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.