Christmas in Massachusetts

Ah, December 25. Characterized by wreaths and decorated trees, carols and Santa hats, and good cheer that can barely dampen.

My parents and Memere just left this fifth-floor apartment overlooking the sea to scoop up my Pepere from his hospital bed. Everyone deserves to be home with family on Christmas.

Yesterday, I sat at a little table in Berwick, Pennsylvania diner, chatting with my Great-uncle Bill about politics. Just as we came to a truce (both of us disappointed in Bush and concerned for Obama), a wrinkled man with sparkling eyes sidled over to stir up trouble.

"Ah, that Obama," he spat. "He's just so full of himself, I can't stand him."

My fists clenched beneath the table, and my eyes grew all stony as I stared straight ahead.

"He's not going to do our country any good," the tirade continued.

My eyes flashed up at him, "Well, he can't do much more damage than Bush has done. Besides, we needed a change."

He continued his bashing; I must admit, I simply quit listening. He was the sort who would listen to no reason and accept no other opinions. When his steam had emptied, I looked into those shiny eyes and wished him a merry Christmas.

That's what change is all about, isn't it? In that instant, I realized I couldn't get angry at this man. I could only love him. Our country is so divided already. Democrats and republicans snapping at each other's throats, bashing each other's politicians and ideologies. The United States got to this state by losing community, by losing respect for the differences we were created to let bloom.

I will not continue the divisiveness; I will make spreading the one thing we all need more of, compassion, my life's goal. But first, I need to stop getting angry when people bash Obama or McCain, perhaps offering small checks of reality, and to learn to bite my tongue when my own bashings scream to erupt.

Merry Christmas, World! Happy holidays to each person, each gloriously unique person, whose differences make this world so incredibly special.

One last weekend in Wales

Last Friday was weighted with farewells- to people, places, lingo, and lifestyle.

After work (during which the folks in Plaid bid me farewell with cake and speeches), my roommate Kadi and I headed to Eli Jenkins, our favorite cheap pub. Many of my Plaid friends joined us, as did Phil and Andre, two Uni students I met at Plaid's election party. After a few pints, my workmates said goodbye and we Uni students went to Ba Orient, our favorite expensive bar. Our two favorite bartenders, Eve and John, made us the best drinks of our lives. We finished the night up at Salt, the first club we went to when we got to Cardiff, with another Phil, the male intern from Oklahoma.
The next morning, I woke with a splitting headache and rather timidly dressed in hiking gear. My boss, Helen, picked me up and we drove to the Brecon Beacons. Her dog, Jazz, padded along with us, interested in every stream and muddy hill, every sheep and bird. The scenery was dramatic, more like what you'd expect to see in Scotland. A ruined castle clung to the top of a hill, and red, green, and milky trees lined the fields below.
By the end of the day, I was more sure than ever that I couldn't leave Wales. Tears splashed into my suitcases along with my Primark clothes and penguin bars, my new poetry books and pamphlets written in Welsh.

On Tuesday, my travels were a hectic blur. I arrived at Heathrow by 5:50 a.m., but nearly missed my 8:50 flight because of how packed the airport was. I sat next to a poet/playwright from Brussels who was going to Cincinnati to visit friends and a couple from Brazil who'd been living in London and were on their way to Canada. I filled my 4 and a half hour layover in Detroit with A&W hot dogs and Guinness and Blue Moon drinks. My little flight to Columbus was delayed on the runway for multiple de-icings. Once at the airport, my parents greeted me with open arms; as I gathered my luggage from the carousel, I unloaded my yearning for Cardiff. I looked back a few times, and I knew that yearning soon would find me. For now, though, I simply must live in the present: loving my family and enjoying every second of our reunion.

The poet who launched 350 voices

A storm has been brewing in the Assembly for a few weeks now.

Patrick Jones, a rather experimental poet who's the brother of a Manic Street Preacher band member, was set to read from his new book at Waterstones in Cardiff- but when Christians heard about the event (allegedly from Jones himself), the protests began. Waterstones canceled the reading, and freedom of speech questions began shooting up.

Two AMs invited Jones to come read at the Assembly, which he is set to do today. Now, I've read some of his work. In general, it's not my type of poetry- angry lists, accusations, angst... He's the type of person who feeds off controversy. But he sometimes catches a really beautiful word flow in the midst of his childish rants. Jones has said he's not attacking Christians, but when he speaks of lewd acts with Biblical figures, he's inviting the wrath of God's followers.

Soon after posters went up for the Assembly reading, AMs began protesting relentlessly. Lone voices, at first; independent letters to newspapers. Soon, an email went out saying we needed tickets to get to the reading.

All this controversy acted as great publicity for Jones.

