted to get.  And marrying rich?  Really?  Don't be so prosaic.

Because of them, and because of the confidence they helped me find, I'm sitting in the living room of my apartment in Swansea, Wales.  I have a trip to Europe in less than a month, I have a manuscript finished, another started, and six more in my brain just waiting to get out.  I'm wearing a dressing gown I bought at Primark, and I say things like "naught" in everyday conversation.  I had a breakfast of a scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam (probably why I needed to go to cardiff in search of a new jacket, since my old, light weight jacket no longer fits.  Again, such is life).

Whenever I say that I owe this to my old teachers, people say I should give myself more credit.  And I do, I am not in any way saying that I'm not here because of me.  I am here because I have worked hard every day for the last eight or so years.  I am here because I put my nose to the grindstone, and though I've spent some time deciding what I want to do, I am here because I pulled my grades up and dedicated my mind to study and work.  I'm here because I believe in myself, and I would never have believed in myself if someone else hadn't believed in me first.  So do I believe that my 12th grade teachers deserve a bit of credit?  Definitely.

The thing is, now I'm sitting here and thinking about this trip I've planned.  I am going backpacking in Europe.  Not an extensive trip, but a trip nonetheless.  I'm in hostels for six days and on planes, trains, and automobiles (read: busses) for 36 hours in total.  I am twenty five years old, studying abroad, attending a real, big kid college, with international friends, running for president of an English Honours Society, have written a novel, going to write more, and going to be published (come hell or high water).  After a quarter of a century of being alive, I finally know where I am, and where I'm going, and that it's where I want to be and with the people I want to be with.  I have one best friend whom I love more than life, with whom distance will never matter, another best friend whom I love more than life, and with whom time will never matter.  I have a family that supports me, faith that strengthens me, a mind that will never fail me, and a hope that sustains me.

And now there's this little girl who pops her head up every so often and looks at this life.  There's the sixth grade me who didn't think she was worth it, who sincerely believed everything that witch of a teacher told her, and she sees these things that I'm doing, and she weeps.  Someone please go back in time and tell her how her life will turn out.

I am going to Europe.  I am going and I'm not looking back, not considering the money that I'm spending, the debt I'm potentially accruing because I know that it's worth it.  I'll return to my school and write my book and finish my degree and go to grad school and get a phd and become a professor and I am never, ever, ever looking back at those teachers and those jerks who used to say that I was nothing.  I wonder if they feel big, if they feel stronger for their criticism, if making themselves feel better and stronger than a small, lost little girl, has given them strength, and if by reclaiming my birthright, I am also reclaiming that strength.  I wonder if they'll see this blog and think that they've done right by me, convince themselves that all I needed was reverse psychology and that a drive to prove them wrong was what gave me strength to begin with, and in that way, they'll convince themselves that they had a hand in this strength that I've found.  On the off chance that they do read this, I want them to know that they're wrong.  That if it were up to them, I would be working at Noah's bagels in my home town, asking if they want lox on their bagel, or just a hefty serving of misanthropy on the side.

But I'm not.  I'm a student at a university in Wales.  I am a student at a university in California.  I am a student studying English, chewing Chaucer for breakfast and Chinua Achebe for lunch.  I write blogs and novels and poems and I speak with the strength I have found in myself and read in Maya Angelou, Sandra Cisneros, and Toni Morrison.  I am a person who is capable of standing up for what she believes in, then buying a ticket to Paris.  I'm a person who isn't afraid of failing anymore, you can't scare me with your threats, because failure is just a lesson and a lesson is just a day in this life.  Life is risks, and risks fail, and without those failures we never learn.  So let me fail, let me learn, and in learning, let me live.  I'm tired of just being alive.  I want to live.

I'm going to London.  And then Paris.  And then Berlin.  And from there?  Who knows.  But for now I'll look forward to that trip and imagine the days after it, when I will look back, smile, and remember that life is made up of moments and moments have to be lived.  So if you don't see me, look to the horizon.  I'll be there.  Don't worry, I'll write.

On Stonehenge and Expectations (with photos)

The problem with writing a blog like this is that I'm half expected to write about something, and half expected to write about nothing.  The words I use to describe the places I've been are supposed to be profound and deeply descriptive.

So you can see my problem, perhaps, in writing about Stonehenge.  It was beautiful, that is for sure, and awe inspiring.  I stood and gazed at these monolithic enormities, towering over us, just far enough that you want to be closer, but close enough that you're satisfied with your view from the sidelines.  I imagined them being erected, more than four thousand years ago.  I contemplated the enormity of the task, the blue stones which were carried two hundred miles from an area near where I live in Wales all the way to the location where they now stand.  A frightful task, an almighty example of dedication and strength by these people we know next to nothing about.

And that's really all there is to say about it.  I went, I took photos, I slept on the bus, I came home, went to a friend's birthday party, ate a poorly prepared burger, went home, slept it all off.  That's about all there is to say, to be honest.

I'll give you the day in description anyway, to fill this space.

The bus was set to leave at fifteen past eight in the morning.  I woke early and dressed in clothes I'd lain out the night before.  Then I made a cup of coffee which I sipped on as I got ready to leave.  I had overnight oats for breakfast and packed a cheese sandwich and a change of clothes in my bag.  We were delayed because of bus issues (they'd sent the wrong size bus, so we ended up having to switch with the rugby team which meant getting off the bus and getting on another bus.  It was a pain), so we didn't leave until fifteen til nine.  The trip was going to take roughly three hours, so I put on headphones and cuddled up with my sweatshirt under my head as a pillow and slept, knowing full well that a long string of windy roads and narrow lanes lay ahead of us.

I awoke two hours later as we pulled into a carpark in Avebury.  Turns out the trip wasn't just to stonehenge, but also to the stone circle in Avebury.  I'd go into detail about what there was there, but again, we have this problem.  Big stones.  Lots of them.  They were in a circle.  I walked along the circle. I took lots of pictures of what are essentially rocks.  The most exciting thing about Avebury were three things almost completely unrelated to the stones.

