Eat, Love, Pray; or Why It's Awesome to be a Rich White Woman

Eat, Love, Pray was surprising in that I did not hate it as much as I hated other similar movies like Into the Wild. Nonetheless, it was a story that has always bothered me: that of a white person, coming from a wealthy background, who needs to "find" him or her self. This usually entails said white person leaving behind all the worldly possessions so that he or she can co-opt another culture's less materialistic values. In the case of Into the Wild, I was so fed up with the main character, in this case, a well-to-do white man, that actually welcomed his horrific end as a sign that God does exist.

[Note: there are some parts of the plot that are revealed in the below review. If you want to see the movie, avoid reading this next part.]

Elizabeth Gilbert's movie (and I assume memoir) was a little different. It's possible that the movie did not capture the complexities of her life well, and that her problems may have been sincere, but it seemed as if her worst problems were being loved to much and having too much free time. The movie opens with her celebrating the success of her recent novel and her loving, attentive husband talking about how he helped and how good it was. On the ride home, her boyfriend talks about the possibility of going back to school. Granted, at his age, he should probably have decided what he wanted to do, and switching to yet another career path may not have been the most responsible choice in life. It hardly seems like a deal-breaker. Later that same night (supposedly), Gilbert and her husband talk about going to Aruba, Gilbert's next travel location for her job as a travel journalist. There, the two would be able to experience all that Aruba had to offer on the newspaper's dime. Her husband, for some strange reason, opts out of this paid vacation to paradise. That said, Gilbert decides she doesn't want to be married anymore. After getting a divorce from a man that, when pressured, chooses Gilbert as his sole dream in life, she falls into the arms of a young actor (who happens to be starring in her off-Broadway play). The two fall madly in love, and she is showered with the affection of this younger man. Again, though, as this new love interest opens his life to her, taking her on spiritual adventures and loving her with all his might, she finds that she, "doesn't know how to be [with him]."

This was very surprising. By all indications, Gilbert was experiencing success: she had a killer job, her book was best-selling, she was surrounded by friends who cared very much for her, and her husband and boyfriend unflinchingly loved her. Why, then, I wondered as she moaned about her life, eating delicious foods in her enormous apartment, did she want to leave it all to spend a year in Italy, India and Bali?

Here is problem 1: this solution to her problems is only available to her because of her wealth. Had she been a standard working class schmo, she would not have had the money or employment freedom to just pack up and leave for an entire year to jaunt about the globe. She rented an entire house (it seemed) in both Italy and Bali, and though it was indicated that she was living below her usual standard of luxury, she was hardly living a difficult life. In tropical Bali, her two room hut was located near the beach, and didn't need walls. She ate out every night with friends, took day trips from time to time, and despite the force labor of the Ashram she stayed at in India, she did not exchange services for any of the good she purchased. I can't imagine how much such a trip would cost, but cheap is not what comes to mind. She didn't keep all her belongings on her while sleeping in 20 plus bed hostel rooms. She didn't take up a job waiting tables, sharing a one room hovel with six other immigrants. She spent an entire year relaxing: eating delicious foods, experiencing intense spiritual enlightenment, and learning to be happy. Without the money she had, the job she had, or the friends she had, she could not have done any of it.

Which leads me to problem 2: It was because of her wealth that she developed the need to find herself. Working as a travel writer, spending time circling the globe, essentially paid to go on vacation every week: this gave her a lot of money and a copious amount of free time. Because of this, she had different things to think about in her downtime than most. If you have a hefty mortgage, lots of debt, a family or a job that does not make you happy, these things will occupy your thoughts. If you have more money than you need, few debts, a nice house and a fulfilling job, you tend to think more existentially. Less wealthy people don't have the time to "find" themselves; instead, less wealthy people spend their free time trying to overcome the constant stream of hurdles that come between the seldom taken vacations. Existentialist concerns, like learning to love oneself, are the spoils of the wealthy.

It seems to me that Gilbert would have been much happier if she was less successful in life. Had she more worries in her life than how to be loved by other people, she might have noticed how supporting not one, but TWO people had been in her life. She might have seen that she was working a really great job that gave her both the time and artistic freedom to pursue outside interests (like writing a best selling book and an off-Broadway play). She might have seen that she was living a really awesome life, and that she had nothing, NOTHING, to complain about.

Instead, though, the movie-watchers and book-readers are given her life as a cautionary tale. Remember reader and viewers, she seems to say, no matter how good it seems I have it, I am like you: rife with turmoil. Here is a woman who is courageous enough to stand up and say, enough. I am tired of leading a fulfilling life to which I am completely culpable. I will not wake up to the loving embrace of either a doting husband, or an attentive boyfriend. I will not spend time with adoring friends and co-workers. I will not get caught up in the rigmarole of the job everyone wishes they could have. Despite these hindrances, Gilbert shows us that even she can be happy. All she had to do was remove herself from this life that she made herself and realize that those with less than her (say, a near broke medicine man with no teeth, but a ever-present-smile) are really happy. It's true: the people with which she experienced life for a year were generally happy, but that was because their circumstance did not allow for the navel-gazing self-reflection that Gilbert's life allowed. The medicine man was not worried about how he could make his inner soul happy; he was worried about where the next meal was going to come from. Despite that very real problem, he managed to happy; and in this way, he was the real hero of the story.