Well, at 11:30 today I began hearing beautiful hymns wafting through my window. There, wedged between the Millennium Centre and the Assembly, were about 300 people singing, some waving flags. In between the hymns, a man on a ladder lifted his Bible and spoke to the crowd or they all bowed their heads in prayer. This is the sort of thing I expect to see at home, in the middle of the Bible belt. But to see people I work with every day in the midst of this group was astonishing. Three Plaid AMs were down there, one was singing away. I didn't even know they were religious, let alone upset about Jones.

So, is the Assembly right to host a poetry reading by a poet who enjoys incensing people? I'm not attending his reading because I don't want to support someone who goes to such lengths for publicity stunts. I like some of his poetry, and I don't oppose him being allowed to speak. I also think the group of Christians were overreacting and that they only gave Jones a bigger spotlight.

But, boy, were their voices beautiful.

Here's the BBC story: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/wales/7777157.stm

Sad goodbyes

The reality that my time here in Cardiff is ending hit me today when the Assembly held a beautiful little lunch for us American interns. Our professors from Ohio University came, as did the Swansea University program coordinator, our Assembly Members, and various party colleagues.

In a cozy conference room, Ohio University, Wales, and American flags were draped across a table while pictures of our time here flashed by (like the time itself) on a projection screen.

My sponsoring AM, Chris Franks, arrived last, but not least, as evidenced by his speech that made me laugh and tear up. He was the only AM to speak direct words about an intern, teasing me about when I corrected him concerning Obama during the elections. He handed me a little certificate, which suddenly seemed unnecessary. My experiences here have transcended words and paper, flat 2-D life, and entered a realm of unlimited possibility.

For that hour, I completely forgot about the 3,000-word paper I'm supposed to finish by Friday. I forgot about packing and cleaning my apartment. I remembered only how much a part of Wales I have felt. Wales has been my home, my daily life, my reality, for three months. Once, living here was a distant dream for me. I cannot say what Wales has meant to me, and how much working in the Assembly has helped me grow as a person.

I haven't been able to write about politics on this blog because not only have I taken party sides, but I've also heard information that is not commonly known (or that I fear is not commonly known). None the less, politics have transcended abstract theories during my stay here; I have learned what it means to be a passionate human being trying to make a living on supporting -and acting as a resource for- a large number of people. Compromise drives every aspect of politics, and perhaps every aspect of life.

The people I have met here will continue to plug through every day, trying to improve the lives of those around them and simultaneously protect their positions. Such is life: we do what we can to help others- but to help others, we must also survive.

I am not ready to leave Wales, but who is ever ready to leave a dream?

Snowdon: on top of the world

Friday, I took a five-hour train ride to Bangor, where I spent the night in a Cantonese hotel called The Garden. The hotel was the home-iest place I've staid in a long time; not only was the room cozy, but the staff were interested in what brought me there.

Saturday morning, I awoke at 7 a.m. and was on a bus to Llanberis by 8:50. There was a middle-aged man with a weather-beaten face wearing hiking boots and carrying walking sticks. We chatted about Snowdon; he'd climbed that mountain 30 times, he said, and today looked as if it could be the most promising day in years to go hiking.

"You could come here a hundred times, but never have a day like today," he told me, which got me tremendously excited.

I asked him which trail to start on, and he confirmed my decision to hike up the PYG trail that started at Pen-y-Pass.

The trail was not what I expected. There was a lot of rock climbing, which I would have loved except for three factors: there was a thick layer of ice over all the rocks, I was alone, and I was wearing tennies (what the Brits call trainers).
I started the hike around 11, and by 12 I had reached an easier stretch. To my left, the sun radiated over a small peak and beamed into a lake, in which gray clouds swirled. I didn't see a single human being for that hour. Soon, however, the terrain got rocky again and the trail was almost impossible to find. At one point, I lost track of it all together and began following a lone set of footprints down the mountain. I ran into a couple hiking, and the lady told me I'd come to the Miner's Track. To get back to PYG, I had to climb back up the side of the mountain.
Does anyone else see the face in the mountain/lake? Mouth in the water, nose just above, with two eyes squinting? I kind of thought of this as the spirit of the mountain, so to speak.

Once I was back on track, I ran into the man who directed me to PYG.

"It gets treacherous," he said, eyeing my footwear with concern.

I thanked him and headed on my way.

He was not kidding, however; within half an hour, I reached a waterfall of ice, which I had to climb to get onto the trail. Luckily for me, about ten hikers were passing at that exact moment, and they waited around to make sure I made it up alright.
There were more icy slopes, and more friendly hikers.

"Are you here alone?" asked one group. When I affirmed this, one young man said, "God, you're awfully brave."

At another point, a hiker tried to discourage me.

"It is all ice up there. It's very dangerous." He paused, I smiled. "You're determined, aren't you?"