The first was when I was walking along the chalk circle and found a particularly slippery bit of grass and chalk. Under my foot.  As I went down, I heard a very distinctive, "Oooh," from another tourist as he watched me eat chalk.  I looked up to see a kind, older gentleman and his wife walking towards me.  The conversation progressed as so:

Me: Well, that was embarrassing.

Him: There's no need to be embarrassed, as long as you aren't hurt.

Me: I'm fine.

His wife: I think we'll avoid that path, though.

Me: Probably wise.


It was very kind of them, even if my dignity was a bit dampened at that point.

What happens when you slip on chalk.

The second came when another tourist passing by asked if I would like a photo by one of the stones.  I hand't been planning to ask, because I hate being that type of person, but since he offered I thought I'd take him up on it.  As soon as I accepted, he laughed and said that his wife would do it, that he had no desire to.  It was quite rude of him, and equally rude of his wife who only begrudgingly took the photo, though I thanked them profusely.  I keep saying it, but no one is listening: if the American needs to teach you manners, you should probably look at your life.  So we have two people, one very polite, the other a raging !@#$.  Such is life, I suppose.

At least I got a decent photo out of it.

The third were these jerks.  Whoever designed these fences.  I hope they end up trapped in a field behind one of these completely unnecessarily complicated gates during the zombie apocalypse:

Using superman strength, pull hook-bar-thing
to the left and hope that it opens.  Or wait for
someone else to come along and rescue you.

For lunch I had a sandwich with caramelized onion chutney.  Sounds fancy, but was really just a glorified cheese sandwich.  I had sea salt and vinegar chips, dairylee dunkers, and part of a galaxy bar.  After lunch we all got back on the bus and drove the remaining hour to Stonehenge.  

Once upon a time, a small visitors centre was erected about fifty feet from the stones.  Since then, that centre has been torn down in favour of a new, state of the art centre over the hill.  This means that the sight-lines from the stones are closer to what you would have seen several thousand years ago, unimpeded by modern invention (except a dual carriageway).  This is probably good, since the new building looks like an enormous modern art sculpture and is quite unsightly  (I didn't photograph it, but google "Stonehenge Visitor Centre", and you'll see what I mean).

From the visitor's centre, we took a small tram to the stones.  We were given little phone type things with audio tours on them, so that we could walk around and dial into the part of the tour we wanted when we arrived.  Luckily for us, a large group of schoolchildren were there, and I had another one of those great moment where I wonder why Americans are given the stereotype of being rude, when these French children literally decided that the best place to have lunch would be smack dab in the middle of the walkway.  So you've got teenagers taking selfies on one side of you and schoolchildren on the other side of you and you're starting to get ticked because you want to see the stones, but it's freezing cold and you've already taken sixteen photos that all look exactly the same, and you're trying to get past the French children who frown at you for having to cut across their lunch circle even though they're literally sitting on the pathway.  Yay.

I decided, at that point, that the best course of action would be to turn around and go back to the visitor's centre and the gift shop.  A few others in my group tried to get me to go to the mounds with them, but I envisioned more of the same.  Oh look.  A different view of the rocks.  Oh look, I'm standing on a burial mound, isn't this disrespectful?  I was cold, needed the loo, and wanted something to eat.  So I went in.

I bought a magnet, a bottle of wine, and an elderflower fizzy drink.  Then I got back on the bus, napped the three hours home, and immediately tried to go to a party.  Not smart.

So in all, yes, amazing!  I saw Stonehenge!  Words cannot describe how awe inspiring it is, looking at those ancient stones.  Should you go?  YES.  But really, not a whole lot to say about them.  Maybe Stonehenge is better if seen with a group of friends than it is alone.  Maybe it's just one of those things that you have to see for yourself.

Photos!

Avebury Stone Circle

Spectacular view of the countryside

The henge that ran along the entirety of the chalk circle

More big stones, with the photo-jerks as size comparison

There they are again, messing up my photo of the avenue.

Ah, that's better.

First view of Stonehenge.

All of the tourists.

The orange jackets belong to the French school group.

This is the most frustrating part of tourism now.
NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOUR TABLET.

Seriously, dude? I'm taking a photo here.  Do you mind?

I WAS SO CLOSE AND YOU WENT AN PUT YOUR HAND IN THE WAY.

FIIIIINALLY.

Joining the selfie-olympics.

Sheep! They graze in the pasture beside stonehenge.
Hadn't realized it before but... sheep do not smell like goats.  Sheep stink.

Gave in and asked for a photo from another tourist.

Probably because most of my selfies looked like this one.  

Bath

So this last Saturday I had the pleasure of going to Bath with a friend of mine, Lea, and her parents.  It was a weird coincidence that we ended up going together, actually.  I asked to be put on the waiting list for Bath after I signed up for the trip to Stonehenge in April.  On the wednesday before the trip I got an email from another girl saying she had two tickets she wanted to sell.  I was excited and asked around to find out if there was anyone free on the weekend.  Everyone was busy, including Lea, who just said that her parents were busy, so I didn't bother explaining why I'd asked.  Then we met for tea a few days later and I happened to mention that I was going on the Bath trip and she exclaimed that she, too, was going with her parents.  We decided to meet up and walk over together.

It was awesome.  We left at half-seven in the morning and walked to the school together.  The bus took an hour and forty-five minutes (roughly) to get there, which was miles better than the four hours and thirty five minutes that the internet suggested the bus would take.  I managed to keep of car sickness with my new Seabands and motion sickness tabs (yay!) and we arrived in generally high spirits.

First we stopped for breakfast, then we hit the town.  It was just before ten in the morning, so we decided to wander first.  We went past the Theatre Royal, then we just sort of... wandered. There's not a better word for it.  I'm not sure exactly what we were looking for, but we found a church and a bunch of shops and cute little places.  There's something about Bath that makes that mean so much more.  Everything around just feels old.  That sounds weird, but it's true.  It's as if, while you're walking down these cobbled streets and tiny lanes, surrounded by butcher shops, card stores, and a few odd pubs and pasty makers, you can actually feel the history around you.  Everything has this very specific look to it, which I really can't describe.