If you listened closely, that was the message of Eat, Love, Pray, but you had to listen REALLY carefully (including blocking out all the toasts to her wonderfulness and the third, THIRD, man who fell unbelievably in love with Gilbert).

As I tried this rant out on Erika on the ride home from the theater, Erika said after a moment, "Isn't that why you went to Wales? To find yourself?" I was struck by that. It was, in fact, a reason I went to Wales. I was tired of my life in Illinois that, in retrospect, was pretty okay. I was finishing up a degree, I had lots of friends, and a very, large loving family. What was I running from? Of course, I am working during my three year vacation, and most of my time is spent trying to make different ends meet in a new place. Still, what might be most upsetting about this movie is not how much her problems irk me, but how much her story reflects my own.

Whatever, I thought to myself, I am still going to enjoy my trip to Norway next year. I need to learn how to make myself happy by touring the fjords.

Comic Con: The Presentation

On Sunday, it was safe to say I was a wreak. My entire summer thus far had been leading up to this day, and here I would make a splash (so to speak) in the comic academic community.

So maybe splash is not the right word to describe the tiny little bit of impact I would make on an already tiny subset of a tiny community. Maybe something more like...drip. Or, to hold to the aquatic theme, ripple. Regardless, I had good reason to be nervous. The presentation room held 210 people (roughly) and if even a quarter of those people showed up, it would be more than twice the size of my largest presentation to date. And though the Aberystwyth University English Department Graduate Conference is illustrious, the 40th Annual International Comic-Con draws a slightly wider, more prestigious crowd.

Erika and I made our way over to the convention center where, for the fourth day running, we battled with the City of San Diego in a silent war for our parking money. The regular rates had been jacked up anywhere between $5 and $10, and what was usually free on Sunday's now cost upwards of $25. My father raised me never to pay for what I could get for free, so we usually trolled the streets looking for street parking, which was at a greatly reduced rate. With my nerves on edge, I called a truce with San Diego and paid $15 for something that should have been free (at least, I told my Dad's watching spirit, it wasn't $25), and met my friend Jonathan and his girlfriend Lisa for breakfast.

I had a pretty delicious sandwich and a large tea, which, having spent time in Wales, has become my go-to relaxation drink. I bought a huge box of teabags at the grocery store at the end of summer and have taken to drinking a mug or two a day here in Chicago. Some friendly chatter and time in the sunshine detracted me nicely from the looming task at hand.

There was an added problem that I should probably address here: I was consciously long. I was given 20 minutes, and I prepared 30. Considering that the two presenters had roughly 50 minutes for both of us, I figured I could trim some as I went, but still hit just past the twenty-minute mark. This would cut the Q & A time short, and as you will later see, this could have been helpful. So, as we made our way over to the convention center, I started to worry about what ten minutes I was going to pull from my presentation.

After taking Jonathan and a much-amazed Lisa around the floor, the four of us made our way to 26AB - the room of my presentation. The previous presentation panel was still on, something about queer comics, and I had the "privilege" to sit through the last speakers paper on man/boy homoerotic Japanese comics, which left me wondering why he no longer taught high school history. Granted, I was only half listening, as I spent most of my time cutting whole pages from my paper.

The panel ended, and as the people milled about, I made my way to the speakers dais. There was a placard - and honest to God placard - with my name on it, and a microphone for questions. This was, it quickly dawned on me, the real deal. This was the big time for academic comic nerds. I had reached the highest I could reach (save for a Saturday presentation), and one thought burst through my racing mind: I am not ready for this.

Suddenly, like a rampaging army of Huns riding elephants, uncertainty sacked my previous aplomb, burned my confidence to the ground and raped my equanimity. The room, to my now gaping horror, continued to fill with people. Smart looking people, dress smartly and carrying smart looking notebooks filled with smart questions.

As I sat there, quietly falling into despair, something both wonderful and horrible happened: another panelist was added. Peter Coogan, the director of the Comic Arts Conference, told us, rather offhandedly, that another panelist was added (with some disdain, he withheld the reason, which leads me to believe, and with some justification, that she complained until getting her way), and that I needed to cut five more minutes from my paper (which was really now 15, or if you are doing the math, half of what I had in front of me).

The problem here grew from annoying to serious. I already had concerns that my paper lacked solid connections, and now I was given enough time to summarize the cobbled mess I had before me. While one might assume that this problem would lead me to further anxiety, quite the opposite was true.

Sure, I was still fairly (read: excessively) nervous, but now there was a task at hand: rewrite 17 somewhat cohesive pages, into a concise 8 page argument. Like a closer who comes in the ninth, with a one run lead and a winning run on second, I no longer saw the arena I was in, and was more focused on me, my presentation, and the mental exercise in front of me.

As I half listened to the first presentations - the one, added last minute, to my great annoyance/salvation which pit Wonder Woman and Tank Girl in a physical battle (Fan Boy nonsense, if you ask me), and the other which presented Captain America as the American ideal (an interested paper from a fellow scholar) - I cut away more pages and tried to tie up lose ends whenever possible. Before I knew it, my time had arrived.