"Of course!" I said, thinking of the five years I've been itching to reach this mountain's summit.

"Well... It gets a lot worse. The next one hundred meters are the worst, but you're getting close to the top."
At 2 p.m., amazed that I was still alive, I arrived at the peak. Several groups of hikers who'd passed me congratulated me, then told me I'd better take the Railway Track -also known as Llanberis Track- back down.
In all my PYG track hiking, I probably passed 60 climbers- two of whom were female, neither of whom were alone. In fact, there were only two lone hikers, one of whom was the man who'd directed me to the PYG track.

At the summit, I met an older lone woman, who stopped to chat with me. She told me she'd passed someone being careflighted off the Miner's Track, and that I was very lucky.

I have never felt so accomplished as when I stood on that summit; alone, in improper gear and winter's treacherous weather, I made it.

Someone pointed out the tip of Ireland to me. In fact, the whole of the U.K. was at my fingertips.

The hike down was long and slow, and it began to get dark. The bus from Llanberis to Bangor was late, and I nearly missed my train to Shrewsbury- except that the train got canceled anyway.

A lady at the train station said a steam engine had gone *caput* and messed up the whole train system. She told me I couldn't take the next train to Crewe, but that if I waited for two hours and caught the last Shrewsbury train, she'd ensure I got home.

Sure enough, after a two-hour ride with the least respectful, most annoying drunk teenagers I have ever seen, I was sitting in a taxi with a very kind lady who drove me two and half hours home to Cardiff.

We arrived at 2:15, in the middle of a chaotic drunken street party (thanks to a rugby match). Two men flew like chickens at each other, landing on our taxi. Numerous people swayed in and out of the middle of the road. The whole thing was like Athens on coke- bigger, more belligerent, ten-fold as dangerous and ridiculous.

Needless to say, I crawled into bed at 3 a.m. and went straight from sleep to a hot bath, which did nothing to relieve the pain in every muscle of my body.

But it was worth it.

I realized that everything else can be unreliable: people, weather, buses, trains, descriptions of trails... but the one thing I can always count on is my own resilience.
I made it to the top of Snowdon and lived to tell the tale.

Weekend recap 2: Swansea

Swansea

My roommate and I got up early on Sunday to get to Swansea at a decent hour. Our destination was Rhosili, a beautiful beach an Assembly Member had pointed me toward. By the time we got there, however, we would have gotten to the beach at dark and not been able to catch a bus back.

Stepping out of the train station, we were greeted by closed or empty businesses, and a single coffee house that exuded an air of depression. We went in and ordered tea, which was served weak and in dirty cups. When we saw the woman behind the counter sneeze on to her hands and begin serving food, we left in a hurry, but not before I jotted down a poem about the experience:

A pharmacy dragged me here,
barely.
Here, this shabby restaurant
with grimy teacups
and gnarled fingers.
Numb customers, staring into
the hardness of the world,
are as gray as the sky,
dirt-lined as
the plates before them,
tasteless as the food,
and distant as the beaches
the guidebooks promised.

Walking through the sprawling city that seemed an odd mixture of sleaze and class, we found a bus to Mumbles, a little beach near the heart of Swansea.

As we walked along the water, I felt the fullness of the ocean, the calm of the tides. As it began to rain, we took cover in a little restaurant on the pier.

When the rain faded to a drizzle and then to a memory, we walked to Mumbles Pier and paid the 50 pence to walk on rickety boards out to the sea. Boards with holes for faces and plastic animals with "Mumbles Pier" signs lined the sides. Fishermen cast weary glances at us.
Soon, we left the creaking boards behind and climbed up a path leading to a look-out point. From the look-out point, we could see a great beach of round stones, and it took some clever rock climbing to make our way down.

We gallivanted on the beach while the sun set, watching the waves and sifting through the rocks. I found a few shells and rocks to bring home.
Then, we walked up to Oystermouth Castle, which was closed. Not one to give up so easily, I walked around the ruins, finding a hole into the castle. My roommate didn't like the looks of it, though, so I left it alone and we meandered home.
The sea has been on my mind since. What is it about the water that leaves me feeling more myself?

Weekend recap: Caerphilly

Despite a nasty cold coiling around me, I visited Caerphilly on Saturday and Swansea on Sunday.
Caerphilly
My first stop was Caerphilly Castle, which was a slight disappointment because of construction on the two highest towers and because a wedding occurred during my visit. All the people in expensive dresses and suits, smiling and celebrating the union of two lives, left me feeling lonely and small. Not one to bask in pity, I began to walk. And I walked and walked. I passed tired neighborhoods and graffitied walls, cats and birds, until finally I came to a little path through a strip of woods.
There, around me, a strip of Wales at its finest: rolling grasses and twisted trees, fall foliage and giant stones and streams. I meandered up and down this path until the cold wet began to seep through my medication into my bones.
Then I went back to the city, visited a local craft bazaar, and headed back for my train, just in time to catch the Cardiff-New Zealand rugby match.