Anyway, we ended up finding a church called "St. Michael Without," and went it.  It looked to be this enormous Cathedral, so I was of course thrilled, and it was an enormous cathedral.  But... it wasn't what we were expecting.

Okay, I get it, it's a church and this is Bath, so there's not a lot of room to expand.  That was apparently a problem they noticed with the tourist crowd, because there was no where to put a gift shop.  So logically, they cordoned off the back quarter of the church and transformed it into a gift shop and... cafe.... now I realize this is just my catholic upbringing here, where it was practically a cardinal sin to have gum in church, but it really irked me that there were people just chilling with coffee in a cathedral.  It has always bothered me when tourists are disrespectful of churches that are in use, when you're trying to pray at the Mission in Santa Cruz and a bunch of people come in to take photos, or worse, when groups of school children come in.  To put this in perspective, when I was in Westminster Abbey, I went to light a candle and turned around to see my friend standing there, on the plinth, in the chaplet.  If I weren't in a church I'd have told him to get the hell out of there.  That was not a place to stand and look, it was a place to pray.  I was so angry that I lit my candle and left the church without a second thought.  It wasn't until I was outside that I realized I had forgotten to say a prayer over my candle.  So coming into a church and seeing people having coffee... it didn't anger me because, obviously, that's what it's there for... but it did confuse the hell out of me.

So, long story short, we left St. Michael Without pretty quickly.  We found a market, wandered around, considered buying Welsh flags, found a few sweet shops, things like that.  Then we went to Bath Abbey.  Unfortunately I don't have any photos for this blog, because my camera is waaaaaaay over there and I'd have to find the cord and that sounds like a lot of work, so I'll post those in a few days.

Anyway, Bath Abbey was amazing.  We went on the tour which brought us all the way up onto the bell tower.  It was interesting and informative.  We split into groups to fit into tiny places like the clock face and the bell tower.  We were actually with the bells at noon, which was simultaneously awe inspiring and painful.  The bells were insanely loud, but I was filming it so I couldn't plug my ears, but I also didn't want to.  It was so amazing.  Then we went on top of the bell tower to see a view of the whole city laid out before us.  We could even see into the Roman baths, which was nice since none of us wanted to pay the £13 fee to get in.

After that we went to the Crescent, which is this really famous building where rich people used to stay (and still do).  I realized I'd lost one of my seabands from my pocket somewhere in Bath Abbey, and we wandered walked through the park beside the Crescent.  We had lunch and then Lea and I went to the Jane Austen Centre while her parents went to amuse themselves somewhere else (I should probably explain that Lea is studying here from Germany, and her parents spoke very little English, so I know they were talking, but I'm not sure where they decided to go).

The Jane Austen Centre was... okay.  I bought an "I <3 Darcy" lip balm (desperately needed) and a quill just for funzies, but I spent a small fortune just on those things.  The tour cost £8 and ended up being quite dull.  The best part was later when we went into the museum.  There was a bit of information, a short film we could see, though we only saw around five minutes of it, and then the really fun part.  They had a wardrobe of dresses we got to put on and take photos in, I looked ridiculous, and Lea looked awesome.  There was a tray of cookies that were AMAZING, and a small area where we could try out writing with a quill and ink.  I got ink on my finger and felt like a proper writer.  Jo Marsh supposedly always had ink on her fingers from writing, right?

 

We went outside after that and met up Lea's parents for a quick tea before getting back on the bus for Swansea.  In all, a very fun day, though to be honest, it was more fun getting to hang out with Lea at all those cool, ancient places, than it was to just see them.  It's always great to realize that a new friend is a good friend.

One more thing: when we got back to Swansea we found a St. David's Day faire going on.  Weird that on St. David's day neither of us were in, you know, Wales... anyway we managed to each score a Welsh flag while they were cleaning up.  I'm pretty excited because I was disinclined to spend money on one, but I really want one.  Now I have one that was cheap and has a good story behind it.  It's more than just "oh, I studied in Wales for a year," now it's "Well there was this fair going on, and I was with my friend who was also studying in Wales..." Because you're never really done for, as long as you have a good story and someone to tell it to, right?

A London Advanture

People talk about falling in love all the time.  They talk about the way your heart leaps, the way that it flutters in your chest and the gut wrenching leap of excitement when you are given a surprise, albeit wonderful, moment of unexpected joy.  They talk about smiling all the time, the feeling of supreme contentment that fills you to the top until all you want is to sit and watch the world go by.

Twice in my life before now I have felt that rush, that thrill, of love.  The first time was with a boy a long time ago.  The second time was with San Francisco.  And now, now it is London.

Okay, so I literally just wrote a love letter about London.  That's weird.  Well, that's me.

In all seriousness, though.  I fell in love with San Francisco a long time ago.  I just enjoyed it, walking around, being surrounded by the most fascinating people from all over the world.  If for one moment I believed that I could make a life for myself in San Francisco, I would be back there in a heartbeat, searching for a house in the Nopa area, going for runs in Golden Gate Park, skipping rocks on Baker Beach.  But San Francisco and I were never meant to be.  And weirdly, it wasn't even about the money.  Sure, it was expensive, but I worked hard enough and I was focused and careful enough, so I was fine.  For one moment in my life, I wasn't concerned about money.  But for the love of all that is holy, I hated the people.  Not the everyday people walking past me, I loved them, irrationally.  I loved their stupid hair and their ridiculous clothing and their weird accents and bad smells because it meant that I was in San Francisco.  I loved them in the way that you love an ugly dog who bites when it's scared but cuddles you the rest of the time.  You love it because, on some level, deep down, it loves you too.

Well, I didn't expect to fall in love with London.  Not really.  I liked it well enough on my first trip, when I went to Kensington Palace and snapped photos of it from the open top of a tour bus.  But really, that was a view from the outside looking in.  It was like looking at a painting and admiring the landscape.  How lovely, you think, as you pause to gaze at it and acknowledge the work that went into it, and then you move on to the next painting in the exhibit, and you don't think much about each painting, you just let the overall effect of the thing rush over you.  Well, that was my first trip.