The actual presentation went by in a blur, but when I watched the five minutes that Erika recorded, I was struck by how fast I spoke. It didn't feel that fast, but there is irrefutable evidence that it was, in fact, really fast. Regardless, it was well-received. Either because I was last, or because my presentation was, as the Brits say, aces, I fielded the most questions. Afterward, I answered some more questions, gave out business cards, and told others how they too could use the amazing free software I used for my presentation (which can be seen here).

There was really only one glitch to the whole thing, and that arose at the very end of my presentation. See: I claimed that Marvel was revising Captain America and the rest of the heroes to better speak to the fears of others, having the revised heroes resemble this generations Iron-Man. As I finished making this point, and I took my seat for questions, before Coogan could begin moderating the questions, one rather large woman from the back shouted at me: "I disagree with your entire premise!" She then had to repeat this, as no one could hear her over the shuffling of presenters. As she did, she went on to explain that Marvel polled their readers, and the poll showed Captain America to be more popular. Seeing as I was commenting on how Marvel saw their heroes in the world, I was a little concerned how a popular poll could disprove my premise (as I really didn't care what people thought), so I asked for clarification. She reiterated that people liked Captain America more, so my interpretation of the two characters as metaphors was invalid.

As you are confused reading this, I was thus confused. I finally answered that polls are always suspect, and I would be happy to talk more about this with her afterward so that we could move on to another question. As the next person asked me a question, one that was more relevant to what I was talking about, she stormed out of the room, never to be seen from again.

Though, as I left the room, on my way to lunch, I was not so sure she wasn't waiting there to knife me. Beside that question, though, and the resultant fear that came with it, I would say my first presentation at Comic-Con went fairly well.

Between Fredrick, MD and Virginia Beach, Va.; or, Why I Won't Buy a Nissan

Having made the late night trek to Monroeville, PA the night before, Erika, my sister Katie and I, after a nice visit with some friends in Fredrick, MD, made for the final destination of our trip: Virginia Beach, VA, and the Leg 'a Sea house. It was an overcast day, not much to write about really. Even the often hectic trip around DC proved uneventful, with only a few spots that required a slowing of traffic.

Between Washington DC and Richmond, VA, stretches a vast eight-lane superhighway that, at times, has taken travelers more than four hours to cover the 108 mile stretch. During the summer, it is particularly hot and horrible, as the sun can beat down on the concrete baking the cars and drivers below. On Saturday, the road was just such a hot day, which made the only major hitch in our travels that much more annoying.

At mile marker 156, the 2008 Nissan Versa my mother bought stalled. It was as if someone had switched the car into neutral: no matter how much I pushed the gas, the engine continued to slow to idle. While that would have been annoying in any situation, a crowded summer highway makes it down right perilous. As my car slowed to idle, I put the blinkers on, and tried to figure out how to maneuver my tiny Versa through the speeding traffic filled with SUVs and trucks. Blessedly, a long-haul trucker behind me noticed the blinkers, and slowed behind me, creating a passing lane to get at the right-hand shoulder. Had my car stalled a few yards earlier, I would have been able to come to a rest underneath an overpass for Dale Blvd., but as it was, I rolled to a stop in the blazing sun, just shy of mile marker 157.3.

We put our heads together and decided to use the AAA card my mother had to get a tow truck to drag us off the highway. The dispatcher was worried that we were on the highway, and made us a priority emergency. Within a half hour, I was told, a tow truck was coming to get us and take us to a nearby mechanic. Because we had three people and a dog, and because the average tow truck can hold a maximum of two people, a taxi was also sent for us. We piled out of the car to wait by the side of the road in the heat.

In this age of cellphones, I was not too surprised that no one stopped to see if we were okay. I was slightly alarmed at the number of people who used the vacuum our stalled car made to pass trucks and other considerate motorist who pulled to the left seeing a stalled vehicle. What was really surprising was the complete lack of state troopers. In the half hour that we all stood cooking on the highway, not a single officer stopped to make sure we were okay (nor did any drive by). At least in Illinois, that is one thing commonly found at the sites of stalled cars: state troopers ensuring the safety of the stranded motorists.

The taxi arrived first and took Erika, Katie and the dog to the AAA suggested mechanic. Ten to fifteen minutes later, the tow truck came. It was a massive flatbed wrecker with an extended cab. The driver got out and looked incredulous:
"You call AAA?"
"Yeah."
"Can I see your card?"
He examined the card.
"Weren't there three of you?"
"Yeah, but a taxi came to get them."
He stared at me.
"But I have an extended cab. I can take five people. Man...that sucks."
Why was this important? The cab driver may have exploited our out of town status to take a slower route to the mechanic, thus Erika was sidled with a $20 taxi ride. The taxi driver was quite distressed about this and called the AAA people to let them know that Old Dominion towing could take up to five people and he would have been happy to take the dog, too. That was nice of him, and just the first of the several nice things the tow driver did, and several others did.

On the way to the mechanic, the driver talked pleasantly of the surrounding area and his commitment, at times violent, to his children's education. As we were about to pull into one mechanic shop, I got a call saying that Erika and Katie had seen us go by. I was suspicious that the tow driver might have been trying to extend the ride so that he could charge us for some mileage that AAA wouldn't cover (which was three miles). He checked his phone and said that the tow location had been switched and he apologized for the misunderstanding, taking us immediately the Merchant Tire and Auto in Woodbridge, VA. When we got there, I asked how we were going to settle the dispute, ready to call AAA to complain about the roundabout trip. Without prompting, he decided to use the GPS to track the distance from the highway exit to the garage. It came out to 3.1 miles, and he called it even at 3, and the tow was free (thanks to AAA).