Tired as I was, it was a beautiful day.

What's Thanksgiving in Cardiff? Thanks and giving, of course!

Today is the type of day that makes any American anywhere else in the world feel the weight of not being home.

All of us interns here at the Assembly foretold great sadness and decided to combat it with a makeshift celebration. We have a 15-pound turkey, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, apple crisp and lots of wine.

We all really wanted pumpkin pie, but that's one problem with not being in America at this time. Pumpkins are, quite simply, out of season here. Four of us scoured every store in Cardiff (and several in faraway cities such as London and Swansea) and even searched Online. No pumpkin pie.

As depressing as the absence of one little American Thanksgiving staple is, it's also a sharp reminder that we've been blessed to become part of a very different culture for a while.

So, while we give each other company and food and comfort during this time of separation from families and tradition, we will also be thankful. How many people hop over the ocean and spend a small portion of their lives submerged in lives so different from theirs at home? How many people have understanding families waiting for them to return?

Today has made me acutely aware of my blessings. Here, I have a wonderful job with unique coworkers filled with character and passion. I have good friends and a nice apartment. At home, I have the best family anyone could ask for and friends to match.

Without knowing to whom to address this, I shout from the very depths of my heart, "Thank you!"

Wales at the Smithsonian 2009

Last Thursday, the Senedd launched an event that promises to bring Wales into thousands of international minds: Wales Smithsonian Cymru 2009.

As a 3-month Cardiff resident, I've become quite enamoured with Wales and her ways: compassionate, community-oriented mind frames; raucously partiers and hearty pubs; Welsh cakes; breathtaking landscapes; distinct literature; and lilting language.

I know I cannot bring this country I've come to love home with me, but the Smithsonian can.

The Smithsonian Folklife Festival, an annual event, invited Wales to be showcased in June through July 2009. More than 100 Welsh performers, artists, craftsmen, linguists, storytellers, and culinary experts will attend the event.

I even met one of the cooks near a bowl of chips; food always unites people, doesn't it? She was so excited to go to Washington, D.C., and bring pieces of Wales with her. Our fast-paced conversation was soon interrupted by the beginning of the launch.

Welsh poet Gillian Clark read her poem "R. S." for R.S.Thomas (1913-2000):

His death
on the midnight news.
Suddenly colder.

Gold September´s driven off
by something afoot
in the south-west approaches.

God´s breathing in space out there
misting the heave of the seas
dark and empty tonight,

except for the one frail coracle
borne out to sea, burning.

(Menna Elfyn translated the poem into Welsh, and here's how it goes:
Newyddion hanner nos am ei ddarfod. Gaeafodd. Newidiodd y naws. Aur Medi wedi ei hebrwng gan ryw ddigwyddiad, ar droed, gwynt y de orllewin yn nesáu. Anadl Duw, allan yn y gwagle a thawch dros ochenaid y môr sy´n dywyll a llwm - heno heblaw am yr un cwrwgl brau ollyngwyd i´r lli a´i si´n ysu.)

(poem courtesy of Clark's Website, http://www.gillianclarke.co.uk/home.htm)

After several poems, the Assembly's First Minister Rhodri Morgan gave a passionate speech about the incredible opportunity this event presents.

Wales is "one of the strangest, most paradoxical countries," he said. It has "the strongest hangover and heritage from medieval time" and is also able to move into the future.

Wales must "bring back that spirit of having challenged ourselves to say, 'What is the best of Wales?'"

Well, everything! Except the chavs. Don't know what a "chav" is? Good; keep it that way (or check it out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chav).

As I pondered what I would pick to bring home, a folk group comprised of fiddler Sille Ilves, singer Julie Murphy, and acoustic guitarist Martin Leamon played two songs that melted me into a colorful emotional puddle.

Here's how Murphy described those songs:

"The first piece was a composit of two folk songs, Lisa Lan and Ffoles Llantrisant, the first one is a really intense love song from the point of view of a young man and the second is a much lighter song from a young girl's perspective. By putting them together it was like the two were having a conversation along the lines of 'I love you so much I"m going to kill myself' (him) to 'I'm too young to settle down, you're being too intense' (her). Well at least that's how I think of it!
We recorded that one especially for the folkways CD ( to be released next May I think). The last song we did was 'Y Folantein' - love and lust in a poetic metre called a triban."

The Folkways CD will be released in 2009 to coincide with the Smithsonian show. I highly encourage everyone to buy it. Until it's released, however, check out Murphy's Website: http://homepage.mac.com/juliemurphymusic/juliemurphy/.