But then I went back.  This time I went with a friend, and this time I didn't take a bus tour, or wind up sick as a dog on my third day.  I also stayed in a much nicer hotel.  Don't get me wrong, the first hotel was nice enough, but for what I paid? Maybe not as nice as it could have been.

We stayed in Earl's Court, very near to the tube station.  It took a moment of remembering San Francisco and New York to get a hang of the underground, but once I'd figured it out it was cake.  The first day we arrived we settled into the hotel and set up our happy little Christmas tree.  Then we hit the shops.  Of course: London? That means shopping, right?  Well, it was raining and we weren't familiar with the area so there was a lot of wandering and admiring of the Christmas decorations and not a whole lot of actual shopping.  We did get to see Hamley's and Selfridges, even if we didn't really buy anything.

Then unfortunately when we started the second day we were both pretty exhausted, so it was a fairly lazy day.  None of the museums we were hoping to see were open and the Botanical Gardens were booked until kingdom come, so it was just off to Buckingham Palace where we got to see the tail end of the changing of the guards.  We were going to walk to Kensington from there (where did I get the idea that THAT was feasible??) but then this sort of downpour happened.  I don't think my friend appreciated it as much as I did.  To him it was just rain, whatever, get out of it for the worst of it, then move on.

But I was fascinated.  We were walking through Green Park when it started drizzling, and by the time we's reached Hyde Park Corner it was pouring.  I mean, it was a proper downpour.  Only, this was in London, so it was sideways.  My rain coat is only a short length, so I wanted to get out of it.  We made for a War Memorial, heads ducked against the onslaught, so I didn't immediately see what was inside.

For one thing, there was a war memorial inside, truly amazing with beautiful sculptures of soldiers standing on a plinth beneath an open sky.  Okay, there's one problem about what was inside, it turned out not to be fully covered.  There were pillars and a bit of a roof, but it was open in the middle, so not much against sideways rain, but it was good enough for a moment.  It was also freezing inside.  Unfortunately, it wasn't just the rain that was against us, but the air itself was frigid.

But there were also people inside.  The whole place was packed with other people sheltering from the storm, and in that weird way that we sometimes find ourselves connected to total strangers, here was this group of people from all over the world all sheltering together in a war memorial of all things.  And everyone was looking around, in awe of this mighty weather, of the extreme power of torrential rain, not only to soak you to the bone in icy water, but also to bring people together.

Of course, it was also a problem, because there wasn't much space for us to stand and anyway, it seemed silly to expect it to stop when the rain was predicted for the whole week.  So we waited out the worst of it and then soldiered out into the downpour again.  It took about two minutes more of walking to have me soaked to the skin from the waist down, and about a minute after that before the rain completely stopped.  Of course.

The next few days were still good fun.  We briefly saw a christmas market, shopped on Oxford Street some more, rode the tubes, ate at a pub.  Twice.

Christmas was good fun.  Once we got past the fact that everything was shut and nearly all the tours were booked for the day, we started making plans.  Even the tubes were closed!  We had to call for a car, which cost £25 one way.  Still, we went on a walking tour that went to several of Charles Dickens' most popular locations all while learning about his life and writing.  It was interesting, if freezing cold and a bit dull.  Then we went back to the hotel and had christmas tea at our hotel restaurant, which was surprisingly good, although the poor woman working didn't know what a yorkshire pudding was and referred to it as "a little pie," which was a bit misleading.

On boxing day we were misinformed that the Natural History Museum would be opened, so we decided to go there.  I was crushed when it was closed, but we decided to go to Sherlock Holmes instead.  Then on the way there we decided to swing by Kings Cross and see Platform 9 3/4.  So long story short on that front, London basically closes from Christmas Eve until the day after Boxing Day, because even the train station was closed.  Sherlock Holmes wasn't, though, so we went in that direction only to find a line as long as the street which wasn't moving.  Instead we went and spent tons of money on silly souvenirs and wandered down to Westminster where I bought a gargoyle and named him Watson.  He's on my bedside table looking so adorable I can hardly handle it.

After that we went on a Jack the Ripper walking tour which was sufficiently creepy, and much less cold than Charles Dickens, since I came prepared in layered stockings, four jumpers under my coat, earmuffs, a hat, and a tightly tied scarf.

That was basically the end of the London Adventure, to be honest.  My friend left for the airport around six-thirty in the morning and I went back to bed until ten.  Then I packed my bags and checked out with my eyes set on Natural History Museum and the Victoria and Albert.  I waited in line for NHM for about half an hour, but it was worth it in the end, although I missed the dinosaurs because the room was so claustrophobic and the line ridiculously long.  I knew if I waited I wouldn't get to see any of V&A, so I skipped it.

V&A was lovely, though I was so tired at that point that I was getting confused about what was where.  After about thirty minutes of aimlessly wandering I realized I hadn't eaten anything other than a handful of christmas candy, so I headed for the dining room and decided to have tea.  TEA.  In the V&A.  Earl Grey tea and a raisin scone with cream and strawberry jam.  It was delicious in the way that I could actually feel my coronaries constricting.  I felt so proper, sitting at my table reading my pamphlet and having my tea.  While I was walking it to the table after ordering, a woman pulled her daughter out of my way and said, "look out for the nice lady with her tea" and I just couldn't help but smile at the idea of having tea at the V&A.

Once I'd had something to eat, it was a bit easier to figure out how to maneuver the rooms and exhibits.  I can't decide if the Ironworks, the stained glass, the pond, or the ancient history room was my favorite.  I think probably the pond, which I cannot explain, but I'll post my flicker account once I've uploaded photos so you can see it.