Once the truck was off the bed of the wrecker, I located the warranty card. My mother had purchased the extended warranty of the car, so that supposedly the car should have been fixed for free. This is only true, though, if we took it to the Nissan dealer. The garager, Merchants Tire and Auto in Woodbridge, VA, was nice enough to allow us to call Nissan and get things squared away with them. Nissan road side assistance sent another tow truck (which our AAA tow driver balked at; he, for some reason, remained behind to make sure that we made it home, offering us cheap deals for tows and rides places). While I talked with the Nissan people, the mechanics are Merchant checked to see if it was something minor, like a fluid issue (transmission or something similar), but unfortunately, the engine in the Versa is densely packed and no one could tell a thing without taking pieces out (which would have voided our warranty). It was agreed that towing it to Nissan would be the best idea.

During this whole time, the mechanics at Merchants were extremely nice. They suggested that they take a look, and bill Nissan, but, again, that would have voided our warranty. They let Erika, Katie and my dog loiter in their waiting area while I was on and off the phone. The looked up phone numbers and offered helpful advice. Really, for people who were not making any money from us, they were extremely nice. Actually, for anyone, they were extremely nice.

Here, though, the story takes a turn for the annoying. I called the local Nissan dealer to say that our car was coming and to see if they could take a look at the car that day. The service manager acted as if I had asked to sleep with his mother while he video taped. Evidently, they closed at 5:00 that night and could not get to it until Monday. He hung up thereafter. This hangup would become problematic later.

So, the car was going to be stranded at the very rude Woodbridge Nissan service station. Next step: get us a car to get to Virginia Beach from Woodbridge. When I called my mother to give her an update about the situation, she suggested calling Nissan to get the free rental that our warranty provides. It was 5:02. Here was a chance for Nissan to show that exceptional customer service that the commercials suggest they have. Unfortunately, the Nissan dealership decided today was not going to be a good customer service day.

The receptionist informed me that the service department was closed, and unfortunately the dealt with the issue of rental cars. There seemed to me to be a solution that I was just not seeing, and which the receptionist was not aware. Trying hard not to explode, I asked if there was someone else I could talk to. She transferred me to the sales manager who gave me a number to call. This number took me back to Nissan Roadside assistance, who told me that the dealership should take care of the rental, and if told to call back, inform the dealer that they, not Roadside Assistance, needed to give me a rental. I was, officially, in a run-around.

I went back into the place to collect my thoughts, and converse with the rest of my traveling party. There, I found a factory-like environment, where several people were on phones, surfing the internet, people milling about: all of them (save Erika, Katie and my dog) strangers; all of them trying to get me to my vacation. Kim, the manager of the mechanic shop was calling rental car places, looking for somewhere near by; one of the mechanics was on the phone with a friend of his who knew someone who operated a taxi service; the tow truck driver was consulting my sister on various options he could provide; and so on. It was sort of amazing. The people of the greater Woodbridge and Dale City area were surprisingly helpful, especially since none of these people owed me or my family anything. I was essentially wasting their time, using their resources and they were not going to get anything from me. Regardless, everyone was really helpful.

Sometimes, too helpful. I told my sister and Erika that it was unlikely that Nissan was going to give us a rental car, thus the previously unplanned Option B was necessary. The tow truck driver (now still with us for about an hour and a half) chimed in.
"Give me the number," he said.
"Thanks, but what we need to now do is figure out how to get a rental car."
He smiled. "Oh. You'll get one."
I was urged my Erika and my sister to give him the number, insisting that he, as a local, might hold more clout.
"Hi," he begins, "I'm a tow trucker and my last drop is stranded and they need to get to their destination and there is no way for them to get home..." He had, essentially, the same conversation I did with the receptionist, though it ends much different when he was transferred to the sales manager.
"This is the worst car company I have ever dealt with, and I am never going to give you my business," he yelled. "Who do I work for?" At that, he hung up the phone, rather proud of himself.
"Those people are rude. But I told them I was never giving them my business and that they were the worst car dealership ever. When he asked who I worked for, I hung up on him."
He acted like he took a punch for us. Certainly, I was grateful for the effort, but really, I worry that he did more harm than good. Our car needs to go to the dealership, and now our car is associated with the crazy out-of-towners who had a tow truck driver call and yell at them.

And still, we had no way to get from Woodbridge to Virginia Beach, a distance of 190 miles or so. It seems while I was dealing with Nissan, Erika reserved a car with Enterprise, who, as the advertisements say, will come and pick us up. This was extremely forward-thinking, and finally we had some direction to move in. Excellent.

Unfortunately, like the Service Center of the Nissan dealership, all (and let me stress this...ALL) of the car rental places were closed. Evidently, in Woodbridge, no one's car broke down or no one needed to rent a car after 5:00 PM. The only place to rent a car was the airport in DC, an hour in the wrong direction from where we needed to go. With a plan set (i.e. get a rental car), the shop burst into action. Mechanics and managers scrambled to get numbers of car dealerships, direct lines to rental places, taxis, and so on. It was determined that, in fact, nothing could be done, and we needed to take a taxi to the Metro station, train it into DC and walk to the Enterprise Rental place at the airport.