Christmas lights, check!

Wednesday night, the Bay was filled with an eerie sense of emptiness. A huge Christmas tree had been erected near the Millennium Centre, and I stared at it in silence for quite a few minutes. It was November 12: still more than a month before Christmas!

Someone gave me a head's up that the rest of the city's lights would be turned on that night, so I met a friend in the city centre. People flurried to one of several hot spots. There was a giant Christmas tree in close proximity to a Santa booth and a carousel. There was also a Ferris wheel next to a stage with a giant puppet show hosted by CBeebies (BBC for kids). The stars of local hit TV show Gavin and Stacey helped turn on the city's Christmas lights.

Fireworks went off and a mass of little kids on big kids' shoulders looked on in amazement.

After people began dispersing (read: after I was no longer elbowed, poked, prodded and stepped on), my friend and I made our way to a delicious-smelling donut booth. While we waited in line, I noticed the next booth over was a British burger and fry booth.

This is ironic because Brits don't call fries "fries"; they're "chips" here.

The donuts were better than any I've had in the States: softly crispy and slightly greasy on the outside, but still gooey on the inside, and not too sweet all around.

St. Mary's Street had the biggest light display; I felt as if I had entered a Christmas Wonderland the second I stepped on to it.

I practically waltzed home, entranced by the magic of the night and the mystery of the moon.

Tintern Abbey

She died and decayed long ago, and her gnawed bones protruded from the mud and the short green grass. When I first saw her, Tintern Abbey, I felt the ghost of her memories bleeding at my feet. She whispered to me that life always goes on, that that which ends is not forgotten.

She was a Cisterian abbey founded by the earl of Chepstow in 1131. Most abbeys were more than self-sufficient communes; they were the heartbeat of nearby communities, the angels whispering Christian conscience to the laypeople. They were the mothers of literature and the creators of discipline. They framed the meaning of brotherly love.

How many footsteps padded here? How many men died in these walls? How many found God, and how many lost Him?

"I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, that on a wild secluded scene impress thoughts of more deep seclusion and connect the landscape with the quiet of the sky," wrote Wordsworth in "Lines Composed A Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting The Banks Of The Wye During A Tour" on July 13, 1798, 189 years and one day before I was born.

Yet his words capture today's essence of the fiery hills and the paralyzed sky surrounding Tintern Abbey, that quietly obtrusive ruin.

"In darkness and amid the many shapes of joyless daylight when the fretful stir unprofitable and the fever of the world have hung upon the beatings of my heart -- How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee."

I can picture him jabbing at his parchment, looking at her, feeling the same strange mix of life and death beating in me.

She has seen a thousand years of faith and folly; surely, her commune with nature and God account for some wisdom or peace.

During Edward II's wars, Edward stayed at the abbey for a short stint in 1326. Throughout the 1400s, Owain Glyndwr's quest to fight off the English hurt the abbey's finances, but by the early 1500s, the abbey was the wealthiest in Wales. It still could not escape dissolution and was effectively gutted by the first Act of Suppression in 1536. (http://cistercians.shef.ac.uk/abbeys/tintern.php)

Henry VIII dissolved the monasteries to give credit to his new protestantism and to put a crimp in the Catholics' formerly comfortable lives.

Tintern Abbey was killed, effectively, by a king and disrobed by an earl, but her soul sat still for a thousand years, welcoming the pilgrims who sought remnants of her solitude.

"For thou art with me here upon the banks of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch the language of my former heart, and read my former pleasures in the shooting lights of thy wild eyes."

Amsterdam

On Friday, October 24, I arrived in Amsterdam with my parents. Their trip to belatedly celebrate their 25 anniversary coincided with the Assembly's recess, so I not only got to see them, but I also got to travel with them.
Once we got settled in, we wandered around the city, dodging more bicycles than I've ever seen.

I didn't expect to see so many rivers, but the Dutch certainly know how to accent them: curvy bridges, lights, and lines of trees. Between the rivers and the maze of gray buildings containing stores, it was easy to get lost.
Until one runs smack into the red light district.

Now, don't get me wrong. I appreciate a woman's body as much as any man (in fact, I'll wager, more so). I also think that if our society insists on engaging in prostitution, it should be legal and regulated.

However, this red light district infuriated me. Women in windows with men in black clothes, snarling as if they were sizing up steak. Shadowy figures leaning against corners, ready to negotiate deals with the sleazy men who wanted to pay for a woman's body.

These men seemed to have one purpose in this district: fantasy sex without emotion or ties, completely rationalized by throwing a few coins at the receptacle they used, like a toilet.

"Look at that!" one man shouted at a woman gyrating in the window.

