With Jeremy -- Cardiff, Wales

I'm starting this post from The Pear Tree Cafe down the lane and to the left of Jeremy's student apartment. Cars rumble through the street, the sounds of their engines mixing with the grinding of the espresso machine and the cafe radio station. The window in front of me is open and a slight breeze moves the wooden blinds back and forth, creating a gentle tapping that joins the morning cacophony. Through the window I see a maroon sign bearing the name "Tandoori Mahal Balti", and a Meyer lemon sign advertising "Mina Juice Bar". The photos to the right of the shuddering blinds are monochromatic old-time shots, portraying what I assume to be morose Welsh families from way back when.

Cardiff is a primarily brown and grey city. The buildings are composed of brick and stone and aren't painted as gaudily as those in Ireland, although it's not uncommon to walk past a series of audacious doors and window frames. Cardiff seems to be a bit muter. More "tasteful", I suppose. The colors accenting the buildings are usually rust red instead of cherry. Pastel versus the vibrant that verges on fluorescent.

Wales feels quieter than Ireland. I couldn't say whether or not it actually is quieter, but the colors lend it a sense of calm. Everything about Ireland seemed dramatic and rebellious -- the colors, the wind, the music... Wales seems older. Dignified, but quirky. Like a grandmother who serves her guests kefir and creme brulee instead of milk and cookies.

I like it here.

This is my last full day in Wales. I will bid goodbye to Jeremy and Eddy and climb aboard the National Express bus at 10:45 tomorrow morning.

First stop = Birmingham
(2 hour layover...much Game of Thrones will be read)

Second stop = Oxford
(look about for Louise with the perfect combination of "someone find me please, I've been traveling for 6+ hours and am completely knackered" and "I'm a competent human being capable of taking care of myself and I could very well find you if you don't find me first" expression so that my host will have a good first impression of her new workawayer. But still manage to find me.)

Final destination = Princes Risborough and my new family.

I haven't stayed in one place for more than two and a half weeks since this trip commenced eight weeks ago, and I'm looking forward to settling in for a month. I'm nervous that I'm so excited to stay with Louise in Buckinghamshire. I'm nervous because I'm very attached to the idea of staying with Louise in Buckinghamshire, and should it turn out to be a terrible experience, I will be severely disappointed. Not just disappointed (I can handle disappointment, sure) -- I'll be discouraged. My day with Hanne helped me to realize just how unhealthy it can be to become attached to any idea attached to the word "should".

But I want to be excited. And I'm not sure how to navigate the line between excitement and attachment.

I will learn. I will learn how to be excited about my future without become attached to what I think it should be.

The things for which I'm excited:

Unpacking my Osprey rucksack will feel marvelous. I will have a drawer for my trousers, a drawer for my shirts/jumpers (look at me using proper British terminology), and a drawer for my pants. I'll be able to leave my toothbrush in the bathroom.

I love this. I love that I'll have a bathroom in which I can leave my toothbrush.

Getting to spend time with kids. I adore kids and I adore them exponentially more when traveling. I can relate with them on a deeper level because I have a similar sense of wonder... a similar sense of curiosity and make just as many socially awkward mistakes. I depend on those around me in a similar fashion, and do my best to find independence in my dependence with just as much tenacity.

I'm excited to practice yoga with Louise.

I want to be a helpful member of a household again, not a random guest commandeering the extra couch or spare room -- although hijacking the spare room on Alfred Street has been a wonderful experience for me. Jeremy has acted as my guide and companion for nearly the entirety of my stay, accompanying me on most of my excursions (excepting Fagans, of course) and has made me feel so at home in his home.

I like having people to hug before I crawl into bed at night. I like waking up early, making coffee, eating a hunk of cheese, (cheese!) and sitting down to write in a sleeping house that seems to welcome my presence. I like that Eddy has been buying me bacon ever since he discovered my obsession (which certainly didn't take very long) and I like that Jeremy is always happy to chat. About anything. And listen. To anything.

Jeremy and Eddy simply make things easy. For those of you who've been reading my blog since Ireland, you're probably aware that some of my adventures thus far have been a bit removed from the realm of easy. Which is fine. Tension, homesickness, anxiety and all-around awkwardness are part of the solo traveling experience...

But sometimes all I want is to relax into a couch and drink a cup of cardamom coffee and not worry.

Jeremy and Eddy create a space where one is encouraged to do this. During a particularly playful night, I accidentally found myself sliding down a sad trail of reminiscence -- and Eddy interrupted with feigned seriousness, "If you're going to be sad, you can wait outside. Come back in when you're happy."

I'm the kind of lady who's probably going to live with roommates for a good portion of her life, because I'd much rather share a house with awesome people and work part-time than have a house to myself and work full-time.