Until everyone realized we had a dog. Then there was a brief but unsatisfactory flurry of excitement as people tried to figure out if dogs could ride the DC Metro. Finally, someone confirmed a taxi could be obtained for $65-$70 and they would take us to the airport. Finally, we were on our way.

The taxi driver was extremely nice, sped the whole way there, and had us pay right when we get there so that he could wait for free as the car was pulled up. He even offered to drive us, free of charge to the car in the garage. That wasn't necessary as the Enterprise Rental people picked us up from our location at the front of the garage, no problem (picking us up from Woodbridge, though, was a considerable problem). On the way from Woodbridge to DC, the taxi driver asked where our car was, and we said the Nissan dealership.
"Oh man," he said with a soft, north Indian accent, "that place is no good man. No good."
What does it say about a place when a random taxi driver has nothing good to say, and instead only vehemently bad things to say, about your company? I would guess, your PR department needs to work overtime for a while.

Once at Enterprise, I was immediately offered water, and the young man at the counter promptly and immediately took care of us. He was great. We talked amiably about weather, cars, his uncle that lives not too far from where we are staying and so on. We went to go look at the cars on the lot while I went to unpack the taxi. Erika stood around charging her phone when he came back, and I realized an immediate benefit to having an attractive girlfriend: when I left, I was supposed to get a sedan; when Erika came back, I had a Chevy HHR (which, as the pictures demonstrate, was a great vehicle for the beach). I don't what Erika said, or rather, how she said it, but we got a free upgrade to a cross-over, and we were ready to be on our way.

After a brief detour through the airport because the signage was not clear, we took the first step to finishing our trip. I am not necessarily sure that I would ever buy a Nissan or trust in their warranty (which should read: you can be helped so long as you are stranded at a convenient time), but I cannot say enough nice about the people of Virginia where, as Tennessee Williams wrote, you can always depend on the kindness of strangers (for an excellent Simpsons reference to said Williams play, see the episode where Marge was Blanche DuBois, Ned Flanders was Stanley Kowalski, and they turned the "I can always depend on the kindness of strangers" bit into the final song).

Surroundings

There is a lot that I have to look forward to when returning to Chicago. Seeing my family, going on vacation, presenting at Comic-Con, seeing Erika and my other friends, and so on: these intangible things are certainly something to look forward to. I am also looking forward to the comforts of the familiar. Seeing the places that I have come to know as my own: eating Papa's Pizza, driving down Nassau Ave., walking around the streets of Chicago, looking out at Lake Michigan. These familiar places will bring a flood of happy memories, and it will feel, for a time, less alien than where I live know.

But one thing, for sure, I will miss is the natural surroundings. Northern Illinois, like most of Illinois, is not particularly hilly. There is a beauty to rolling fields of corn and soy, dotted by the occasional small town, with all of it's quaint small town feel, but the beauty is not as awe inspiring as the steep cut hills the run into the ocean surrounding Aberystwyth.

The sea-side village, like most sea-side villages in Western Wales, is build between the shoulders of two hills: Constitution Hill and Pen Dinas. The town then spreads up a third hill at the back end: Pen Glais. The campus is built near the top of Pen Glais, and the town is built at the foot of the hill. This, as my pictures on Facebook will attest to, provide me with a hell of a view. From my room, I can see the ocean spread out below me, and a good chunk of the Western parts of town, which turn to twinkling stars at night. Pen Dinas stands imposingly to the South, and Constitution Hill hides behind the forest that is visible to the North.

In town, there is not a lot of greenery, as the town was built before cars were really popular, and a lot of the streets reflect that. British housing does not place a premium on a front yard, so must of the houses' front doors empty onto the sidewalk, which tends to be a paved area that stretches the short distance between the house and the street. Most of the natural life can only be found in the back gardens of people's houses. Because some of these houses are terraced, and built into the side of a hill, this provides from some really interesting, multilayered gardens, with stairs and cut terraces. When I can see into the back yards of people's houses, I am always amazed at the ingenuity and beauty of these small urban gardens.

Though the town proper lacks greenery, the surrounding landscape is nothing but. Unlike the manicured naturescapes of the city (see Grant Park or Central Park), the wilderness around Aberystwyth is just that: wilderness. The county seems to have taken an effort to ensure that there is natural beauty available to the towns people, provided by way of the Penglais Nature Park, Constitution Hill and the Coastal Path.

I can cut through the Penglais Nature Park to get into town, and if it hasn't rained, I often do. When I got here in the winter, it was a quiet place, with low dense shrubs and tall barren trees. The trees here look old, gnarled and twisted towards the sun with few low branches. Since the spring has come, I was surprised to see how many of these trees flowered. Many of the smaller trees grew enormous pink flowers that stayed on the trees for a solid month. These bloomed in late February, well before the trees started to bud, heralding the coming of Spring. Then, once the trees had sprouted leaves, and the flowering trees presented their flowers, the floor of the forest was covered in bluebells. This was not something I had ever seen before: acres of blue bells carpeting the ground between the trees, providing a lovely fragrance to the forest. According to Wikipedia (the world's knowledge), a dense covering of bluebells is an indication of an ancient forest, and that 70% of the common bluebells are found here in England. This makes my experience particularly unique. If anyone happens to be coming over to Wales for any reason, I would suggest doing so in May, as the bluebells of Penglais Nature Park are really something to see.