"That? We're thats now? She's not even a human being?" I protested loudly enough that a few men glared at me.

I heard many other comments I'd rather not mention and saw inconsiderate asses throwing things at the windows.

Needless to say, I fled the district as soon as possible, to angry even to talk about it with my parents.

The next day, I found a spectacular looking coffee house called Dampkring. Its sign looked like stained glass, and from the moment I walked in, I knew I found a good place.
I ended up sitting at the bar, talking to a group of Canadians about everything from law to music to news to politics to university.

Later, I sat with a local who told me a scene from Ocean's 12 was filmed there.

So, so far, I'd covered sex, culture, and movies on my trip. Now, I just needed history and literature.

Easy enough: the Anne Frank house offered both in abundance, with a tremendous amount of emotion.

I don't know how he did it, but my Dad managed to get us tickets that allowed us to skip the incredibly long line and begin the tour immediately. The beginning rooms with the timeline, media and memorabilia were interesting enough, but time stops the moment you see the hole in the wall where the bookshelf hid so many lives.

Up the narrow, steep staircase we walked, to bare rooms with creaky floors. Anne was here, once, and her family, and two other families... and most of them died gruesome deaths.

That any human being could treat another that way seems incomprehensible to me. That was the point, though, wasn't it: Jews were not human beings to the Nazis.

How many groups do some human beings dehumanize because of perceived differences? Prostitutes, homosexuals, Muslims, drug addicts, people with different skin colors... Mind you, I haven't seen any of them shipped off to concentration camps to die of disease and starvation; but the caustic jokes, the hatred so poorly concealed, the threats...

Call me naive, but I don't understand why we can't all respect each other and help each other through this world, which is traumatic enough without our participation or compliance with its cruelty.

Party politics, politics party: bittersweet election memories

This is the moment after. You know the one: your eyes have been focused on the path below your feet, each step is your only purpose in life... You stopped counting long ago; the scenery grew stale. Up, up, up you go, your back about to break and your lungs on the verge of collapse. But you focus your energy to make one more step.

Only, there's no step to take; you've reached the top.

There is a moment of precious amazement... and then the cartoon bubble of "What now?" pops up, with a cartoon version of you scratching your head.

The American election has defined me as an American in Cardiff since my first day here. Before that, the election dominated life at home. Dwindling newspapers pried into politicians' lives to dig up stories that would throw a curve ball in the campaign's course and resurrect ratings. Magazines sold comedy about the campaign's players, from satire to slander to caricature.

So, what now?

Welcome to the next era of American politics.

Last night, I was glued to the TV in Ty Gwynfor, Plaid Cymru's headquarters, which hosted an American-themed Obamafest party, complete with hot dogs, salsa, apple pie, Corona with lime and wine. Lots of wine.

Two Plaid people played McCain and Obama in mock debates. "McCain" focused on his war wounds and age; "Obama" used the words "change" and "hope" about 30 times in three minutes. Both tied the American election with U.K. politics; "Obama" compared Dafydd Iwan to extremist enemies, highlighting the American seemingly McCarthyist fear of terrorists and Muslims and individual thinkers, which is hilarious if you understand the carefree nature of the Welsh. He also mentioned a One American coalition, poking at the Plaid-Labour deal here.

Laughs were abundant as I sat with a group of students from Cardiff University. I planned to stay until 12 a.m. (7 p.m. in Ohio). Before I knew it, 12 turned into 5, and my heart turned into cement as McCain conceded.

My new-found Uni friends couldn't seem to understand why I was so sad. Was it the wine? I had been supporting Obama, after all, even if it was by default; I should be overjoyed.

No, sirs, it was not the wine.

No candidate has bowed out with such dignity, grace and class as McCain did last night. (Here's an AP transcript of his speech: http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5hmJfimrZW3jBur_BmaFtqj7mfFgQD948JFJG5)

The election is over. Obama won. By a landslide: he needed 270 electoral votes, he got 338.

Game over.

I keep lifting my foot to continue hiking toward something, but there is only open air. I look around me and wonder, what now?

an imminent flurry of blogs

I recently returned from a fairy-tale-esque trip to Amsterdam, Paris, Prague, Vienna and Budapest, and I promise to write multiple blogs about my experiences there.

For now, though, let me change the subject to one that's being overly covered (but necessarily so): the election. We all know what's at stake; I'm not going to hound you about our place in the rest of the world, about our flailing economy, about our laws and freedoms... I cannot begin to lecture, because it's not my place. My personal convictions in this election are just that- personal.

I am neither an Obama nor a McCain fan, but Palin tips the scales for me. I will not attack this poor women; she's been attacked by too many people already.

I don't agree with her views on just about anything, but that's me.

I wondered what people here in Wales thought, and here is the response I got from people working with Plaid Cymru.

