The Beating Heart of It

New Welsh Review

2009-11-09T09:01:00.000-08:00

I am absolutely enamoured with the New Welsh Review. When I lived in Cardiff, the current copy constantly was with me, whether I was working at the Assembly, taking a train to Chepstow, or climbing Mount Snowdon. The articles often were thought provoking and the literature was inspiring.

Now, I've stumbled upon the Online flipbook.

With this lovely feature, my craving for Welsh literature can be somewhat satiated. Maybe it can do the same for you!

What's your favorite NWR section?

Charging for plastic bags

2009-11-03T10:16:00.000-08:00

If you live in Wales, you might be charged between 5-15 pence for plastic bags at stores by 2011.

On the surface, this seems like a great idea! Imposing a charge could deter the use of these pesky bags, which we all know are bad for the environment.

However, consider two points:

1) What are the alternatives? Reusable bags (superb, but can't hold a lot... and who remembers to bring them to the store all the time?) or paper bags (which are just as bad for the environment because of the toxins they release during manufacturing).

2) What about dog poop? How will pet owners respond to this new fee? Even if it's illegal to leave your dog poop lying around, some owners might chance it if they have to pay to pick it up.

What do you think?

Art on a rainy day

2009-10-23T14:54:00.000-07:00

I love art.

So do the Welsh!

Since it's a rainy day and I'm missing Wales, nothing seemed like a better cure for the blues than looking at Welsh artwork.

After reading a BBC article about a Welsh art contest winner who was inspired by Sir Kyffin Williams' work, I stumbled upon this gorgeous little Website: http://www.artwales.com/GALLERY%20ARTISTS.htm.

On this page, you can discover a plethora of Welsh landscape paintings, portraits, and colorful or impressionistic work.

a Darren Hughes landscape

Hwyl!

A little R.S. Thomas to kickstart the day

2009-10-20T09:56:00.000-07:00

"Welsh Landscape"

To live in Wales is to be conscious
At dusk of the spilled blood
That went into the making of the wild sky,
Dyeing the immaculate rivers
In all their courses.
It is to be aware,
Above the noisy tractor
And hum of the machine
Of strife in the strung woods,
Vibrant with sped arrows.
You cannot live in the present,
At least not in Wales.
There is the language for instance,
The soft consonants
Strange to the ear.
There are cries in the dark at night
As owls answer the moon,
And thick ambush of shadows,
Hushed at the fields' corners.
There is no present in Wales,
And no future;
There is only the past,
Brittle with relics,
Wind-bitten towers and castles
With sham ghosts;
Mouldering quarries and mines;
And an impotent people,
Sick with inbreeding,
Worrying the carcase of an old song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jb8mK3Ccsl0

The Big Welsh Challenge

2009-10-18T12:33:00.001-07:00

Instead of studying Obama's security policy for my national security class, I've spent the morning learning Welsh via BBC's The Big Welsh Challenge.

This interactive site with video tutorials has me remembering what little Welsh I learned last year after the first unit!

Check it out: http://www.bbc.co.uk/wales/learnwelsh/bigwelshchallenge/.

A New Era

2009-10-16T09:37:00.000-07:00

After much internal dialogue, I have decided to resurrect this blog.

It shall still focus on Wales, of course (for that is where my beating heart lies), but it also will focus on graduate student life. I am currently a political science graduate student at Ohio University, acting as a graduate assistant for the Wales Internship Program and as the vice president for communication for Ohio University's Graduate Student Senate as well as a public relations officer for Empowering Women of Ohio.

As I am narrowing my thesis topic from the way-too-broad category of "Wales," this blog will provide a means for me to dump interesting tidbits I pick up. I also will write about my struggle to get back to Wales.

Right up front, you all should know I'm a Plaid Cymru supporter. That means my posts might be slightly biased.

For instance, if I were to write about Rhodri Morgan stepping down in December, you might hear the slight snicker in my tone when I speak of his possible replacements. This would be because, as one of my Welsh friends said,

"who will be caretaker first minister until Ieuan Wyn Jones takes over in 2011?"

