Monday, September 29, 2008

back to the beginning

Five years ago, I broke away from the rambunctious teenage student ambassadors to find peace.
It came at the top of a path in an outdoor museum; I leaned over the stone wall, looking down at the statues and streams, the multi-hued green leaves, lackadaisical sunshine bathing my skin.
Home, I felt at home- for the first time in years, I knew I was exactly where I belonged.
And I promised myself I would come back to Wales, to Cardiff, to St. Fagans museum.
This weekend, I fulfilled the last part of that promise to myself.
---~*~---
With my roommate and her visiting friend in tow (who were almost as rambunctious as the entire group of student ambassadors, but much more delightful), I hopped on a bus and made my way to St. Fagans.

The first thing I saw getting off the bus was a delapidated house, vegetation poking from every direction, climbing and clawing for the limited sunlight. A small group of people appeared to be battling this vegetation, attempting to enter the empty house.

An old woman with kind eyes looked at me and smiled, wrinkles shifting on her face like the shadows from the impish plants.

"My grandmother lived here," she laughed, adding that she remembered going to school right up the road on which we were standing. "Oh, that must have been 70 years ago!"

My roommate called my name, and the woman faded into the overgrowth. I turned toward my destination, St. Fagans, and knew the day held more perfect timings, more coincidences, more answers.
---~*~---
The grounds were like a dream to me; I remembered the sights, but I could not place them in order... I could envision a floating map of scenes: the stream, the future house, the pig stye, the old-fashioned stores, the castle, the gardens, the walkway with the stone walls.

Each location I stumbled upon was dessert to my soul. Nothing much had changed in five years, except that the pig stye behind the red cottage was cordoned off for construction.

Even the lighting was the same: heavenly streams of sunlight dripping like syrup from the tree tops and sparkling like fairy dust on the water.

And then I found it. That spot. The place above the tree on the path, looking down at the little musical boy statue... All the leaves swept together perfectly, emerald green and blue green and lime green and pine green.

This spot, my heaven on earth, had not changed, either. Standing there, my heart slowed down and filled with calm. Again, I was exactly where I belonged.
---~*~---
Soon, the museum closed and the three of us made our way to the bus stop. We weren't sure we were in the right place, so I asked the sixty-something man standing next to the sign.
He looked over at me, thoughtful and engaged and quick, and I knew him. I couldn't place how I knew him, but I knew him.
"Do you work at the Assembly?" I asked. His two male companions began laughing.
He was Shaughan, a man who worked part-time at Ty Gwynfor, Plaid Cymru's head quarters.
We laughed at the coincidence and he introduced me to his two male friends and a young lady who was sitting close by.
Rowland works in my hallway at the Assembly, as the press officer for Mohammad Asghar, the first Muslim AM.
Gareth was visiting from Anglesey, and Laura had just graduated from university and was job hunting.
All four of them had returned from a British Mensa meeting, and they were delightful company.
They took us out for drinks to the pub connected to Owain Gyndwr on St. John Street.
Three pints -and great conversations with new-found friends- later, I was lying in my bed, fast asleep and likely snoring.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

A skip to Scotland and back in time for plenary...

Yesterday, plenary (the meeting of Welsh Assembly Members) was held for the first time this season. I was lucky enough to sit in on the question time, and luckier still that I didn't nod off.

The best part about plenary having taken place is that there is much more work to do now- most of it quite juicy. Of course, I can't reveal any specifics, but I am fascinated by many of the topics brought up in plenary: flooding, teacher abuse, health statistics, health resources, poverty, the economy, the environment, fuel...

Imagine my delight when some of my research on the environment and health statistics popped out of my AMs' mouths!


This morning, an article on which I worked quite intensely appeared Online: http://www.walesonline.co.uk/news/wales-news/2008/09/24/planning-for-a-future-without-oil-91466-21884205/.

My favorite part of researching peak oil was watching a video about how Cubans handled the onset of an artifical peak oil crisis. The video was made by an organization in Yellow Springs, Ohio- mere minutes from my life-long home- yet I had to come all the way to Wales to see it.



