Winter Wonderland

The halls of Aberglasney and other University were humming with the whispers of snow. The sky, it seemed, let loose with a fury of Romantic wonderment. Or, rather, for about twenty minutes it spit out tiny white flakes that dissolved before hitting the ground. Nonetheless, several events were canceled on the hill, and I was told by one cancellation to "Be very careful, but to enjoy the snow." Unless there was a car parked outside that hasn't moved or had too many people walk by, one might not have noticed that it snowed. Still, though, there was excitement to be had.

Chicago is not one of the more wintry cities in the world. Juno, St. Paul, Duluth, even Milwaukee probably looks at the few feet a year we get and laugh. In parts of Duluth, which is on the border between Canada and Minnesota, they regularly measure their snow in yards per winter. Chicago, though, does get its fair share of the fluffy white stuff, and it was not unusual in my time as an Illinoisan to wake up and see the world literally enveloped in a thick later of white stuff. Snow would pile on any stationary object: cars, trees, mailboxes, etc. It was magical. So I found it hard to get excited about snow that melts before anyone gets a chance to measure it's depth. The salt trucks would have gone out during the slow times and plastered the highways, and most people would have muttered under their breath about how annoying and unnecessary it was, ruining the paint jobs on cars.

I'm always amazed at how places are completely unready for snow. In Maryland, when it snowed they closed the highways. When the blizzard hit DC last year, no one knew what to do. Things we closed for weeks. Carbondale was like that. At the beginning of the year, when SIU was encased in ice, the maintenance crews would diligently get out and spread the salt around. Then, in late January, when the sky was still letting lose a hell-storm of ice, there would be no more salt, so instead, the crew would spread burnt coal everywhere. This would not only make the snow more slippery, but then would coat everything in a fine, black film that was impossible to get out of the cuffs of pants. It happened every year: they would close the free parking lot, spread coal everywhere, and then wait until February when the weather got slightly warmer. Then there would be hip-deep puddles of sooty water covered in a thin layer of ice just waiting for benighted, well dressed grad students to fall into them.

Aberystwyth is sort of the same way. Its December, so everyone should expect two things: 1) cold weather; 2) precipitation. Now, I have written blogs before about water and the Celsius scale, which is popular over here, so the British should be aware of what low temperatures and water make. Still, the hill was remarkably treacherous as I made my way down, particularly because it had rained eight hours ago, and the sky had cleared by the time I was making my way down the hill. I would have expected all precautions to have been made, particularly on the massive hill that most people in Aberystwyth have to use at some point in the day.

I was sadly mistaken, and found that out in the most unpleasant way possible: with a backpack full of mostly glass Christmas presents. The ice was not very thick, but as anyone who has ever gone outside in the winter knows, it doesn't need to be very thick or very deep to still be slippery. In fact, a thin coating of damp ice is more dangerous that deeply frozen ice, a few inches thick.

By this afternoon, the ice had melted and refrozen into a thin, highly polished danger zone, turning the walk down the hill into a down-hill ski race in my sneakers. I've never tried walking across an ice-arena tilted at a forty-five degree angle wearing special boots of greased ball bearings, but I imagine it would be similar to walking down the hill in this afternoon's conditions. Every time I slipped, and there were several times, I reached out into the air around me, willing myself to find stability in the loose collection of gaseous molecules circulating around me. Which, let me tell you, looks smooth. There is no way to not look cool flailing on what looks to be slightly damp concrete.

And I'll say this about snow in Aberystwyth: seeing the beach covered in snow is an odd experience. Maybe it's because my family and I go to Virginia fairly regularly that I have come to associate sandy beaches with warmth and sunshine, but seeing small little snowy piles on sandy beaches is disconcerting. My friend Jamie said it was like living in a post-apocalyptic war zone, and those are really just piles of ash. Honestly, that makes more sense to me than snow on beaches. I am more comfortable believing that a nuclear bomb went off, showering the world in a thin layer of choking ash than I am to believe that frozen water drops collected on where I used to lay in my bathing suit.

In short: don't live in Illinois - it does strange things to your sense of perception.