2009, already?

2009-01-02T07:14:00.000-08:00

Before I turned on my space heater and turned off my heated bed sheet (signifying sleep's defeat), I checked BBC news. A few minutes later, my face went rather pale and I was chuckling in a nervous, crazy sort of way. Here's what I saw, an article about Mount Snowdon rescues: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/wales/7804676.stm.

Now, here's what I have to say: climbing a mountain in improper gear in the winter is very, very dangerous. I speak from experience. When I climbed the mountain in November, I was one of those people wearing trainers (tennis shoes in American lingo). Yet I climbed, three parts dumb and one part determined. There's a sheet of ice that makes the mountain look like the Snow Queen's castle over some rather strenuous climbs. The sight of which sends the entirety of one's life to the cold space right behind one's tongue. And that's during the day time.

Well, that's all for my first post of 2009, from my rickety old house in Athens, Ohio (which is a different story I shall likely write later). Cheers!

Christmas in Massachusetts

2008-12-25T08:03:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-19T07:59:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-11T06:00:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-09T05:35:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-01T09:56:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-27T02:12:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-27T01:55:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-27T01:43:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-19T07:56:00.000-08:00

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!

2008-11-14T06:37:00.001-08:00

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

2008-11-11T01:48:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-07T01:53:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-05T02:46:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-04T07:41:00.000-08:00

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...

2008-10-22T01:30:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-17T07:06:00.000-07:00

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

2008-10-13T08:50:00.000-07:00

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.

what springs from mac and cheese

2008-10-10T06:51:00.000-07:00

Two days ago, I went to the Bute Street post office to pick up a package from my sister containing popcorn, hot chocolate, macaroni and cheese, snacks, socks and drawings from my niece and nephew.

The first thing I did after work was make macaroni and cheese with carrots and tomatoes, with hot chocolate to wash down my typical artery-clogging American meal. Then I taped up my niece's and nephew's drawings on my closet and sat on my bed, staring at them.

It's not that I miss home, per se; I am very happy here. I just miss the people who are at home.

I sat there on my bed, staring at those drawings, imagining I could hug my niece's and nephew's tiny little bodies and kiss their blond heads, smelling that blend of bath and sweat and growing life that emanates from them.

I closed my eyes and reviewed a memory; a snapshot of my family: my sister Tina and her husband Mike, my niece and nephew, my sister Heidi, my grandparents, my dad and my mom.

Then I tried to remember what my mom's voice sounds like; everyone tells me it sounds just like mine, but I know that's not true. Mom's voice has more depth to it than mine; it's like an echo in a forest of warm brown trees, filtered with sunlight and the wisdom of owls. She also has the hint of mint, of magic, of legend.

And Dad's voice? His voice, his non-stern voice, is the voice of reason and memory mixed. When he speaks, people from all points of the globe speak, too, for they have shaped his life. He is a storyteller, a historian, a recorder of lives and memories and experiences. When I think of his voice, I think of him whistling while I danced on his shoes, looking up at his blue eyes.

It's funny how a little blue box filled with noodles and powdered cheese can open up a world an ocean -and years- apart.

I haven't spoken with my family- to whom I am very close and who is facing some difficult times- since I arrived here in Wales, really. Sitting on my couch, eating an entire box of Kraft macaroni and cheese and drinking Swiss Miss hot cocoa, I felt a little closer to everyone. I felt less cut off.

I could just imagine my best friends making a macaroni and cheese lunch at precisely the same time I was eating my dinner. I could see them laughing, a respite from the crease lines of stress on their faces; I could see them realizing what time it was and getting that knot in their stomachs because they knew they'd be late for class.

I felt closer to everyone, but I also felt more depressed.

Curiosity grasps me now from my messy little desk in a sunny room on the second floor of the Assembly at Cardiff Bay: family, friends, where are you and what are you doing?

Behind the scenes with Torchwood

2008-10-08T05:28:00.000-07:00

I'm a geek.

A hopeless, truly nerdy geek.