The weird thing is, after all this, I hadn't actually done all that much in London.  Still, as I climbed onto the bus I knew that sudden and gut wrenching feeling, like I was being taken away from a lover.  There's no real way to describe it other than to say that somehow, somewhere in the day to day goings-on of my vacation, I fell in love with London.  I could see myself in a few years sitting at a Costa and writing or standing on a tube, fighting my way through the doors to the exit with the quiet background chime warning me to "mind the gap."  Of course, I won't, because in the same way that I know San Francisco and I aren't meant to be, I know that London and I aren't meant to be either.  This year is wonderful and I wouldn't change a thing. If I had the option to relive this last year, I wouldn't do anything different.  But I can't stand being so far from my friends and family, from California and San Francisco and redwood trees.  So as much as I love London, it is more of a winter fling than a deep abiding love.  I'll always remember my times in London with fondness, of the Globe Theatre and Oxford Street and walking tours.  I'll look back in fondness, but I will never regret leaving it either.

Anyway, I think that is about all there is to say on the subject of London.  I have several other blogs queued, so keep checking back.  I'll post when my flicker account is up and running with a link, so you can see all my lovely travel photos so far (spoiler: there aren't that many, since google+ apparently decided that it wouldn't actually upload any of them despite autobackup, and my phone crashed, so half my photos are just gone).

Until next time, my fearless followers!

On Brown Sauce

So someone asked recently what brown sauce was.  (Yes, Morgan, I'm looking at you.)  Well, I have an answer for you, and anyone else who is curious.

This is brown sauce:

That's a new bottle, because my roommates and I have gone through another bottle that size and one smaller bottle since the beginning of the year.  And that is because it is gorgeous.  I mean, seriously, lovely stuff that.

Its sort of like steak sauce, but better.  Its mostly vinegar and clove, and a few other spices and things.  Sweet and tangy, we put it on sausage, cover the plate for bangers and mash, and on cheese toasties and fried bread.  Its pretty much the everything sauce.  Eggs?  Brown sauce.  Bacon? Brown sauce.  Piece of bread you fried in butter on the stovetop until its crispy and salty and delicious? BROWN SAUCE.

Because brown sauce is gorgeous, and it belongs on everything which has pork, cheese, or bread.  Fact of life.

This is a pretty good time to talk about some food I've been eating.

Okay, sure there's the basic bangers and mash.  That's a classic.  We have it pretty much anytime we need a quick meal and someone has an essay due so they can't cook that night.  I won't lie, this was something I was apprehensive about, since neither sausage nor mashed potatoes are really my thing, and the word "bangers" was just not one that sounded particularly appetizing.  A "banger," however is just a sausage cooked on the stovetop, because of the way it pops and splatters.  And it turns out when you put mashed potatoes with brown sauce and sausage I actually quite like them.  Bangers take about twenty minutes on the stovetop and then you just have to boil potatoes for mash, so its pretty mindless, but still filling and tasty.

Cheese on toast is another one I eat a lot.  Its exactly what it sounds like: buttered toast which is then covered in cheese and microwaved until the cheese gets melty.  You eat it, have a heart attack, and then eat more of it.  I have it two or three times a week, minimum.

Then there's beans on toast, again, buttered toast, baked beans, which here are made in a tomato sauce instead of brown sugar.  Different, but still good.  Beans on toast is great for lunch if you're want a snack, but more than cheese on toast.

And then one day a week or so after I moved here, one of my roommates made cheese on toast, and then came in the living room with it covered in beans.  He made beans on cheese on toast.

I'm addicted, its a problem.

In other news, Davis is going to be here in a few hours, so I should probably leave this post here.  I'll try to put something a little more in depth up later.  Keep checking back and make sure you check my Twitter (@travelsofali) for updates on when blogs are coming.  Always feel free to send questions my way on twitter (like, "what is brown sauce and why do you keep talking about bathing in it?") and I'll do my best to answer them.

Until next time, my fearless followers!

Bonfire Night!

So last night was bonfire night.  I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't hordes of people swarming to the cricket stadium near my house, gathering on the beach, lighting small bonfires, and watching a truly spectacular fireworks show.

For starters, one of my roommates thought that it might not be as big here as some other places, since we are in Wales.  Another of my roommates was talking about joining a bonfire put on by the club he's part of.  But most importantly, leading up to, say, the fourth of July, it is all anyone can talk about.  "Do you have plans for the fourth?" "We're going here for the fourth." "We're bbqing/picnicking/tailgating/camping for the fourth."  Here, I maybe heard two or three people in total mention it at all.  Thus, I had no idea that the cricket ground was putting on this huge fireworks show.

Walking home from class at six I immediately noticed something was going on.  Traffic was backed up halfway down Bryn Road and all the way along the Mumbles road, so that I had to sort of leapfrog across the street.  I heard music playing from the field, and as I passed the bowling green, I realized that they had opened the parking lot to members for something.  I realized it probably had to do with bonfire night, but I figured it was just for members of the bowling club- perhaps they were going to have their own bonfire in the parking lot.

Then further along the road, a police officer was standing beside a guardrail blocking traffic to the rest of Bryn Road, and by extension, the cricket ground.  It was then that I realized what was happening.  I passed the ticket office and there was a line of people trying to pay for entry.  A small group of people had already gathered inside, and groups of people were setting up outside with lawn chairs, blankets, and scarves.

After dinner, all of my roommates were talking about going out to the beach to wander and see what was happening.  We left the dishes, bundled up, and went out.  The beach was covered- and I mean covered in people.  We are talking more packed than a public park offering a free firework show on the fourth in the states.  Almost immediately open arrival, or maybe before we arrived, I can't quite remember, the fireworks show began.  It was decently long and pretty spectacular.  There was music, but we couldn't hear very well.  So instead we watched and had fun and I explained to my roommates that thanksgiving has absolutely nothing to do with America's independence from the british monarchy, which apparently is something that at least one of them thought.

When the show was over, we turned to the beach and wandered.  Everywhere people were setting off bottle rockets and roman candles and grouped around beach fires.  The air was full of smoke and the smell of cordite.  People were laughing and cheering and setting off fireworks or writing in the air with sparklers.  It was amazing...

fair warning- I swear right at the beginning, so maybe don't watch this with the audio up high while in a library or something...

