Christmas lights, check!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Prayer for George

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

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

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

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

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

Then he asked me out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet I am still happy and live a fulfilling life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, he hadn't asked mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pray for me," he said.

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

what springs from mac and cheese

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?

back to the beginning

Five years ago, I broke away from the rambunctious teenage student ambassadors to find peace.
It came at the top of a path in an outdoor museum; I leaned over the stone wall, looking down at the statues and streams, the multi-hued green leaves, lackadaisical sunshine bathing my skin.
Home, I felt at home- for the first time in years, I knew I was exactly where I belonged.
And I promised myself I would come back to Wales, to Cardiff, to St. Fagans museum.
This weekend, I fulfilled the last part of that promise to myself.

---~*~---
With my roommate and her visiting friend in tow (who were almost as rambunctious as the entire group of student ambassadors, but much more delightful), I hopped on a bus and made my way to St. Fagans.

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

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

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

My roommate called my name, and the woman faded into the overgrowth. I turned toward my destination, St. Fagans, and knew the day held more perfect timings, more coincidences, more answers.

---~*~---
The grounds were like a dream to me; I remembered the sights, but I could not place them in order... I could envision a floating map of scenes: the stream, the future house, the pig stye, the old-fashioned stores, the castle, the gardens, the walkway with the stone walls.

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

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

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

This spot, my heaven on earth, had not changed, either. Standing there, my heart slowed down and filled with calm. Again, I was exactly where I belonged.

---~*~---

Soon, the museum closed and the three of us made our way to the bus stop. We weren't sure we were in the right place, so I asked the sixty-something man standing next to the sign.

He looked over at me, thoughtful and engaged and quick, and I knew him. I couldn't place how I knew him, but I knew him.

"Do you work at the Assembly?" I asked. His two male companions began laughing.

He was Shaughan, a man who worked part-time at Ty Gwynfor, Plaid Cymru's head quarters.

We laughed at the coincidence and he introduced me to his two male friends and a young lady who was sitting close by.

Rowland works in my hallway at the Assembly, as the press officer for Mohammad Asghar, the first Muslim AM.

Gareth was visiting from Anglesey, and Laura had just graduated from university and was job hunting.

All four of them had returned from a British Mensa meeting, and they were delightful company.

They took us out for drinks to the pub connected to Owain Gyndwr on St. John Street.

Three pints -and great conversations with new-found friends- later, I was lying in my bed, fast asleep and likely snoring.

Day Four in Cardiff

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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