Don't believe me? Read on.

Torchwood is being filmed in the same block I'm working in. Torchwood is one of my top five all-time favorite TV shows (also in the list: Xena, The Office- U.S. style, Family Guy, Army Wives). I have seen every episode of Torchwood, which is not an easy feat for someone living in the U.S.

I have drooled over John Barrowman and nearly fainted over Eve Myles.

I threw popcorn at the TV when Eve's character Gwen had an affair with Owen. I cried when Owen and Toshika died (for Owen, that would be double the tears).

See, nerd.

And for the past few days, I've been creepily hovering around the filming. I snapped pictures of Ms. Myles and Gareth David-Lloyd (Ianto), and strained my ears to hear them speak.
Ms. Myles is more gorgeous and entertaining in person than on screen (and, believe me, she is tres gorgeous and entertaining on screen). She laughed as her make-up assistant dusted her "bum", as she said while dancing a teasing little dance for the crowd. At the opening of her scene, when she lay on the ground, she kicked her legs up and down, laughing wildly.

Truly a crowd pleaser.

And I'm part of the crowd!

A wet weekend in the "Smoke"

2008-10-06T04:56:00.000-07:00

Forecasters doomed Cardiff to a weekend of rain on Friday, so I decided to escape to London... where the weather was just as bad.

Three Americans hit the ground running at 10:30 a.m., pretending to know what to do and where to go. We struggled trying to get to New Cross, where our £16-a-night hostel was.

The bus system was completely unreliable. At the station, the first bus swung around the corner and passed us without stopping, the second bus- 15 minutes later- did the same thing. For a system promising bus service every 7 to 10 minutes, these snubs were unacceptable. And common.

After depositing our backpacks at our hole-in-the-wall hostel in an immigrant-rich neighborhood, we got on a bus to Trafalgar Square, where my roommate wanted to check out a child poverty awareness event.

On this bus, I noticed a young man wearing a scarf with Wales' red dragon. I asked him if he was from Wales (he was, from Swansea), introduced him to the other Americans, and we talked until we got to the Square and went our separate ways.

By the time we arrived, the event was dispersing, so we went to the National Gallery.
After seeing MNAC in Barcelona and the gallery in Scotland, I wasn't impressed with the brightly-painted rooms stuffed with centuries of art; to begin with, the building was a maze and the paintings seemed ill-fitted for their neighbors' company. I felt as if I were looking at a collage gone horribly wrong.

Outside, the wind had picked up and gray clouds spittled.

We saw Big Ben, the Parliament building, Piccadilly Circus (with the same protesters I noticed five years ago) and Westminster Cathedral.

We crossed bridges and traipsed through parks. We passed the MI5 and MI6 buildings.

It rained, cold and hard, leaking into our spirits.

We struggled to find cheap food, which is almost impossible in London, it seems, then decided to catch a bus home.

Who should be on the bus but the Wales-scarf guy from before! We asked him out for drinks, which turned out to be very smart, because the bus 'terminated' its route long before we arrived at New Cross.

Good ol' scarf guy walked us to New Cross and introduced us to Hobgoblins, a pub with a wide gamut of people, from scenesters to goths to glamorous gals to jeans-'n''-T-shirt types. We talked to scarf guy about movies and TV shows, accents and style and humor: a delightful end to a drizzly day.
Rain greeted us Sunday morning, and it took a delicious cheap breakfast at a more personal, Denny's-like restaurant called Jenny's to cheer us up.

We spent the day sight-seeing: the London Bridge, Tower of London, St. Paul's Cathedral, Roman wall and the Imperial War Museum before heading home.

In the subway, I heard a frustrated young woman bark, "Oh, I feel like we're in a rabbit warren!"

All of London felt a bit like that, tunnels and turns and secrets, a surprise around every corner.

And from The Echo...

