Back in English land

I’m sitting on the nearly 6 hour train journey from Cornwall to London, and it occurred to me that I haven’t written anything in 2 weeks. Again, my apologies to anyone who actually still reads this (my guess is that’s pretty much dwindled to mom and dad…if even), but luckily for the rest of the world, I wont be making a living off of professional blogging.

Since I last wrote, I’ve left mainland Europe and ventured across the pond to the land of Anglophones. First stop was Ireland. First let me just say that if you ever have to opportunity to fly Turkish Airlines, do it. I once again managed to get away with a bag 6 kilos overweight, and for lunch on the 4.5 hour flight to Dublin, we were served hummus, chicken, polenta, grilled vegetables, chocolate mousse, hazelnuts, and tea. And it was really, really good.

From the second we stepped off the plane in Dublin, a really strange feeling came over me. Then I realized it was just the realization that I understood what people around me were saying, without even having to process or think about it (ok, well, maybe a little…the Irish accent can be a bit strong). We weren’t exactly sure how to get to our hotel, but imagine our surprise when we discovered that if we just ASKED someone, they could tell us! In English! Ireland’s funny though, with an unassuming sense of national pride. Although almost no one actually speaks Gaelic, and those that do almost undoubtedly speak English as well, every public sign, road sign, information sign, everything, is written first in Gaelic first, followed by English. The primary language taught in Irish schools is also Gaelic. I don’t know how Irish kids feel (maybe they find the same almost charming pride in having such an old language so representative of a medieval culture?), but I know that if I were made to learn Gaelic in school, knowing that I could be learning French or Spanish instead…well, I think that speaks for itself.

We took a cab from the airport to our hotel with the friendliest cab driver ever, and arrived on Harcourt Street, just south of St. Stephen’s Green. Running the risk of sounding like a spoiled American tourist, after spending the last countless weekends since January and 3 weeks straight staying in hostels with communal bathrooms and snoring room mates, it was SO nice to be in a hotel room with hot showers, a tv (that played Friends, Scrubs, and the Discovery Channel), and-the best part-a kettle with a selection of teas and coffees FREE. Apparently this is pretty standard in these parts, and it’s definitely something I could get used to. Or already have. Although, before I give the hotel too much credit, I will say that having a bar and night club with lines our the door and down the sidewalk 4 out of 7 nights a week on the bottom floor certainly has its disadvantages (or some might say advantages…we could rage at any hour of the night just by walking down a flight of stairs-or staying in our room and listening to the beats from below…and as most of you know, Tatum and I are quite the club rats).

Dublin was simply splendid. It was foreign enough that you completely feel like you’re in a different country, but familiar enough (ex: we had bagels for breakfast) that you don’t always feel quite so uncomfortable and out of place, which, isn’t really a problem, it’s just exhausting. We even found that Ireland was the first place where we were ashamed and embarrassed to pull out a map because we felt like maybe, just maybe we looked like we could fit in (unless we spoke, then it was a different ballgame. Obvioulsly.) Our days were spent seeing 8723987543 churches (including one really bizarre Polish Catholic church that felt more like a cult or a courthouse than a sanctuary), drinking Guinness (luckily it’s like a meal in and of itself. As our funds are beginning to run low, a few nights were spent sharing a meal of beef pie or lamb stew for dinner…how romantic), taking day trips (I can say from experience that there is literally NO crystal in Waterford. Don’t even try to find it.), and walking miles and miles through the cobble stoned streets of Temple Bar, Grafton Street, St. Stephen’s Green. Everything you hear about the Irish being friendly and cheery (and ginger…seriously), is absolutely true, and passing pubs playing live Irish folk music and hearing jolly banter always seemed to put us in a better mood. AND, it didn’t rain ONCE over a course of 5 days, save for a half-hour period on the second night.

I wish I could say that the journey from Dublin to Newquay, our next destination in Cornwall, was as seamless as the others have been, but I suppose my luck had to run out eventually. We had booked a flight on Air Southwest (?), and from the second we approached the check-in counter, you could tell that the lady working was new, as she picked up her phone to call her supervisor at least twice with every customer. Bad sign # 1. Most NORMAL airlines allow you one checked bag, one carry on, and one personal item. But not Air Southwest. You’re strictly allowed ONE checked bag and ONE carry-on/personal item. Same thing. Oh, and overweight fees are a cool 10 euros per kilo over 20 kg. But here’s the kicker: if you do have to check a second bag (which I did, because I wasn’t allowed a backpack and purse), there’s not flat rate…they charge the ENTIRE second bag as extra weight PER KILO. I had my suitcase at 23 kg, a backpack at 16, and literally no other option. You do the math. And the worst part was, the woman made us stand in line every time after going over to a different counter to deal with the extra fees, and then acted all apologetic, like she really truly felt sorry for our ‘situation.’ I wanted to hit her. She could have easily been awesome like the rest of the airline world for the past month that I’ve been flying has been, but she just would. Not. Let. It. Go. For her own sake and sanity, I hope one day she’ll learn. Or find a different job.

Newquay is charming. We arrived on our Dash-8300 propeller plane and were greeted by Tatum’s friend who’s just finished university in Falmouth. On the drive to Falmouth we passed an abundance of cows, sheep, ocean, and farms with fields perfectly separated by trimmed bushes. I think the word that comes to mind when describing Cornwall is “quaint.” Everything is quaint, from the landscape to the houses to the people. Falmouth is a port, so there are lots of boats and water right by the main town. This past week, as my first week in the UK, has been one of firsts: my first cream tea (pot of tea with 2 scones, homemade jam, and clotted cream), first try at Capoeira (Brazilian tribal fighting/dancing/martial arts all rolled in to one. And a crazy workout-google it), first tea and lemon (you can figure that one out), first Aero bar and Maltesers (aerated mint chocolate, how DO they do it?), first custard crumble, first full English breakfast (also known as a ‘fry-up’), first garden party, and first Pimm’s (traditional and wonderful summertime drink with citrus, cucumber, and lemonade). And my first (and subsequent) experiences with the British people’s fondness for waiting in pointless lines (queues). Honestly, efficiency is key. Not that hard.

The first night, we went down to the nearby beach for a barbeque. The beach was filled with people gathered in little circles around disposable charcoal grills smoking hamburgers, sausages, and in our case, sea bass (and later, thanks to a stroke of brilliance, cookies). Night 2 was the garden party, and the next day, we ventured over to another beach on the north coast, donned wetsuits, and went surfing. I was almost as good at surfing as I was at skiing…

Night 4, we went over to our host’s girlfriend’s house for dinner, and, with 10 of us around the table, I became the target of 20 questions (or, take-the-mickey-out-of-an-American-as they would say…it was east to confuse the two). I’ve felt like a foreigner for about 6 months now, but this was the first time that it was blatantly pointed out to me. The accent, the politics, everything. It was kind of cool, but somehow I think it would have been a LOT cooler had I not had the whole American thing going for me…literally anywhere else.

And yet now, as I sit on this train next to a smelly woman eating a pungent Brie sandwich, I can’t help but feel a bit anxious but thrilled about going to a place where the people apparently aren’t so nice but is at the same time, supposedly one of the most amazing cities in the world. I’ll be alone for the next 2 days before I’m met by a local and, while my sense of being a completely foreigner will be far from gone, my plans are completely in his hands for the rest of the trip. Sigh of relief (maybe…).