Constitution Hill, which can be accessed through footpaths from Penglais Nature Park, is probably the most popular natural attraction in Aberystwyth, and for good reason. Sitting at the North end of town, the hill is tall, but not overly imposing (though, if you read my early blog posts, it was quite imposing for a plainsmen like myself when I first arrived). There are two ways up: taking the footpath that zig-zags up the mountain, keeping to a moderately easy incline, or the ancient train car that is dragged up the hill via an enormous engine mounted at the top. The views from the top are unrivaled by any in Aberystwyth, including Pen Dinas. The entire city is laid out before you. There is a nice little restaurant at the top from which you can sit and look out onto the town below. The hill itself offers every type of terrain Aberystwyth has to offer, with a slate cliff face to the west, and rolling grassy fields to the North and East. The South end of the hill is covered by the thorny shrubs common to the rocky hills; these shrubs grow to about six feet tall and border the footpath down, giving it a bit of a claustrophobic feel. If one were wanted to experience the natural beauty of Western Wales, one could do worse than Constitution Hill.

The Coastal Path is just that: a path that stretches along the coast of the Cardigan Bay, or at least the part of Cardigan Bay within Ceredigion County (pronounced: care-a-DIG-ee-on). The Northernmost town is Ynyslas (pronounced, I believe: in-IS-las), and the Southernmost is Cardigan. Some sections are closed due to legal proceedings, but essentially, but essentially there is 62.1 mile path that walks along the water. This is no easy path, like the zig-zaggy path up Constitution Hill. At the beginning of the Southern arm from Aberystwyth, the path shoots straight up the side of a hill. The path is dented with footprints that double as stairs for the climbers making their way to the top.

This path, though, if the walker is up to it, will offer some of the most incredible views available. The path is dotted by hills that run straight into the ocean. This hills usually have sheer, or near-sheer slate cliff faces. On the inland side of the path, the walker is shown the rolling hills of Wales, dotted and pockmarked by farms and sheep. The fields have been divided by privet hedges, turning the hills into a green mosiac that stretches off as far as the eye can see. There are streams and rivers that run through the hills, and a few waterfalls (though, none that are really super impressive on the scale of, say, Niagara). I've taken the path North as far as Clarach Bay Holiday Village, and as far South as the Holiday Village to the South parallel to Conrah. I hope, in the next few days, to take it as far as the sandy beaches of Borth, but that's a five mile walk, and requires more planning and time than I have had.

The path is, for the most part, clearly marked. It does cut through several fields owned by local farmers. Because of this, the path is broken up by staggered benches built into a fence that allow the walker to scale the fence safely. Often times, then, these fields will be in use. On my walk South, I was surrounded by sheep and cows, literally. At one point, a small herd of cows followed me sniffing out food until I had to scale a fence to continue on my way. Because the land ownership rules in Wales are much different than in the States, this was an unusual experience, and sort of thrilling. At one point, as I was cutting through a sheep field (sheep, by the way, are far to skittish to come around intruders; cows, though, are far more curious, and will pack up around you), I spotted a farmer on an ATV in an adjacent field. Nevermore was I aware of being surrounded by someone's property than right then. He spotted me, too, but just kept to his business, used to seeing people use his Western fields for conveyance.

All in all, one thing I was not expecting when I journeyed here was the proximity to breathtaking natural beauty. I knew about the forest and Constitution Hill from the brochure, but the rest of this has been, simply, amazing.

Soccer as Real Life

I watched a soccer game here between two teams I can't remember, but I think came from other countries in Europe. My Irish housemate was explaining to me that the last ten minutes were going to be pretty boring (by his standards) because the two teams were tied. Both teams benefited from the tie, so neither was necessarily going to make a move to break that, risking the loss. It seemed that the tie would award both teams the points needed to advance to something else. I really wasn't paying too much attention due to the mind-numbing boredom that watching a bunch of shorted men run around idly kicking a ball back and forth will bring about.

This was interesting: neither team wanted to take the risks necessary for a win, and both seemed complacent enough to settle for a tie. Most American sports cannot end in a tie (there are rare moments in football when the game, much to Donovan McNabb's surprise, can end in a tie, and hockey can often end in a tie). When the baseball All-Star game ended in a tie, fans went berserk, and a new rule was instituted so that the winning division gets home field advantage for the World Series to prevent such an atrocity from happening again (which lead to a really exciting game where both the American and National leagues had run out of pitchers and were thinking about trotting J.D. Drew and David Wright out for a few innings apiece). Essentially, America wants to see a winner. A tie is just as bad as losing, because no one can be crowned and hailed as the winner. This has led to some amazing sports moments: triple-over time basketball games, 21 inning baseball games, grueling sudden death overtime football games, shoot outs in non-tying hockey games, etc. America loves the heroes that come from these rare moments of athleticism where the man or woman reaches down deep to some undiscovered reserve of ability to pull the game out for his or her team.

The same is not true of soccer, and I found out, British people in general.

