The Problems of Living in Resort Towns

Late March/Early April is when Wales (or maybe just Aberystwyth) becomes God's country.  The grey blanket that was laid over the seaside town in early October is pulled back, and the sun shines down on the blinking, staggering, rain soaked masses.  People come out, nervously at first, but then in droves.  As soon as the weather gets above 60 (16 in C), the Welsh start stripping their clothes off.  It probably was about 67 (17 or a bit more in C) today, maybe a bit warmer in the sun, and people were laying about the pebbly beaches in bikinis and bathing trunks.  Shirtless young men running about the beach, kicking soccer balls or chasing frisbees, and young women rolling up shirts and shaking the dust of long stored shorts.  The thing is: the sun won't last long.  "I've got my rain coat over here," joked one of my Welsh housemates.  "It could still rain today."

Aberystwyth, nestled between two hills and nearly in the center of the Cardigan Bay, has long been a tourist attraction, and during the Victorian era, this was the premiere getaway for Wealthy English.  They would stroll along the promenade, lunching on the pier (which at that point was a lot longer).  There are pictures in the pier hallways of people in top hats and long dresses meandering down the prominade.  With the exception of some electric lights and signage, not too much has changed in 120 or so years.

Easter is a prime time to visit Aberystwyth.  This time of the year, the shops, pubs and promenade fills with strange voices and accents.  People slowly walking along the shops as if they've never seen a high street before.  This is good for the community, and without this yearly migration of people from inland, Aberystwyth wouldn't be able to do what it does the rest of the year.

It's not like the rest of the year is deathly quiet.  Being a town built around and to support a University, the bars are never hurting for people looking to make bad decisions.  Like the tourists, packs of students meander about town, clogging up the high street with in a slow progression towards Subway and Costa.  Or if at night, scantily clad women, and cologne soaked men twittering down towards Yokos or Pier Pressure.

This one week, though, is a perfect storm for annoyances: young tourists looking to make the most of the sunny day, and students nearly finished with school work before Spring Break hits and they all abscond back home.  It makes for an odd mixture of tiny little children with Midlands accents running away from the waves, and University students swearing at each other and drinking cider by the liter in the early afternoon.  All of them fighting for a bit of pebbly beach  to enjoy in the first bits of warm sun.

It makes doing routine things like grocery shopping or going to Spar especially obnoxious.  I begrudgingly accept that there are not going to be a lot of bench spaces available on days like this, but I find I have little patience for people slowly stumbling about Co-Op looking for the sausages and rolls for an impromptu barbecue.

I know I sound like an old man chasing kids off my lawn, but I can't help it.  I find myself getting unnaturally bristly when I hear people talk about being on vacation here.  After all, they didn't suffer through the three months of pissing rain and winds strong enough to knock the breath out of you.  They didn't deal with the sleet and grey winter that seamless stretches on for weeks.  THEY don't have to clean up the mess once THEY are gone in three weeks.  It doesn't seem right that people who don't live here year round get to enjoy the beach and infringe on my quiet little seafront.  There are times in February when I the benches will go days without anyone sitting in them.  Now that it's nice enough for me, who has waited patiently through the nasty weather, to use them, there's somebody sitting there.  Somebody who drove in for the day.  And who'll just leave once the weather turns again.

But, as I sit here complaining, I realize, just short of saying it, the irony of it all.  I don't live here, per se.  I have an address here, and I certainly am here for other times during the year, but certainly not someone raised in Ceredigion County, having gone to Penglais Comprehensive, speaks Welsh, etc.  I imagine those that live here permanently look at me the same way I look at these opportunistic tourist taking up space on what I feel is my beach.  Damn international students.  Paying with their funny money and taking all our knowledge back home with them. Really, I am just as much a tourist as the people who come down just for the weekend.  My complaints about the tourist could neatly be reflected back at me.

The only difference, an important difference, too, is that they have somewhere to go back to.  Being a student living in two countries, I have no where to go.  Chicago feels like a trip to visit my friends and family, and I certainly lack permanence here in Aberystwyth, having to store all my stuff in a closet when I leave.


This is the heart of it: the tourist make me feel lonely.  You can go visit a place when you have a home.  All of my stuff fits in about two small rooms (one of which can be stored in a closet).  I don't really have a home, per se.  So when people come to visit, it's like rubbing their permanence in my face.  It's been a long time living in temporary conditions, and I am nearing the end of it.  But that end can't come fast enough.

I look forward to the day when I can pile my wife and my dog into the car or train, and nip off to some coastal town where I'll dirty up their beach for a while before going back to my cozy little house stuffed with my furniture and books.