"She's a nutcase," one colleague said, "but she's hot."

Another said she disliked Palin as much as I did.

One passed me an article from the Guardian, which contained an edited transcript of the prank call. Here's the only transcript I can find Online: http://ca.news.yahoo.com/s/capress/081101/entertainment/palin_transcript (thanks to Yahoo news for this).

There is no doubt in my mind that the media is slanted against Palin and that my view of her has been slanted by all the articles I've read (particularly those from my favorite magazine, The New Yorker: http://www.newyorker.com/talk/2008/09/15/080915ta_talk_lizza, http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2008/09/22/080922sh_shouts_saunders, among others).

Still, I would rather have an enthusiastic, intelligent man as president who has a sturdy VP than one who has a VP with the demeanor of a flaky cheerleader. I like McCain; I like Obama. I'm not crazy about Biden; I can't stand Palin. So, by default, I suppose I'm keeping my fingers crossed for an Obama win.

P.S.- On a side note, I'd like to comment about my last blog. Matt Wardman did not exactly "reveal" that Wardman is his pen name; he unveiled that information on his blog a long time ago. I, however, had no idea that was the case. And, based on the numerous people who called him "Matt" at the conference, I don't think I'm alone. Either way, he's a fantastic blogger, and both he and Betsan Powys helped me adjust to Welsh politics.

To Blog or Not to Blog...

Last night, the Assembly hosted a program about political blogging. Six debaters attended: Matt Wardman, blogger (http://www.mattwardman.com/blog/); Betsan Powys, political editor and blogger at BBC Wales (http://www.bbc.co.uk/blogs/thereporters/betsanpowys/); Annabelle Harle, impartial party from the Electoral Reform Society; Victoria Winckler, director of and blogger for the Bevan Foundation(http://bevanfoundation.blogspot.com/); Peter Black, blogging Liberal Democrat Assembly Member (http://peterblack.blogspot.com/); and Eleanor Burnham, Liberal Democrat Assembly Member against blogging.

Daran Hill, the managing director of Positif Politics, chaired the discussion.

The talks focused on already-popular and over-discussed topics: blogging as a new medium, the blogosphere being a self-contained bowl of information, and anonymous blogging creating problems with bullying and unreliable information, for starters.

"Matt Wardman" and Betsan Powys conversing

The best thing to come of the event were some fantastic quotes, which I shall list underneath each speaker's name.

Eleanor Burnham:
-"Fortunately for me, this was done over the influence of drinks."
-"I don't sit on a bloody screen all day long."
-Blogging "encourages lazy journalism" by letting them "sit on their bum and wait for things to fall in their lap."

Annabelle Harle:
-"The medium is not itself the message."

Betsan Powys:
-"I certainly wouldn't mind being stuck in an elevator with (bloggers)."

Matt Wardman (revealed "Matt Wardman" is a pen name):
-"All the interesting stuff that's done on blogs isn't done with blogs" (it's done with people on blogs).

Victoria Winckler:
-"I've the technical skills of a gnat but even I can do it."
-"Am I singing from the hill tops or shouting in the wind?"

A rather "B" week: baths, bumps and Blues Brothers

Let me summarize my week: bubble bath, bum foot and Blues Brothers.

Wednesday evening was one of the most relaxing evenings I've had in a long time. After a frustrating day at work, where a rather annoying pattern emerged of Websites I needed to access being removed, I padded on home. Autumn is beginning to fray the corners of Cardiff scenery; I smelled the full-bodied aroma of smoke and my feet crunched the crisp orange leaves on the ground. It is my favorite time of the year, sending jolts of passion through my senses.
After cooking Cornish pasties surrounded by macaroni and cheese, I opened my £6 bottle of red wine. I hadn't even looked at the label when I bought it, just the price. Imagine my pleasure when the wine turned out to be smoky as fall and full as a Cabernet Savignon.

Wine in hand, I turned on the hot water faucet to the bath tub, poured some cinnamon and lavender bubble bath mix in for a good minute, and waited. While I waited, I found my tattered copy of Neverwhere (a Neil Gaiman book that has followed me through France, Spain, England and Scotland now).

Soon, my aches and pains and worries had dispersed. I got lost in Richard and Door's story, warmed by wine, and padded by scented bubbles.

Thursday morning was as far from wine and bubbles as it could be. The ground was wet and the air was icy and I had to sprint across a street to avoid a brutal death by speeding car. When I got to the sidewalk, my right foot felt lightning bolts sear through it.

I hobbled to work, sat at my desk all day, limped home and discovered a nasty blue-ish orange bruise covering half my foot. Ouch.

Pain had nothing on me, though. Nothing was keeping me from the Blues Brothers show, so I limped to St. David's Hall to hear the songs that reminded me of high school.