2008-10-02T05:17:00.000-07:00

http://www.walesonline.co.uk/news/letters-to-the-editor/south-wales-echo-letters/2008/10/02/truth-behind-us-bail-out-91466-21950631/

Truth behind US bail-out

Oct 2 2008 by Our Correspondent, South Wales Echo

AS an American student living in Cardiff, I have a lot to say about recent UK articles criticising the US House of Representatives for not passing the $700bn bail-out.

In its current form the bail-out would slam high taxes on working class, elderly, and deprived Americans – people facing the same problems as you.

The people who lost their jobs because of the crisis and the people who depend on government support to survive will be in for a shock.

One of the bail-out’s absurdities is that the American government expects taxpayers to pay for the government’s economic mistakes.

If the government didn’t encourage banks to engage in high-risk lending and other volatile behaviour to begin with, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

Bailing out these banks will encourage them to continue gambling on taxpayers’ livelihoods, while the comfortably rich will barely feel its sting.

We’re all scared. We all want a solution – and we want it yesterday.

We all, regardless of location, have to face this time of economic crisis. We are already in the crisis, every one of us. It will get worse, no matter what.

But can a plan scraped together in a week fix a problem brewing for years?

Dianne Selden (American student journalist from Ohio), Corvette Court, Atlantic Wharf, Cardiff Bay

Letters to the editor

2008-10-02T03:05:00.000-07:00

Being in Cardiff during this time of U.S. economic crisis is fascinating. U.K. articles (on the House failing the proposed bailout) wag fingers at the U.S. government for not saving the rest of the world from recession. After reading numerous articles on CNN, Fox, and other news Websites and after heatedly talking with interns and Welsh coworkers (who had varying opinions), I concluded that the bailout in its present form would have been a very bad idea.

Responding to several articles in Welsh newspapers criticising the bailout's failure, I sent letters to the editor (called Viewpoints, here) of both the Daily Post (North Wales) and the South Wales Echo.

The Echo won't come out until 2 p.m. here.

The Daily Post (which had a shorter limit than the the Echo) published my letter:

Why US bailout is wrong answer
THE US must do something about this economic crisis, but the $700 billion bailout won’t work.

In its current form, the bailout will slam high taxes on working class, elderly, and deprived Americans - people facing the same problems as you: mortgage problems and job losses included.

But if the government didn’t encourage banks to engage in high-risk lending and other volatile behaviour, we wouldn’t be in this situation.

Bailing out these banks will encourage them to continue gambling on taxpayers’ livelihoods, while the banks’ heads, the comfortably rich, and the politicians trying to pass it won’t be affected.

Can a plan scraped together in one week fix a problem brewing for years?

Citizens of the world have to face this fearful time of economic crisis.

Do we weather it out humanely, supporting each other, or do we frantically clamber to make it out on top, forgetting those we crush?

Dianne Selden, an American student living in Cardiff Bay

(Daily Post, 02-10-08, p. 14, your letters)

back to the beginning

2008-09-29T04:42:00.001-07:00

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.

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

2008-09-24T02:02:00.000-07:00

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:

A far too brief summary of Barcelona

2008-09-18T08:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Day Four in Cardiff

2008-09-15T06:50:00.000-07:00

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.

From an Internet cafe in Marseilles

2008-09-04T04:25:00.000-07:00

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.

If you're wondering about the title...

2008-08-27T23:45:00.001-07:00

This blog's title springs from one of my favorite movies: The Shipping News.

Billy: "It's finding the center of your story, the beating heart of it, that's what makes a reporter. You have to start by making up some headlines. You know: short, punchy, dramatic headlines. Now, have a look, what do you see? "
[Points at dark clouds at the horizon]
Billy: "Tell me the headline. "
Quoyle: "Horizon Fills With Dark Clouds?"
Billy: "Imminent Storm Threatens Village. "
Quoyle: "But what if no storm comes?"
Billy: "Village Spared From Deadly Storm." -courtesy of http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0120824/quotes

She had guts: lessons for troubled times from a dead columnist

2008-08-27T23:30:00.000-07:00

In 1921, a young woman named Elizabeth Anne O'Hare McCormick sent a note to Carr Van Anda, who was the managing editor of The New York Times, asking him if she could send articles from overseas (2). He replied, "Try it"; when she sent him an insightful piece about Mussolini, he hired her (2). By 1936, she was known as the first woman to regularly contribute to The Times' editorial page(2).