Update: This video took me a million years to figure out how to get up here, since apparently Murphy decided to cite his law to mess things up.  Of six videos taken last night, only this one was remotely worth posting, and it of course was the one video that was also broken.  Enjoy!

On Munchies

A quick blog today, just for some photos and little descriptions of some of the food I've been experiencing here.  

So for starters: Hot chocolate and a mini mince pie.  I quite literally went into a little shop- Greggs- to get out of a sudden downpour during my frantic shopping trip a few weeks ago.  I decided I may as well wait it out with something hot to drink, so I got a hot chocolate (having finished a late only an hour or so before, and it being somewhere around half five, as stores were about to start closing).  There was a whole display case, and I asked the woman working what was good.  She suggested the mince pie, and since I wasn't allowed to ask what was in it as per the rule I made before leaving for the UK, I went for it.  It probably helped that it cost 40p.  Oh my gosh, so good.  I am in love.  

Then here is an English version of "chili," which is a bit like spicy bolognese, and is served over white rice.  It isn't bad, but... nothing at all like chili.  We had it with cheese and "soured cream topping."  The fajitas Rob made were better but, alas, I do not have a photo.

And here is an British staple: Apple crumble, served with custard.  This was my second serving.  No words needed, its damn good.

And here we have my milky way experiment.  I was told after freshers fayre that the milky way bars here are different than in the states.  I've avoided trying them for a few weeks, but curiosity got the best of me, so I went ahead and bought one.  Right next to it in the store, however, was something called a "Milky Way Crispy Roll."  In total they came to £1.09.  The bottom bar is the regular milky way, and the top is the crispy roll.  For size comparison, the crispy roll is about the same size as a regular candy bar in the states.  So you can see the thing I was immediately aware of: size.  

I tried the regular milky way first, so I would have a fresh mind.  Here's what it looked like:

Notice any difference? NO CARAMEL.  WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS.  On top of that, it turns out that without the caramel, milky way bars are seriously boring.  So I moved onto the crispy roll bar.

You can sort of see that it is a white sugary filling wrapped in crispy covering, sort of like a pirouette wafer stick, and covered in chocolate.  Let's just say, I may not have regular milky way bars here, but these crispy things are freakishly good.  I move to begin exporting these to the states immediately.  Mind you, while eating them, you can feel cavities forming, since they're basically straight sugar.

On Cellular Telecommunication Devices

Loo.  Biscuit.  Slip-road.  Bin.  Liner.  Lamp.  Trousers.  Full Stop.  Inverted Commas.  There's a whole slew of words that change between American English and British English.  I'm trying my hardest to learn the differences and cater to British English.  When someone holds a door open for me, I say "cheers" and when I hold a door open for someone else, and they say cheers, I say "ta."  I call "compost" "food scraps" and paper recycling "card."  Electrical outlets are "plug sockets" and after we have dinner, someone does the "washing up."

But the one thing I will not change, is that it is called a flipping cell phone.  Here, everyone else calls it a "mobile" or mostly just "phone."  I can deal with "phone."  "Phone" I can manage.  Slowly, with practice.  But whenever I forget my phone upstairs or at home, I inevitably say, "Oh shoot, my cell phone."  It's driving my roommate insane.  Every time I say it, Rob gets annoyed and corrects me.  I have informed him, to seemingly no avail, that I will make almost no effort to stop calling it a cell.

When I first arrived, I had a bit of a struggle with the phone situation, mostly because I was so sick upon arriving.  I didn't even really bother until the beginning of my second week, when I went to a shop called "Phones 4 U" and bought a fairly cheap, but supposedly still good Samsung Y.  The nice thing about this store is that they sell their phones unlocked, so you can put any sim card in.  Since I was planning on getting giffgaff, with which I can load a £12 plan giving me unlimited texts and data, and 250 UK minutes, this was the best option I had.  I spoke with the salesman for a bit, and settled on the samsung while my roommate ordered my sim.  It was going to be a few days, which was fine since you have to pay for a £10 top up (read: its a prepaid phone, you have to load it a bit when you buy it) when you buy an unlocked phone anyway.

Great.  I was happy.  I chatted a bit with the few friends I had already made, and burned through my £10 in the blink of an eye.

Then my GiffGaff sim arrived.  And thus began the drama.

In order to activate my sim, I needed a credit card with a UK postal code.  I tried changing my address on my credit card to my address here, but my credit card needs an address in the US.  I was still sick, so I sat on my hands and waited until Monday to open a bank account.

Monday rolled around, I opened the account, and the woman told me it would be about 3 business days until I would receive my debit card.  Great.  I tried topping up again with the first sim card, same problem.  I called them, to explain, figuring that if I got through to a sales clerk, they would be able to manually enter the information.  Except, in the UK, automated systems don't recognize "Moreno" as a surname.

Automated phone system: "Did you mean "Reynolds?"
Me; "No, I meant "Moreno"
Automated phone system: "We're sorry, we didn't catch that.  Just your surname, for example, 'Smith."
Me: "Moreno."
Automated phone system: "Did you mean 'Morris?"
Me: "No, I meant OPERATOR."

Which then led me to the problem that there were no minutes left on my phone, and I couldn't actually speak to an operator without minutes.

So I just waited, using the internet at my house and at cafes to check whatsapp and facebook until my Debit card arrived.  Finally, I loaded my sim card, figured everything out, and had an operating phone.  Sort of.

See, here's the thing that the salesman didn't tell me.  The Galaxy Y is a fine phone if you're texting and calling.  Not so great if you want multiple apps. Apparently, he didn't feel the need to tell me this, despite the fact that I had said specifically that I needed one I could run whatsapp on.  After a single day of using the phone with my new sim, it began having issues.  The memory card was full.  Facebook was seriously slowing it down.  Nothing was working.  I gave up, pulled the sim out, popped out the micro sim, and am now using my unlocked American Iphone.

Now to convince the phone people to refund or exchange my phone... this could be fun.

