The Harbour Festival-- Bristol, ENGLAND!

I’m starting this post from Café Nero, a chain coffee shop in Wales (and I’m assuming the rest of Great Britain). I usually steer clear of chain shops in foreign countries, preferring to experience the unique little cafes with broken-down couches and unorganized piles of mismatched pastries. However, it is a hit and miss whether or not these shops have Internet, and as my main priority for today is to post a few blogs, I opted for the much more expensive and mainstream café. I splurged on a mocha and was rather disappointed when a good half of my drink turned out to be nothing more than whipped cream.

I don’t think I’ll be back.

The music isn’t bad. In fact, I suppose it could be considered soothing, but it’s far too reminiscent of bad American country for me to fancy. An old woman in a blue and white striped sweater shirt takes up an entire couch in front of me, flipping through a newspaper with far too much concentration for this time of the morning.

I like the sounds of coffee shops. I like the grinding of the beans, the whizzing of the whisks, the excited chatter of customers filing in, ready to begin their days with a steaming beverage of caffeinated goodness. I like the people in coffee shops. I like the people who sit and read newspapers. I like the people talking business over croissants. I like the gossiping baristas who don’t even bother to pretend to keep busy. I like listening to the Welsh accents...

“Well, it’s what ‘appens.”

“I know, I know...”

“How does it feel, you know, you know...”

“She can’t sleep, her feet are so swollen, she’s huge, you know.”

“I was a big baby. 8 pounds.”

“My parents had to call my grandparents because she was expecting the worst and, you know –“

People are fond of “you know” here.

The colors. The colors are deep rust and espresso and toffee. The couch commandeered by the white haired woman bedecked with silver earrings, rings, and necklaces is more of a chocolate and matches the trim around the lower third of the shop. The walls are sand and the molding around the ceiling is eggshell. The floor is a mosaic of cheap looking multi-colored boards. The paintings are few and far between and are reminiscent of Italy, demonstrating just how hard the shop is trying to make its customers believe they are drinking their beverages in the Mediterranean. The many different shades of brown match just as they should, but the color scheme sets a monochromatic tone to the shop that makes the whole place feel a bit bland and low energy.  I want a splotch of vibrant red to enhance all the brown. The music has somehow managed to transition from country to classical, and I’m having a hard time keeping my eyes open – even with all the caffeine and sugar surging through my body.

Saturday was an adventure. Eddie (Jeremy’s housemate from Uganda), Jeremy and I walked down to the train station to meet a few of my host’s friends for a daytrip to the Harbour Festival in Bristol. I'd originally donned my blue sarong for the excursion, anticipating more of the sunny weather that's been baffling all of the UK with its consistent presence over the past few weeks, but Eddie warned me that rain was predicted in Bristol, so I quickly changed into jeans, boots, and a raincoat.  I’ve been wanting to visit this artistic city for ages now, as I’ve heard it boasts an entire street lined with breathtaking vandalism.  Rain or no rain, Bristol would be well worth a visit. So I coughed up the 7.80 pounds for a round-trip train ticket, and boarded the car with my companions from Uganda, Kenya, Portugal, France, and Germany. We made for a very eclectic group of festivalgoers.

We arrived in Bristol around 12:30 and found our way into the city center with the help of the Frenchman's iPhone. I sometimes forget how useful the GPS feature of a smartphone can be, especially for someone like me. It seems as though most people in Europe use some sort of GPS device to get around these days -- so much that it's nearly expected you'll have one. When I was staying with Roisin in Cork, her father told me a story about how he couldn't find his hotel parking lot in France.

"Do you have a GPS?" The French concierge asked the exasperated Irish tourist.

"I do," my friend's father gestured to his bewildered wife, "But she's not working."

The festival was massive, so perhaps even I could have found my way to the festivities without the Frenchman or his GPS (although it was lovely to have someone to follow this time around). Tents with food, crafts, massage therapists, and musicians filled the city. Throngs of families, couples and friends packed the streets.

Bacon appears to be a large part of the diet in Wales and England. I approve.

One of the bands we listened to. This might be my next haircut. ;)

My host is a photographer who enjoys taking pictures of people. I've generally felt very intimidated about photographing people because I'm afraid of getting caught in the act and offending my subject. I feel like it's an invasion of privacy, which is one reason people watching in general is kind of a guilty pleasure for me. I'm going to try to step outside of my comfort zone and take pictures of people more often, though. I think this photograph is funny because the woman on the right is SO antsy to use the restroom... aka "burstin' to go to the loo."

This is one reason I am very excited about my upcoming trip to Germany. I will eat so much sausage.

People in the UK adore dogs and take excellent care of them. They seem to be in a constant state of worry about whether or not their dogs are dehydrated or too hot or too cold or too tired and make all the accommodations they possibly can to assure their dogs remain absolutely comfortable in all conditions. Seriously. It's extreme. I've never seen such pampered puppies.

Jeremy. My remarkably welcoming Kenyan host.  On his couchsurfing profile, he wrote:" Ideally, 2 days is good. But if we catch on like long-lost chimps(it happens sometimes) you automatically qualify for the East African special, the super-deluxe-stay-another-day-or-five-offer." He extended the super-deluxe + stay another week offer to me, and my visit with Jeremy and Eddie has been an incredible experience thus far, full of great conversation, good food, movie nights, festivals, walks, and yoga. It has also convinced me to add Kenya to my ever increasing list of future destinations.

Short shorts are everywhere in the UK. In fact, these short shorts could be considered long. In the vast majority, the pockets generally hang out a good two and a half inches. The midriff revealing shirts are also quite prevalent. While I have absolutely no issue with this on a moral level, I feel like it's just not aesthetically pleasing.

Eddie. From the moment we met, he was the exemplar of hospitality. However, his heavy Ugandan accent made it nearly impossible for me to understand anything he was saying for the first couple of days, so I felt like a very cold and ungrateful guest. After I got through all of the "what?"s and "Excuse me?"s, we were able to have some really excellent conversations. And now I can understand Ugandan accents.

And then it rained. It didn't just drizzle. It wasn't a soft rain. It poured. The musicians packed up, the food stands shut down and our European companions took the train back to Cardiff. But we remaining three donned raincoats, opened umbrellas, and made the best of it. We were in Bristol, after all. We still had some street art to find.

Finding street art...

Notice the cigarette

Street art found and soaked to the bone, we decided to call it a day and settled into the seats of our train bound for Cardiff.

We ended the evening with music, alcohol and Bananas Foster. Upon tasting my Bananas Foster, Eddie shook my hand and said, "You have my respect."

Life is good.

p.s.

Advice to all my fellow American travelers -- learn how to make Bananas Foster. It's the nicest dessert to share. It's easy, cultural, contains alcohol, and you get to light it on fire. What's not to like?