In the future, I think I'd want to live with people like Eddy and Jeremy.

Kenyans move slowly (when they're not moving quickly) and the culture itself doesn't seem as worried. Jeremy says that the important things get done and he makes sure that they get done... but everything else?

Eh. We'll see.

Excursions with Jeremy:

walking about the city center -- more Welsh flags

The Millennium Stadium -- a grand stadium originally built in the 1890s for fans of cricket. Today, it's primary function is to host Wales' many rugby matches. When rugby season is over (much to the chagrin of all of Wales), it turns into a facility for concerts and other events of that nature. Although the next major event will be a Mardi Gras festival and a discussion led by the LGBT community in Cardiff. So I suppose the structure is quite diverse.

Jeremy took me to visit Llandaff Cathedral, a church dedicated to Saint Peter and Saint Paul and one of the oldest Christian sites in Britain, dating back to 1107. The architecture is divine and the woodwork is stunning, but the place itself is a horror. I don't understand why people who design churches consistently think that it's such a brilliant notion to make them uncomfortable, terrifying places.

Note the emaciated figure above the arch

More dragons...

A fair few of the statues were missing their faces. This contributed to the foreboding atmosphere.

I can't tell whether this particular creature is a sheep or a dog. I'm guessing sheep. I find it amusing and disturbing that it's placed at the foot of the coffin statue.

Ever seen a more uncomfortable looking row of chairs? I think not.

Jeremy pointed this one out. The dragon is actually getting killed here. We wondered about the intended message of this piece.

Another footstool lamb.

 We walked down to the Bay, saw a Roald Dahl memorial and contemplated practicing yoga in front of the Norwegian Church. 

I met with a lovely couchsurfer who helped me out with my language challenge by reading a couple of lines from Siwan for me. Before the reading, we met at a microbrewery for coffee (don't make that face, I'm celiac), and she informed me that 90 percent of the people she meets via couchsurfing come to Cardiff (and Wales, in general) for the Doctor Who Experience. When I am rich and famous and all that jazz, I will fly Rudy (an old roommate and all-around fantastic fellow) to visit me. And we shall experience this together. As of now, I am not rich and famous, so I contented myself with a picture from across the bay.

Wales is hilarious. This is a memorial to a character who died in a TV show. A spinoff of Doctor Who, I believe. A character. This is the equivalent of Game of Thrones fans creating a memorial for Ned Stark.

 

I really am going to miss this whole dragon thing.

The Millennium Centre, not to be confused with the Millennium Stadium. This is a theatre, dance and film venue, and it was one of my Performing Arts challenges to watch a show inside. I was sure I wouldn't accomplish this challenge as the ticket prices are bit too steep for the likes of me, but the couchsurfer who read Siwan told me that there are free performances in the foyer every day at 1 and 6. Yes! I thought. I'll at least get ONE of my performing arts challenges for Wales. So I dragged Jeremy down to the showing at six. Only to find out that it was the one day without a showing at six. Ach. C'est dommage. I tried.

Yoga in front of the Millennium Center.

 We walked through beautiful parks, ambling along with no destination in mind. Kenyan style.

I've noticed something this week. I've noticed just how far a perfect stranger will go out of his/her way to help me. Every time I approach someone to ask for directions, I get help. If the person doesn't know where I'm going, he/she whips out a smartphone and looks it up, making sure I have a decent grasp of the next step before I wander off. If I look at a map for an extended period of time, people will approach to ask if I'm lost and would I like any help.

I think I've gotten spoiled. I've grown to think that this sort of generosity is normal and have figured that my excellent fortune is a simple result of good people being good people.

And then I walked with Jeremy. Jeremy isn't a threatening fellow. He's a well-dressed, good-looking and friendly fellow. But nearly every time Jeremy asked for directions, people would turn their palms up and say, "I'm sorry, I don't know where that is," and that was the end of it. If I said, "Excuse me, I'm a bit lost -- could you help me find the train station?" and the person didn't know where the train station was, the person in question would either look it up on a smartphone or find someone else who knew where the train station was. I've had groups of people argue for five-ten minutes on which route would get me to my destination with the most ease and in the timeliest manner. I've questioned people who speak no English and they run off to find someone else who speaks English to translate for me.

"What do you think it is?" I asked Jeremy in bewilderment. "What vibe do you think I give off that makes people want to help me so much?"

"Well, we could get philosophical and talk about vibes and energies," Jeremy responded in good humor, "but let's cut out all that. You're just really attractive."

I prefer to think that the universe is fair, and if I was born with such a god-awful sense of direction, it's only right that people should be willing to help me out.