On School, Lectures, and Roommates

So this “term,” I'm taking three classes, which is a bit odd for several reasons.  Firstly, I have never taken fewer than four classes, at times even as many as six.  Secondly, all of my roommates are taking at least five, and those are classes that meet several times a week, giving them around eighteen hours of instruction per week.  I have eight hours of instruction per week.  Its nice, since the coursework will in general be a bit more difficult once exam time rolls around, but annoying because it means I have a lot of spare time and not a lot to do just yet.

Because of this, I have joined a two societies, the film society and the English society, though unfortunately they both seem to meet on Tuesdays at the same time, so we’ll see how long the film society manages to keep me. 

Anyway, I was talking about classes.  I'm enrolled, or “enroled” as they spell it here in Wales, in Arthurian Adaptations, Shakespeare and the Idea of Comedy, and Debating texts: Theory in Literature. 

Arthurian adaptations is the only class on that list that I requested, and it also happens to be the only class that I am not sure about.  The teacher is willing to cater to the classes requests as to what part of Arthur we look at, so it appears we will mostly be looking at origins which pertain to Welsh characteristics, the feminine, and supernatural aspects of Arthur legends.  The problem is, he doesn’t write lectures ahead of time, so he just sort of talks about what he knows, ad nauseum, while we frantically try to take notes that will later make sense to us. 

Shakespeare and the Idea of Comedy is supposedly about the origins of comedy and how they pertain to Shakespeare, but right now it seems to be mostly about several of Shakespeare’s plays. 

Debating texts is both the most difficult and possibly the most interesting.  We are reading three books for it, Hard Times by Charles Dickens, Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Wolfe, and (what I'm most excited for) Beloved by Toni Morrison.  Then, we have three sets of three lectures for each book.  Three lectures on Realism, three on Sociolinguistics (they say language, but its sociolinguistics, which is now the bane of my existence), and three on “Subjectivity” or the idea of selfhood and identity.  So far we have finished the linguistics lectures for Hard Times, and this week we will be looking at the Subjectivity in it.  Which basically means by the end of the week I need to have read all of Viriginia Wolfe.  Goody. 

In general, I'm happy with my lectures.  They’re between 50 minutes and two hours, depending on the class.  Mostly they are in the morning, which is great because it means I get up and actually use the day, although so far I’ve been pretty lazy.  This last week I finally dragged myself to the shops to buy things for my room, to make it seem a little more homey. 

But here’s the weirdest part about classes here: people dress up for them.  And I mean it- they really dress up.  They dress nicer for classes than I would for an evening out.  After attending Chico for a year, this is not boding well for my wallet.  I'm used to rolling out of bed, pulling on a tank top or a tshirt, a hoody sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans, but here, everyone goes all out.  Hair, makeup, skinny jeans, heels, sweater (or jumper), scarf, nice jacket.  The problem is, I own nothing but jeans and tank tops, and I don’t own any skinny jeans. 

So after a week of dealing with people giving my boot cut jeans dirty looks, I gave up and bought three pairs of skinny jeans, two cardigans, a few colored undershirts to wear beneath said cardigans, and a few nicer tops.  I also bought a pair of black ballet flats, a pair of heeled boots, a pair of grey platform heels, two necklaces, and two scarves.  The game is to now keep my eyes peeled for more tops, and I think I need one more jacket, something lighter than my coat, but heavier than my cardigans.  I think one more green or grey scarf and I will be happy.  Unfortunately, all this money spending means I have to skip my first excursion, so I don’t get to go see the wilds of Wales until next month. 

You're probably wondering how I'm doing everything while I'm over here.  Well, mostly I am on foot, which is why my legs feel like overcooked spaghetti noodles.  That’s what happens when you're breaking in three pairs of heels at the same time.  My toes are probably going to fall off soon.  But I’ve also had a lot of help from my roommates.

So here’s a bit about my house.  It’s three floors, six bedrooms, two bathrooms, with a tiny little living room and a tiny little kitchen and a truly disgusting backyard.  We’re fifteen minutes from the school on foot, a bit more than that to the city centre, and three minutes from the beach.  We have a washing machine, but no dryer and no dishwasher.  We take turns making dinner, so you really only need to worry about what you're making once or twice a week.  There are six of us living here as of last Thursday: Rob, Sasha (read as “Sash-uh” rather than “Saw-sha”), Ross, Jeremy, and Osa (the only other girl in the house).  Aside from Jeremy, who is also an exchange student, from Canada instead of the US, everyone is English.  I find it both fascinating and hysterical that during my study abroad year in Wales, I am living entirely with people who are NOT Welsh. 

We’re all pretty supportive of each other.  We do shopping together, they all help each other with homework since they are all engineering students, and we all cater to each others culinary needs.  There’s not really a lot to say about them, other than the fact that they keep their jam in the cupboard rather than the fridge, which is slowly driving me to insanity.  I’ve bought my own jam and put it in the fridge and threatened the lives of anyone who tries to remove it.  I am also quite protective of my Hobnobs, which are crumbly biscuits (read: cookies) covered in chocolate, which one dips in tea and eats until they are sick.  They are delicious, I am addicted, it is a problem.  I may need help. 

Other than that, things are going quite well.  I’ll be posting periodically from now on, but for the most part, I'm going to be posting after exciting trips and adventures.  The day to day minutae may get a bit boring, but I’ll try to find interesting things to tell you about.  In the meantime, if you have questions or want to know about something specific, feel free to put it in the comments!  I’ll try to answer as in depth as possible.  Pictures of London to come soon!

On Oceans (Scroll down for photos)

For the entirety of my adult life, I have lived by the ocean.  It isn't something that I did intentionally, but rather, it just happened.  I chose a college in Santa Cruz, not for the beach or its proximity to it, the ocean wasn’t part of my planning at all.  I was going for the school, for the program, and because of friend of mine said she would go with me.  When that friend ended up going somewhere else, I had already begun making plans.  There was no backing out at that point.  Cabrillo wasn’t just my first choice, it was my only choice.  In all honesty, the reason I chose Cabrillo probably had to do with the fact that it was a junior college I knew about that was away from home.  Mostly, that it was away from home.