This past Sunday, I wandered down to Scholars for the Sunday night quiz, and Tyler's Freedom Dragons, smaller than usual, put up a good fight. We were about in the middle of the pack going into the Wipeout Round, the last round of the quiz. Here, a team needs to answer all questions correct to earn an extra five bonus points; consequently, any wrong answers took all the points away for that round. With 15 extra points, we could have made a stab at winning the game. This is highly unlikely, as most of the questions in this round are REALLY esoteric, but not beyond the realm of possibility. My attitude was to answer as many as we could justifiably guess at, and hope for the best; Jamie, one of the two British people looked instead to score as many points as he knew we could, and aim for the middle of the pack, rather than risk losing all our points and end up near the bottom.

This seemed insane to me. Some of the questions we had whittled it down to two or three possible answers. In these situations, there is an obvious course of action: go for the win. Attack the jugular, take no prisoners, shoot first and ask questions later, and so on. I saw an risky opportunity to move up into the top three, with the potential to win the game with some calculated risks; Jamie wanted to walk away in the middle of the pack, knowing that at least we didn't lose. But, I wanted to argue, we didn't win either.

It seemed to be a question of dignity. Jamie wanted to say that he finished above last place. That he wasn't the worst team in the bar, which I can certainly understand as no one wants to lose anything. My argument was that there were no prizes for second place, that no one wins without trying, that we don't necessarily lose with the worst score, but we still lose. Certainly, there is some dignity maintained by tying for the middle team, but as far as I was concerned, there was lost dignity for not having the balls to take the risk and try to win.

It's interesting to me how these attitude pervade everything we do: the British never want to lose, and will settle for a tie as then they don't have to lose; Americans want to win and settling for a tie is conceding to a lack of winner. Whether it's a Premiere League soccer match or a local pub quiz, if I don't at least try to win, I feel like I let myself, my team, and, depending on the stage, my country down. It would be interesting to see if these same attitudes can be seen elsewhere: politics, education, foreign relations and so on.

For Abi

I went to visit of friend of mine in London this week while I was doing some research at the British National Library. Alex works for Secondlife.com, which is cool; but his wife, Sarah, works for the State Department, interviewing applicants who want a visa to enter the US. This is not a job I could do. She has to review applicants all afternoon, approving or rejecting based on a set of criteria that she needs to nearly instantly assess. I would grow very bored of this very quickly, and start giving the applicants more interesting reasons for rejection.
"Sorry, the US is full up on Nepalese. Have you tried Iran? I hear Iran needs Nepalese people."
"America does not recognize your existence, or the existence of anyone named Augustus. I'm sorry, sir. That name has too many negative connotations for Americans."
"You want to get into the US wearing that shirt? Come on, man! This is the land of reality television superstars and strip-malls. There is no way you fit in in these clothes."
And so on. I would find it funny, but I doubt the American government would agree.

Despite having the ability to do so, Sarah never once flagrantly broke the law claiming diplomatic immunity. Not even for something small, like jaywalking, or stealing a Twix bar, but things I would have done.
"Excuse me...American needs this Wispa Bar. Diplomatic immunity."
I guess in larger countries, like England and Japan, there are scads of diplomats that don't do much more than interview potential visa applicants. In her last post, Bulgaria, she had more responsibility and the jobs were far more interesting: working with people to develop laws and what not. The only drawback: she lived in Bulgaria. Sofia, Bulgaria; not the most forward thinking of places, or uncorrupt places to live. Simple things like getting the internet up and running is very complicated.

One thing that Sarah and Alex did bring back from Bulgaria was their cat, Pavel (or Havel...I never got a good listen to the name). She was a street cat, found as a kitten, begging for food. Having since moved in with Alex and Sarah, she has adopted a rather prissy attitude, and was not exactly sure what to think of me. We had a tenuous relationship.

The first night, she spent several minutes sniffing me, thoroughly learning the nuances of my odors. When she was finished with that, she would make sure to keep an eye on me as Alex and I talked. Alex noted that, if I left my door open, the cat would likely curl up in the room and sleep with me. I am always a fan of cuddly animals. My dog was incredibly snuggly, and feeling a warm little body pressed against you is really comforting.

When I went to bed, I wasn't particularly tired. I left the door cracked open and read for awhile. After some time, I felt like something was staring at me. I looked around, and there was the cat, about an arms length away, sitting in the middle of the floor fixated on me. I moved over, leaving some space for it to jump up on the bed if it decided, and continued reading. A chapter or two later, I looked over and the cat was still sitting there, unblinking. Just watching. By this point, I started to worry that the cat was not watching me, but waiting for me to make a mistake that she could pounce on. I reached my hand out to let her sniff it and she slowly trotted out of the room.

I turned the light off and settled in for sleep, a long day of research ahead of me at the National Library. Not long after the lights went out, I heard the strangest noise coming from the hall, like someone had the cat by the tail, and was dangling said cat into a deep, resonant bowl. It was a mournful, throaty whine. I turned the lights on and the cat jogged back into the room. I held my hand out for it to sniff. Pavel took a sniff, and then, eyes locked on mine, took a swing at my hand. Dogs like to fight, and have a distinct stance that the dog will take when it wants to play fight or actually kill you. Cats seem to lack this posture. I looked for something to dangle and the cat pounced on it. We played for a little bit, and then I decided I needed to sleep. The cat was left the room once the lights were out, and I slept the rest of the night undisturbed.