In 1928, she published The Hammer and the Scythe about her travels to the Soviet Union(2). Throughout her daring travel experiences and interviews, she did not often write notes, because she said note-taking "makes people too cautious" (2). She certainly was not a cautious person; rather, she seemed to sparkle with mischief or joy when she stirred up people's expectations. In 1952, she attended one Republican convention wearing a white silk dress decorated with donkeys, the Democrats' symbol; the next week she attended a Democratic convention wearing a white silk dress decorated with elephants, the Republicans' symbol (Sheehan, Introduction).

Her hunger for information, for connection, for understanding led her into the company of men and women few could imagine meeting, and her zesty spirit rose to meet each new challenge she faced. As The World at Home Introduction author James Reston said, "Everything and everybody interested her, and she illuminated every subject she touched."

She wrote about politics and about U.S.-European relations, about war and about the Depression, about American life and, most importantly, about humanity.

Her passion for justice led The Times president and publisher Arthur Sulzberger to tell her, "You are to be the 'freedom' editor. It will be your job to stand up on your hind legs and shout whenever freedom is interfered with in any part of the world" (2).

According to James B. Reston, McCormick had "a rare gift of sympathy for all sorts of people, a sense of the relationships between the event of the day and the history and aspirations of her country, and, above all, a religious conviction which enabled her to see things in the ultimate perspective of life itself" (Sheehan, Introduction).

McCormick continued writing until weeks before her death on May 29, 1954 (1). When she died, president Eisenhower issued the following statement: "Mrs. McCormick was a truly great reporter, respected at home and abroad for her keen analysis and impartial presentation of the news developments of our day. She will be greatly missed by all the members of the newspaper profession and the hundreds of thousands of readers who followed her column in The New York Times" (2).

Unfortunately, as is often the nature of good column writing, McCormick's work fell into the dusty, paper-bound pages of history in a world increasingly defined by technology. She actually picked up on the effects of technology on Americans in 1932, and, if one considers those who read political columns "citizens", she foretold her own work's doom:

"The contemporary American is not primarily a citizen. Since the beginning of the century he has been a man in a hurry, so diverted and distracted by new things, new speeds, fabulous opportunities for personal expansion, that he has lost his early zest for citizenship" (Sheehan 116).

McCormick's audience flitted on to other things after her death, and the time period that she had documented so lovingly and carefully passed. The World at Home Introduction author Reston noted that "many of her columns have lost the flavor and freshness of the time."

I disagree. I concede that finding information about McCormick is difficult; only a handful of Websites mention her name, OhioLINK carries one book about her, The New York Times offers her articles for hefty fees, and Amazon.com's McCormick books are mostly unavailable or are selling for more than $20 per book.

Her topics, however, strike an eerily similar picture to today's culture of confusion and alienation. She tried to unite the individual pockets of American people, such as those in the South and in New England, with her writing about their common struggles, but the cultural flavors and differences she noted in her column exist to this day.

McCormick noted the great divide between the rich and the poor, especially in her columns about the South. The divide between the working class and the politicians began to lead to alienation, which is (or, perhaps, depending on this year's elections, was) running rampant in today's society. It is this citizen apathy, she claims, that has led to lower-caliber candidates running the political scene (Sheehan 72).

McCormick wrote, "Named by a small, often unintelligent party group, elected by a majority of a minority, left thereafter to their own devices, or rather to the persistent pressure of other minorities, these are the men from whom is expected the technical knowledge and the statesmanship necessary to steer our course through what amounts to a social and economic revolution" (Sheehan 72). This is precisely the state of politics in today's society. There is such a small voter turnout and minority groups and lobbyists pressure politicians, who often seem more photogenic than politic-competent; yet those of us who are not apathetic expect our lawmakers and politicians to reflect the social changes we so greatly desire. This type of politics, this superficial confusion combined with a vast, voluntary exclusion of most of the citizenship, is opening the door to a more centralized government than ever before, which is, perhaps, a spreading crack in the foundations of democracy. McCormick agreed with me on this point, and fifty-six years before my birth, she wrote: "For if democracies die, it will be because of the progressive lessening of popular interest in government; like other religions they begin to die when the form is more impressive than the fact" (Sheehan 74).