---~*~---
Last night, my roommate and I joined the two male interns for an excursion to a rowdy pub in Cardiff Central to watch the Cardiff-Swansea football (soccer) match. Despite the fact that I've never seen either team play before, I became incensed when the Cardiff team made some basic errors- bunching up like grapes, not covering the opposition and getting in the goalie's way.
My roommate sat next to Cardiff's goalie, Peter Enckelman, on her plane over here, se we were all watching him very closely. For the most part, he was decent. He only missed one shot, and that wasn't really his fault.
And, to be fair to Cardiff, the referees were definitely favoring Swansea.

Still, the game resulted in my fury and the night ended less than ideally.

At least there was no semblance of violence on my part; apparently, the game's aftereffects were horrendous.

According to an article on WalesOnline, "Officers were filmed using batons to try to quell the trouble and keep fans apart."
---~*~---

Enough of that, though. This weekend involved a quick (about six hour) train ride to Edinburgh, Scotland! In two days, I visited two museums and a castle, went on a whisky tour and two ghost tours, saw Macbeth, went to the World's End, had the best glass of whisky of my life (Superstition from the Isle of Jura), and learned a few little lessons.

1. I could never have been a knight in the 16th century. Here's why:















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2. Writers can have real adventures, too! Sir Walter Scott (of Ivanhoe fame) rediscovered Scotland's crown jewels, and the Scots built this monument for him:














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3. If you hear "Gardy loo", do not look up. I repeat, do not look up. Run away and pray you've run far enough. "Gardy loo" is a corruption of the French "garde l'eau", meaning to mind the water or some such thing. In the old Edinburgh before sewer systems, folks threw their waste out their windows (Edinburgh had some of the first skyscrapers in the world, so we're talking multiple layers of throwing here), shouting "gardy loo".
The whole waste thing hasn't become entirely extinct in Edinburgh, though, it's just changed. Instead of minding the skies, mind the corners: I saw at least five men just whip it out and pee on walls in front of me.
So, even if people aren't yelling "gardy loo", don't step on the water!
---
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And more pictures for your viewing pleasure:

Thursday, September 18, 2008

A far too brief summary of Barcelona

First, I do not think I have mentioned how incredibly skinny nearly everyone was in Barcelona. I felt out of place, and I am by no means overweight. Despite the popularity of tapas- meals of tiny portions of food- fast food chains such as Burger King and McDonald's are present on almost every block in the main section of the city. To the left of this writing, you can see one of the giant vending machines nestled in the subway stations. One might think with the prevalence of such food, more people with curves -or more obesity- would be present in Barcelona.



Second, Barcelona itself is a painting with all of its artwork dotting the least-expected places. This beautiful mosaic-dotted park, near Gaudi's home, is stuffed in a corner of a larger park that consists mostly of dirt paths and giant aloe-like trees.










If I had one piece of advice for those planning to visit Barcelona, it is "Look up." Everywhere in the city, hidden statues and ornate architecture flutter above one's head. If your eyes are cast down to the ground, which is often beautiful to look at with its stamped-leather-esque designs, you will miss the most beautiful parts of the city. This archway was hard to miss, but countless angels and paintings would have been strangers had I not kept my eyes heaven-bound.











More on Gaudi, of course, must be written. Barcelona is a living tribute to the man, whose artistic vision sings from buildings such as this. One cannot ignore La Sagrada Familia, the great church that points almost defiantly toward heaven. Such decadence seems almost sinful- spires topped with fruits, melting images of people and animals, collage-like collections of words and symbols. If Gaudi is not to your taste, try MNAC- an art museum filled with medieval, religious, Baroque, Roman and modern art. I spent my entire time there with drool dribbling out of my mouth, which was open wider than it has ever been, except perhaps when the orthodontists were installing braces.



However, for a city whose very blood is art, Barcelona also had some of the worst cases of graffiti I have ever seen. Take this statue, covered over with vulgar words. Walls, doors, sidewalks- they all seem to be fair game for someone. It's as if someobe resents the beauty of these works, as if someone is empty and wants to make everything around him or her empty, too. It breaks one's heart to see the magnificence of Gaudi and the cruelty of spray-painted obscenities on the same block.

Monday, September 15, 2008

Day Four in Cardiff

My two-week backpacking excursion is over, I am settled into my beautiful, cozy apartment in Cardiff Bay and I am sitting at someone else's desk in a Plaid Cymru office in the Assembly.