The next day, I guess the cat decided I was only for playing with. I went to pet the cat several times, and each time I reached my hand out it took a swing at me. Unlike most cats I have known in my life, Pavel was not declawed, and thus left lots of little scratches on my hands and arms. Getting cut up by a cat becomes less fun quickly, so I didn't spend to much time "playing" with her. The rest of the day was spent with Sarah and Alex, and the cat was far more interested in them than me.

The last day, I woke while Alex was in the shower, and the cat was curled up on a blanket. I sat near her and went to pet her, again, allowing her to sniff me first. Again, she took a swing at my hand, looking her cat eyes on mine. I was really not interested in this sort of game, so I pulled my hand away. Then, feeling slighted, the cat slicked her ears to her head and hissed loudly at me. That was the end of our brief relationship. I know it pains it to know, but I decided with that hostile gesture that this cat and I were never going to be friends. From there on out, I spent the rest of the trip ignoring her. Take that cat.

I have never been much of a fan of cats. I don't understand why you would invite an animal into your house that makes it known with every fiber of its being that it doesn't like you (and it thinks itself better than you). Cats are like really annoying roommates that crap on the floor and openly hate you. Pavel has done little to dissuade me of this opinion.

Service Industry

In America, people expect good service. At restaurants, you expect to get your food quickly. At the store, you expect the cashier to be pleasant and courteous. The only workers that are historically known to be problematic are government workers. For some reason, Americans will undergo significantly poorer service at the DMV than at TGIFridays.

I have worked in the service industry in a variety of ways, most recently as a cashier at Borders Books and Music. As a cashier, I had to stand behind the counter, promptly greet the customer, smile, make small talk, answer questions and concerns and so forth. From time to time I was graded on this by secret shoppers who looked to see if I close the sale using the customer's first name (if he or she used a credit card), if I smiled and welcomed them to the store, how pleasant I was and so on. These grades would then be posted in the store for all the other employees to see, and were used as a determining factor for raises and promotions.

Other stats about me were tracked as well: how many customers I pressured to signing up for Borders Rewards, how many people I convinced to donate books to charity, and so on. I was good at my job, and nearly set the record for donations during the Christmas season. I also was more than compliant with the Borders Rewards, often exceeding the percentage of new sign-ups I was to hit in each shift.

In Wales, things are much different. Much different. And this is something that I have not quite gotten used to.

Today, for instance, I wanted to get a train ticket to London. The first time I went to do this, getting tickets for Erika and I to go to and from London her trip out her in March, I must have gotten the best employee there. I told her the trip I was looking to make, and she helped me get the cheapest tickets available. The man that was working today was less than helpful. In fact, he was almost indignantly unhelpful.

I approached the counter and the ticket agent was standing on the other side of the glass window with his back to me. The person he was talking to gestured that I was standing there, but he felt it was necessary to finish his conversation before he addressed my concerns. After a few moments, he turned, and said, "Yes, please;" the typical British greeting at the point of sale.
"Hi, I need a ticket for the 11th or 12th, which ever is cheaper. To go to London."
He stared at me for a minute. Then, he said, "Well, which day?"
"The 11th or the 12th," I replied.
"But which day do you want to go out on?"
I was confused. It seemed that I was being clear: I wanted the cheapest ticket for either day.
"Either day. I just want the cheapest ticket possible."
"Well, you have to pick a day. We have to start with a day."
At this point, I would have pulled up the 11th, and started looking for train tickets. In fact, by this point, he could have answered my question had he done exactly that.
"Fine," I said, "Let's look at the 11th first."
"Okay. Which train?"
Really? I thought. Did I not make it clear that I wanted the cheapest fare to London on that day.
"Which ever train is cheap."
"We have seven trains. And you need to tell me which one."
I was getting really annoyed at this point. It seemed to me that he was being willfully unhelpful. Had I been at a train station in the States, I would have asked to speak to a manager, and demanded something be done about this. But, I took a deep breath and continued to try and deal with this man.
"I don't know. The afternoon."
"What time? We have seven trains that leave at all times through out the day."
I couldn't believe the tone this guy was taking with me. It was as if he was talking to a seven year trying to explain to them why they couldn't fly. I understand the way the train system works: trains leave at one time and arrive at another. That isn't my concern. My concern was that I wanted a cheap ticket.
"Listen," I said, trying to remain calm and not seem like a boorish American, "I don't know what time the trains leave. I just need a cheap ticket on this day for London."
He looked at me and audibly sighed, as if I was inconveniencing him, keeping him from whatever conversation I interrupted a few minutes prior to that. "Half one or half three..."
"The first one," I said, cutting him off.
"Rail card?"
"No."
"Just the single?"
"No, I need a return ticket." Buying a return ticket is sometimes the best thing to do as you can get a discount for buying together.
He looked at me, exasperated. "Well, do you know what time you need that for? I have to know that before I can ring this ticket up."
At this point, I just left. I was growing more and more frustrated and was about to explode: LISTEN TO ME YOU ANGRY LITTLE MAN! I need a ticket! Read me the times and the prices and I will tell you which one I want! Speak like this to me again, and I will end your miserable life!

I can see why Americans have the reputations they have. Because we have perfected the art of the service industry, we have come to expect a certain kind of experience when exchanging money for goods and services. In a recent conversation with one of my roommates, he said that the consumer culture is dying in Britain, and the more and more people are buying things on-line. I can see why, if this is the type of treatment people get when they try to buy things at a store, or a shop, as they say here.