Thanksgiving

In America, Thanskgiving has sort of transformed into the first day of Christmas, which is unfortunate. Thanksgiving is free of most controversy and abject materialism, though there is some controversy surrounding the origin, and of course the touchy subject of celebrating a meeting of cultures when one culture was later subjugated and driven from their ancestral land. None the less, it's a nice chance to get together with family or friends and just be happy together - to enjoy each other's company.

My family, thankfully, has never been much on emotional outpourings, and we tend to avoid going around the table and telling everyone, individually, how much we love them. Instead, as my sister Beth is always quick to point out, we say I love you with biting sarcasm and prodding questions. That said, there are several things that I am happy about since this last year has passed, and now is as good as any to list them:

First, it has to be Erika. Though it has not always been easy, things between Erika and I have been considerably better than any other relationship I have been in to date, and over the summer I decided it was better than any I could ever hope to find in the future. I am thankful that I managed to find her (or re-find, as the case be).

But with her has come the unexpected benefit of a fantastic family. Generally, my family has welcomed my significant others with open, loving arms. In some cases, they don't want to let go (in others, they are more than happy to let go). This, however, has not been the case for me. Several times, there has been open enmity between my girlfriends and their family. One particular girlfriend's mother and sister, at times, openly hated me. In contrast to that, I spent the summer living with Erika and her sister, and things went really well. Erika's parents have been particularly excellent, and I find myself talking about literature and translation theory with her father, and gardening and cooking (shut up; I am very much a man) with her mother. While certainly not the reason why I love Erika, it was an unexpected and super-awesome benefit.

Secondly, I am grateful for my family, who I know will read this (because, really, they are the only ones who read this - which, in turn, is something else to be grateful for). I know that this move was not the most popular decision I have ever made (though it was certainly not the least popular; that was a mopey, overly emotional mistake I brought around with me one summer). My Mom was particularly upset, namely because she didn't have anyone she could guilt into mowing the lawn or flipping the thirty pound turkey on Thanksgiving. I moved back in with my Mom during the summers, and between shared cooking responsibilities, going to see a lot of movies, babysitting my sister's kids, and traveling the country on vacations, we had grown a lot closer. Despite disagreeing with this decision with every fiber of her being, she drove me to the airport the day I left (the first day, that is).

Like my Mom, my family has been the biggest cheering section I have had while being here. Again, because this was not the most popular decision, I have to really respect them for taking such an interest in my education. When my supervisor decided to resign earlier in the year, my family rallied, and for a few days I had a huge outpouring of support from all of my internet savvy family members. Even those without Skype have managed, whenever possible, to let me now how much they miss me, and how proud they are of me. Honestly, I am not sure I would have made it this far without my family. Everything I am today is directly tied to my family.

And with that, of course, comes a shout-out to my Grandma, who has not been feeling well, but manages to prove to everyone that she is unbeatable. I wrote a blog a while back about how my family resembles a solar system, and my Grandma is the sun at the center, pulling us all together, casting us in light and giving us the gravitational kick to continue moving. So really, because of her I am who I am today.

Thirdly, I got really lucky with this year's accommodation. Last year was spent with a bunch of first year undergraduates who had both a different perspective on life, and a different set of priorities. This year, I live with twice as many people, but all of them are in about the same walk of life that I find myself. I was deeply afraid that I would be ostracized again, but within a few days I had a new circle of friends. Again, when my supervisor resigned, leaving me with a lot of questions to deal with, my housemates banded together, helping me completely disregard my responsibilities for a weekend while I tried to get my legs underneath me again. For the first time since I left Monmouth, I have a circle of friends that I can share a meal with, and that has become an enormous release point for me with all the stresses throughout the day.