Plaid held a party conference this weekend and most support staff and party members are taking a bit of a break today, so I will have very little idea of what I'm doing here until tomorrow. Until then, I have been showered with party booklets, Welsh magazines and research suggestions.

Every person I have met here has been so pleasant; I wish Americans had a bit of whatever these folks are having! It's smiles all around, and everyone is eager to help in any way they can.

After learning some rather expensive lessons about travel and food in Marseilles and Barcelona, it is quite a relief to be in a place where living is relatively cheap. A quick two-mile walk leads to Asda, owned by Walmart, or a local market. Restaurant food, when outside Mermaid Quay is not horribly expensive, and there are so many pubs that the prices are competitive.

I tried the local beer, Brains, which tastes slightly more watery than the sort of beer to which I'm accustomed back at home- beers such as Magic Hat and whatnot. Still, the locals seem to love the stuff and its wonderfully Welsh symbol of a red dragon is proudly displayed in most of the pubs around here.

A less fortunate experience was the Welsh cider Gold Medal. It was bitter, grimy, vaguely medicinal and needed a chaser to be palatable at all.

The local foods here, on the other hand, are quite a few steps up from most American foods. Take, for instance, Welsh cakes -flour-y, sugary, cakes with some type of dried fruit- and Cornish pasties -pronounced 'past- ies' instead of 'paste- ies.' The cheese also is mouthwateringly delicious, and is mostly locally produced. Many foods here are locally produced, it seems, without the horrendous preservatives and chemicals that infest American supermarkets.

My roommate frowned when she saw the tiny yellow apples in the store, commenting on how odd they seemed to her.

I am pleased to say that Plaid continues to push for local agriculture.

Aside from enjoying my political party, the food and some of the drinks, I already have grown quite fond of the Welsh lads. They tend to be rather flirtatious, but in a kinder manner than American flirts- they also are more forward. Welsh lasses dress more skimp-ily than sorority chicks at Halloween in Athens, even though the temperatures here are rather icy.

Even though I brought a wardrobe with dressing up options, I feel unprepared for the styles here. I am not used to dressing up daily, nor am I comfortable showing as much skin -even in the dead heat of a southern Ohio summer- as these ladies do in this cold.

It's also an adjustment reading everything in both English and Welsh, and my make-shift office mates all answer the phones in Welsh. Hopefully I shall be able to pick up more Welsh than the simple 'bore da.'

Since it is almost time for me to head back to my bright yellow apartment, or flat, dodging the gigantic slugs that litter the landscape around here, I shall end this little post.

Thursday, September 4, 2008

From an Internet cafe in Marseilles

It is so easy to forget how comfortable we are with the every day things of our own lives. Take, for instance, an American keyboard. Here in France, the *q* is where the *a* is and I cannot find an apostrophe mark or quotation marks.

That is a small price to pay for the beauty of this city. Marseilles is more urban than I thought it would be and a little dirtier, but it is crammed with character. Graffiti is everywhere, as if every young person must leave his or her mark on the city as a right of passage. Benches, walls, even the ornate statues of the art museum -which currently is closed for renovations- have become homes to markered names and less than witty phrases. Take, for example, the words sprawled underneath a beautiful statue of two women: *The girls you love,* it reads, but in French.

As for the French themselves, they move in an interesting blur of traipsing, daudling and rushing. One might get stuck behind a mother meandering with three pint-sized darlings in tow, taking up the entire sidewalk without a thought to allow others to come or go, while a scooter careens down the street next to her, completely unaware of stoplights or pedestrians. Each person seems truly lost in his or her own world here, and it is difficult for one not to follow suit.

Few people really speak English here, which is perfectly understandable, but which makes it all the more amusing that there are McDonalds, Ford, Toys-R-Us and other American-type stores littered all over. Most people, however, show extreme gratitude at my sorry attempts at *bonjour*, *merci*, *pardon moiµ, *au revoir* and *bon nuit*. I certainly believe in cultural identity, and I try to live by the addage, *When in Rome*... Which is why I am eager to try some croissants and pastis, among other -though decidedly less French stereotypical- things.