And then after Santa Cruz, it was San Francisco, not for any particular reason either, other than that I wanted to live in a big city.  In California, that means Sacramento (ick) or Los Angeles (double ick, especially when you consider the proximity to family.  There’s this urge that happens when you’re young to get as far away from any blood relation as physically possible.  Also, I hate LA).  That left San Francisco.  And at this point, yes, the ocean came into my thinking.  Id been living on the coast for three years, it was important to me to maintain that bond.  Because theres something that happened to me on the ocean. 

I had moved to Aptos, to a small apartment about a ten minute walk from the waves.  Over the past two years, I had formed a bond with the ocean.  Any time I wasn’t feeling particularly good about myself, anytime I was down or lonely or upset, or when I just needed some time in my head, I would go to the beach.  Usually Seabright, because of its proximity to where I was living.  I walked to New Brighton a few times while living in Soquel.  I biked to Capitola a few times, when I was actually biking.  It was just there, not something we did very often, just something that was open if I was bored I had an afternoon off, or I had that constricting feeling in my chest like I just needed to get to the ocean. 

But one day, after I had moved into my apartment in Aptos, I walked down to the beach.  There were two paths you could take, one which followed the cliff to Seacliff State Park, and another path which snuck down the side of the cliff, switchbacking across a cordaroy path of broken stairs and rocks beneath damp trees and greenery so fresh and beautiful, you might forget that there were roads not two minutes away from you.  I was afraid the first time I walked that path, not sure where it was leading or who else might be on it.  A few runners went past me. 

But eventually (and by eventually I mean after about three minutes) it let out onto a bike path that in turn led to Seacliff beach.  It wasn’t a particularly sunny day.  There may have even been a bit of fog, though that may be the fog of a memory almost four years old.  I remember the sky was orange and pink, and that the tide was so far out and the beach so flat and smooth and glassy that you could see the reflection of the sky in it, so that the whole place was awash with red and gold.

I skipped rocks for awhile, my shoes and sweatshirt discarded some fifty feet away, forgotten.  I collected rocks, filling my hands until I couldn’t feel them for the cold, and I flung them into the ocean and watched as they skipped and jumped across the choppy water.  I learned to time my tosses so that they perfectly coincided with the flat of the wave, so that the rocks wouldn’t be swallowed by waves.

I rolled up my jeans and wandered into the water, letting it touch my toes, keeping it below my ankles.  And then up to my ankles, then the back of my calves, then my knees.  Up to my thighs.  I waded in until I was waist deep in the ocean, not caring that it was freezing, or that it was getting dark and therefore colder, or that I was fully dressed.  Not caring that I couldn’t swim, or that people were watching.  Because for some reason, each wave that crashed against my legs felt like a touch from some unknown… whatever.  Felt like arms welcoming me home.  Felt like love and comfort. 

That was the beginning of it.  From then on, I went as often as I could.  I don’t think there was ever a week that passed when I wasn’t down at the waters edge, skipping stones or just walking.  I tried running for a bit, but, less face it, that was a ship I was never meant to sail.  Harbor porpoises were my constant companion as well, their little fins peaking out like little waves from another world.  Sometimes even dolphins would show up, moving through the water.

I remember saying goodbye to the ocean, as well.  I went in shorts and a bathing suit, I threw myself into that water like a lab chasing a ball.  I felt the water around me like a blanket, holding me and wishing me well, sending me off. 

I went to the ocean in San Francisco after my first week.  I thought I would feel that kinship again.  I hoped I would, anyway.  I knew I would need it.  I had come to rely upon it, upon that constant companion of the faithful ocean, always there for me.  I went to bakers beach, took off my shoes and walked down the freezing beach to the waves.  I let it touch my toes. 

But it wasn’t the same.  It was just water.  There was not that familiar feeling of being greeted by an old friend.  Only the sound of the waves, the cold of them.  The water felt greasy, it smelled like oil, and it made foam that I didn’t even want to touch.  There was no soul. 

I didn’t go the ocean very often while I lived there, only occasionally if I was going for a walk and my feet carried me there.  I went to the bridge a few times to watch the dolphins.  My favorite game was to stand at the railing and wait for a tourist to approach.  Once they were close enough, I would beckon them over and point at the dolphins frisking down below.  Then, once I had heard their excited murmur, I would walk away and not look back. 

And then I moved to Chico.  Landlocked.  Yellow.  Soulless in a way, though nowhere near as bad as Baker beach had been.  I took every opportunity I could to visit the ocean, even Baker Beach, anything for a view of the sea.  Anything if I could just glimpse a view of that friend I had come to know so well, only to abandon. 

And now I am here.  In Swansea. 

I went to the beach for the first time a week or so ago.  I just walked down after class, wearing sneakers and long jeans and socks and a backpack.  I took my shoes off, even though it was freezing, and stuffed my socks into their toes.  I walked down to the water, which was at high tide.  I had noticed while walking past that when the tide goes out here, the beach grows almost a quarter of a mile.  It is massive, a wide expanse of sand and shoals as far as the eye can see. 

But on this day, the tide was in.  It was only a few moments before I was standing at the waters edge.  I wasn’t sure what was going on.  Everyone was wearing shoes.  Maybe it’s the Californian in me, but I couldn’t understand.  I wondered vaguely if there were some biting insects that might hurt me.  But I didn’t care enough, I just went on barefooted, feeling the shells under my feet, the soft shift of sand beneath me. 

I walked to the edge, right up to the very line where the water met the land, and then I stepped forward. 

The waves rushed towards me like open arms, wide and welcoming.  It didn’t matter that it was freezing.  It didn’t matter that I had never been to this beach before.  It only mattered that I was home, and this beach was welcoming me.

View from the road.

Halfway across the beach looking towards town.

Halfway looking towards the ocean.

Shoals

Some sort of weird kelp, it felt almost like fabric.

Clam diggers make these all over the beach.  If you look hard enough, you can see where he set the bucket down, lower left hand corner.

More shoals.