And finally, I am grateful that I get to do what I want to do. I listen to a lot of my people complain about how unhappy and unfulfilled they are with their life or work. Every day, I put my pants on and realize exactly how lucky I am. Sure, I will never make a ton of money reading comics all day long, but I never am upset with what I do. There have been a series of videos circulating the internet recently that feature arguments for or against the study of humanities at the graduate level. These videos tend to either be deeply sarcastic and pessimistic attacks of the uselessness of such and endeavor while the other side tends to sanctimoniously assert some sort of higher truth or calling that is being undertaken. The truth of the matter, as it usually does, lies somewhere between. Certainly, when compared to the doctors or scientist making this world markedly better with their research, reading comic books pales in comparison. But I am a firm believer that good art needs to be appreciated. Teaching people how to appreciate a story, opening minds up to the possibility of various interpretations to art, is a valuable aspiration. Is the life of the mind some sort of higher calling that only the most gifted and messianic people should strive for? No. I am not doing anything special with my life; I am just more tenacious than most.

So, hopefully you'll excuse me for the navel-gazing exercise here, but I wanted those involved in my life to know how important they are. So thanks everyone, and I'll see you all in the trenches.

Late Night Cravings

I am a late night person, and I often find myself hungry, out of my house and out late. Usually, my friends and I would hit a late night diner, or a Steak 'n' Shake for a cheap burger, so fries and/or a shake. Recently, fast food restaurants like McDonalds and Taco Bell have made a killing by being open late, or 24-Hours even, catering to the staggering, zombie-like crowds that roam the streets when decent people have done the decent thing and gone to bed.

My habits, while slightly adjusted, have not changed much while being here in Aberystwyth. I'm not out as late as I used to be, but I still find myself thinking about food after being out with my friends on a Friday or Saturday. The British, though, don't offer the panoply of options that Chicago offers, but the late night food here is starting to grow on me.

Particularly chips (or fries). Generally, after about 9:00, the man source of late-night munchies is the kabab hut, which, in Aberystwyth, there are several. My favorite, and the one closest to my house, is run by a bunch of Turkish guys, and they make probably the best late night craving satisfier: chips and cheese.

Cheese fries are nothing new. Steak 'n' Shake serves up a heaping plate of thin cut fries drowned in plastic-looking, and slightly plastic-tasting, orange cheese (processed from dairy-like substances). Denny's serves the same thing with bacon bits. The cheese fries are a staple for the 2:00 am crowd, but at the Turkish kabab hut, called both Sam's Fried Chicken and Istanbul Kabab House, they serve their chips and cheese with genuine mozzarella and cheddar cheese. There really is something to be said for real cheese on warm chips. They seal the package, and within moments, the cheese melts into the chips, mixing with the salt and malt vinegar for the most deliciously, salty and sweet treat one can get for two pounds.

Today, after playing pool at the local pool hall, my friend Jamie and I hit a place that serves their chips with a sauce. The range of available sauces is not something that one can find in the States. Arby's has three, and certain British style pubs will occasionally leave a bottle of malt vinegar on the table. Generally, the sole option is ketchup. Here, at Lip Lickin', one can get ketchup, mustard, garlic sauce, BBQ, or chili sauce (which is quite hot). I have tried the chili sauce and my poor midwestern white-boy stomach immediately regretted that decision. It had the type of heat that feels like it comes on double sided tape. Each inch of my mouth it touched burned for hours, as the chilies bore through the soft tissue. Tonight, looking to avoid prior mistakes, I went with the BBQ sauce, which was quite enjoyable: smokey, a little peppery, delicious.

When at home, my friends and I would constantly frequent these late night diners, terrorizing the poor waitstaff that had to deal with six to ten rowdy dudes drinking their weight in free refills and chasing off other quieter staff. Especially when I was in high school, Steak 'n' Shake was a great place to hang out: it was warm, realtively unpopulated, came with food and cheap coffee (with a generous free refill policy), and until about my senior year, a smoking section (note for my Grandma: I never smoked, but my friends did; I swear, don't be disappointed). Baker's Square came with the added benefit of pie...tasty, sugary pie.

Most of the kebab houses here lack a seating section, so with our chips in hand, Jamie and I wandered the streets talking about how new planets should be named after Star Wars planets. Eventually, people might come to mistake Star Wars as nonfiction. We reached a small square that is lined with benches, and, despite the weather, sat there eating our chips and imagining a future where people refer to the great American heroes of the past: Luke and Leia Skywalker. This was a surprisingly nice way to enjoy the food. It was a little chillier than I would have liked, but the food keeps you warm, and other people would come and sit around us, hunched over their own Styrofoam containers of chips, burgers, wings or fried chicken pieces.