Yes, I was a band nerd, in the best possible sense. I played flute and trombone, neither extraordinarily. I worked hard and loved making music, and band was my life.

We played a Blues Brothers show once... (remember "We all know that Michigan sucks"?). That was years ago, across an ocean, and in the very heart of a different country. Hearing the tribute band take on those songs in Cardiff; ah! Music not to me ears, but to my heart.

A little sad, a lot nostalgic, I listened to those songs. They made me think of the paths we take in life. I chose to give up music to focus on writing when I got to college. What if I had pursued music? Several of my more musically-inclined, hard working, talented classmates went into music. What are they doing now? I wonder if they still feel that rush, that high, from creating something so beautiful it can render a person speechless, create a need for dancing or incite weeping.

Music shapes people's lives, not just those of the musicians.

For instance, a young couple who got engaged last night were called on to the stage during the show to join in the performance. They will never be able to think of their engagement without thinking of the Blues Brothers.
I will never think of high school, or of growing up, without thinking of the band. So, to Mr. Hoffmann, Ms. P., Mr. Mahan, my Cedarville High School bandmates and my fellow 'boners, thank you for helping me make the music that helped make me. And to all you band nerds out there just starting out, savor every second and every note. The music ends too fast.

A Prayer for George

Yesterday, the weather blossomed into a full-out spectacle of sunshine and warmth. Determined not to take the day for granted, I headed down to the Senedd building and followed the water past the Norwegian Church to the barrage.

It was absolutely gorgeous, the sun setting while people buzzed around the grassy expanse, completely engrossed in their own lives.
As I walked back toward Mermaid Quay, a security guard wearing a bright yellow vest asked me how my walk was. I replied that it was nice and was ready to continue walking, but he kept tossing questions at me. On question four or five ("What's someone from Ohio doing here?"), he pointed to the little picnic table by the water and said, "Let's sit down."

Slightly uncomfortable, I sat and soon became engrossed in studying him. He spearheaded the conversation, not giving me a chance to guide our talk. His apparent appetite for control frightened me, but he did have some interesting thoughts.

"I support America!" he laughed, pulling out an American Express card.

He asked me if I went out a lot; I replied that I am pretty much broke and tend to stay in. He told me he got in to most clubs for free because the employees have known him for years.

Then he asked me out.

Let me give you some background information. This man has whiting gray hair and a face heavily lined with cynicism. He reminds me of my Portuguese Uncle Bill, who has a macho, gruff facade. Only the security guard lacks my uncle's shimmering heart of gold poking out from beneath the shadowed mask.

I turned him down, and he began to spiral into a very dark place.

He kept saying that the world was "hell around every corner"- but I couldn't know that because I am too young. He's 54, and he knows how horrible the world is.

I told him we make the world what we want it to be; we can't control everything that happens to us, but we can control how we respond. We make our own happiness.

He said that was bull shit. It takes money to find happiness. Maybe I need comfort, and that's why I say we control our lives. I couldn't possibly understand about the real world.

He's right- I haven't faced the real world consistently, day in and day out. But I have faced hell, once or twice. I've experienced cruelty that has dug its talons so deep into my soul that those scars still seem like open wounds.

Yet I am still happy and live a fulfilling life.

A couple walked by, the man staggering in front of us, grinning, "Where's the camera? Now, there's love!"

I blushed, and the security guard barked, "My daughter!"

The woman grasped the man and said, "Oh, excuse him, he's been drinking."

"Scum of the earth," the security guard rasped.

I began to leave, saying it was nice to meet him... he told me not to lie, to tell it "as it is", judging me to truly hate him. What he didn't realize is that while I seek beauty and happiness and joy in life, I do not abhor or shy away from its other aspects, such as pain and bitterness. I do not hate experiences because they do not bring me joy; the only experiences I hate are those which leave me disconnected from humankind.

My conversation with the security guard connected me to him; for a brief time, our worlds brushed together, and I tasted that coppery human connection in the raw form of human emotion expressed.

He looked right into my eyes and murmured, "And you didn't even have the decency to ask me my name."

Well, he hadn't asked mine.

"You could have said, 'George, what's your name?'"

"So, your name's George. It was nice to meet you, George."

"You go home and say that in the mirror, look at your lips," he snarled. "Most people, when they say it, their lips purse romantically or aggressively."

"Well, that explains it," I responded, extending my hand to shake his.

"See what you're doing? You're trying to make contact. Why are you doing that? I don't want to make contact, not with how I'm feeling!"

I pulled my hand back and asked, "Well, how would you like to say goodbye, then?"

"Pray for me," he said.

And so, George, I do. I pray you find that calm side of life, where the water meets the sunset and the warmth spills around you and there is only one word for what you experience: happiness.