Three years later, she wrote, "America is not a happy country, though by contrast with others just now it seems buoyant and gay. It is befuddled to its depths by new ideas, tormented by doubts, worried by the debts piling up… My own impression is that people are so weary of the confusion of the world, growing with each year, that they are creating, or striving to create, some semblance of order in their own live" (233-234). This statement could have appeared in an editorial this morning. Americans are bombarded with advertisements and new products and new information, tormented by the war, worried about personal and national debts and are either oblivious or confused about America's place in world politics; to escape these problems, they turn to individual distractions, such as their jobs, video games, television or the written word.

They have lost faith in their leaders and they are disillusioned with a war they once rallied to support.

Despite feeling World War II was necessary, McCormick never gave up on those affected by the war, especially those who were defeated and those individuals who faced unspeakable horrors. She could have been their patron saint, the woman who refused to ignore their pain. She wrote of the Germans' moral and economic crisis after the war, of "the misery and despair" that are "beyond American experience or imagination" (McCormick).

She writes that the "American military government has taken the lead over other occupying powers in turning over responsibility to the Germans" (McCormick). Sound familiar? Has the American military government not guided the Iraqis to take responsibility for their new government, a shadowy step-child of a democracy?

Is such development possible in a war-torn world? McCormick notes that ending dictatorships and regimes leads to unfathomable destruction of cities and people that might never fully recover. She writes, "You don't have to go back very far to see how much easier is the work of destruction than the job of reconstruction. To blow a town to bits is an affair of minutes or hours; to put it together again takes years. And structural rebuilding is the least of the complications. Anyone who has seen the ruin left in the wake of this war knows how small a part of this immense devastation is physical" (Sheehan 341). We must see and understand those words today; those who advocate for our immediate withdrawal overlook the fact that we have done the work of minutes and hours, but not of years. We have destroyed, broken, and torn apart Iraq; to leave it at that would be a monstrous, evil move on a so-called compassionate country's part. The greater and more trying task we now face is to heal both the physical layout of Iraq and the broken psyches of the Iraqis; that is the very least we owe a country we invaded and ravaged, even if the invasion was meant to liberate Iraqis from a cruel dictator and to attack terrorists. Our soldiers did not die to destroy Iraq; they died to save it and to save their country. Is a country that abandons what it destroys worth dying for?

McCormick brought the human element to war and to all of war's vast implications; I cannot help wondering why the American people do not have a McCormick to guide them through this convoluted war. With a voice of compassion to rekindle Americans' faith in our own goodness, we might come to remember what democracy really is: each individual's involvement in seeking justice, vivacity and the essential tools for living in her or his own life and for every other human life she or he has the ability touch.

McCormick should not be a forgotten relic of a bygone era, but a torch of hope, like the Statue of Liberty, for this failing one.

Works Cited

1. "Elizabeth A. McCormick." Ohio Historical Society. www.ohiohistorycentral.org. Accessed 2 May 2008.

2. "Obituary: Anne O'Hare McCormick is dead; member of the Times Editorial Board." 30 May 1954.

www.nytimes.com/learning/general/onthisday/bday/0516.html. Accessed 2 May

2008.

3. Sheehan, Marion Turner. The World at Home-Anne O'Hare McCormick. Alfred A. Knopf. First edition. 1956.

4. McCormick, Anne O'Hare. "American Responsibility in Germany." 17

November 1946. Accessed 11 June 2008.

http://www.nytimes.com/packages/pdf/opinion/1946mccormick.pdf

5. Hall, Aileen. Women Studies 200: Women and the Family. Ohio University. Spring 2007-2008.