The one thing I think I miss, though, is a place to get something sweet after hours. The British are not generally sweet eating people, and most table-service restaurants tend not to have the mass of desserts that your average restaurant in America has. There is no Death By Chocolate Cake to be found for miles. And ice-cream seems to be completely relegated to the day time, which is unfortunately. Nothing is more delicious than a milkshake at 2:00 in the morning. If I end up staying here for long, I might open a proper American style diner, serving breakfast 24-hours a day, with pancakes the size of dinner plates and crispy, thick cut bacon that comes with a heart attack standard, along side several ethnic favorites, burgers, fries and shakes. Then the British can experience the joy of ordering a plate of hashbrowns, a gyro, a large chocolate shake and a brownie the size of your fist.

The Weather

I have always been fascinated by the weather. When I attended Southern Illinois University - Carbondale, I used to drive my Mother crazy marveling about the massively disparate weather that one side of the state had compared to the other. When I would be walking home from class in just a sweater mid-February, while my family further north was shoveling out from three feet of snow, I would laugh and laugh. Until, of course, I stayed the whole summer in Carbondale. The humidity, which I thought I had a tolerance for, became stifling. Then, my Mother enjoying the milder, slightly less humid Chicago summers would better enjoy our conversation.

Still, though, the shift that 300 miles in a southern direction could bring was amazing to me. One winter when I drove home from Christmas break it was -30 in the city and just above 25 in De Soto. Of course, the sun had come out a little more, but still: 50 degree temperature difference between two places relatively close to each other on the map.

Now, in Chicago, the joke has always been that if you don't like the weather, you just have to wait. Within the space of a few hours it might go from windy and rainy to sunny and glorious. Generally, though, I have found this to be untrue. Because there is only minimal interference to the weather from the lake and the trade winds seem to behave in fairly predictable ways, the weather in Chicago tends to move in waves, with the temperature gradually moving up and down. The cloud cover and precipitation also tends to follow clearly mapped out behavioral patterns.

Here on the coast of Wales, this is just not the case, and I am having a devil of a time figuring out what to wear each day.

Last week Friday, I looked outside and there was the persistent drizzle that marks the coming of the Welsh winter, but it didn't feel too cold out. My computer suggested it would be about 60 degrees, so I went out in just a t-shirt and took off up the hill toward campus. I immediately regretted this decision. The air was warm, but the rain, despite being very light, was frigid. By the time I decided it would have been a good idea to wear a jacket, though, I was too far up the hill.

I decided then that I was not going to be fooled by weather readings: it was November, I should dress for November. The following Monday, the Monday if this past week, I looked out and saw the sky was covered in a dense layer of thick, gray, foreboding clouds. Again, my computer suggested that it might be around 60, but because the clouds suggested rain, I put on my winter coat and made my way up the hill. Within moments, I regretted this decision. The air was nearly humid, and definitely very warm. As I was climbing the hill, the sun came out, adding its warmth to the already warm air. Suffice it to say, I was a sweaty mess by the top of the hill, which made me look desperate during a meeting in which I needed to not look desperate and sweaty.

In short, the weather here is completely unpredictable. From the windows in the Arts Center, the entire town spreads out at the bottom of the hill, and the sea is easily seen. One need only sit there any day of the week between October and March to see the full panoply of weather sweep by. Today, for instance, it has rained, the wind kicked up a bit, the air temperature has fluctuated between comfortable and cold, and the clouds after alternately swept across the sky, bunched up into his dense masses, and then blown in-land never having dropped one ounce of rain.

The joke about Carbondale was that it was the town where Allergists went to die. Never in my life has I sneezed due to seasonal allergies until I moved to SIU. Having left there, I am similarly unafflicted. If there were a profession that came to die along the Cambrian Coast, it would be meteorologist. The weather for any one day is as unpredictable as, well...there is nothing that acts as chaotically as the weather here. Aberystwyth could be the new cliche for unpredictability.