Tag Archives: welsh

Day 3: Surviving London and the Welsh

I didn’t think I could feel what I did, being back in England.  It’s been over half a lifetime ago that I was here last, but when the Tube doors opened above ground, the air rushed in, and some subtle smell in it, plus something distinctive in the way the breezes push around the leafy branches here brought it all back for a second.  It was a heady rush of primal feeling.  A dizzying spell as all history between those two times dropped out and brought me face-to-face with my 18-year-old self.  Then, I exhaled, and forgot it.

My schedule was already full-up with survival.  Ain’t Got Time For That!!  Indeed, I was off to celebrate the 40th birthday of a crazy Welshman…for 2 days straight.

On my way there, it turned out maybe my jetlag wasn’t totally conquered, as I’d wrote I hoped in my last post, because I remember taxiing to the runway, but it seemed a take-off never occurred.  Or, maybe I was inoluntarily passed out cold.  Maybe.  In any case, I wasn’t too sure how I was going to hold up.

A large group of us hopped from venue to venue and people swirled in and out who were (mostly 😉 )kind, wonderful, witty, and interesting characters above all else. Here is one of the few shots I feel I can show without anyone going to prison:


There was also a kind of music fesival at Tobacco Dock we attended – a bit of a cross between a tame rave and human circus act.  When we walked in, my eyes rose up and up through all the layers of industrial-framed craziness.  Masses of steel, bodies and the invasive buzz of bass pulsed from every music tent.  All I could think was, “WELCOME TO THUNDERDOME”.


Half-naked, beautiful people in their 20’s and 30’s pressed against each other.  A smile was plastered on my face constantly watching all the wonderously weird displays of humans at their best — aside from when some little punk grabbed my hair, and I restrained myself from giving him the verbal beating of his life… but, I digress.  It was definitely a spectacle to behold.  Groove Armada was going to be at one of the tents.  It was a gorgeous day.  Naturally, immediately after entering, we said “fuck this”, walked out and found a chill pub to relax at.

Again, I have a much prettier pic of our alternate venue, but this is the only one that protects the innocent…and the others.  Mostly the others.


Both nights, I imbibed things with these most interesting groups until some point when I would see the first rays of the sun.  Then I would collapse on the cot in the midst of them I’d previously claimed, and contently snore loudly away as the partying continued around me.  It’s amazing I was able to fall asleep, but I guess that may just be a solitary good side effect of jetlag — at least if you handle it like I did.  Hell, I bet they could and did step on me without me waking up.  And… possibly other things.  I can’t wait to get back to the States and order up a battery of medical tests!  😀

In any case, I got the food pretty damn right, with help from my new and old friends!  Well, my single Day 1 Meal was a kebap, which is a lot better in Germany, but was still good considering I was starving and had been drinking for half a day.  Single Day 2 meal was fish ‘n chips.  Of course.  Did you know that despite American food’s reputation, the amount of deliciously fatty, dripping fatness in our copycat fish and chips cannot compare with that of the oily, heart attack enducing English version?  I’ve been craving the real thing for sooo long.  This was almost worth the trip in itself:



And my final meal with my dear buddies was this morning — it was a treat capable of completely ruining me in one go.  One of these dears just happened to be a fantastic chef.  And we were hungry.  Bleary-eyed and dying of hunger, we managed to come up with an idea to use these two facts to our benefit.  I am such a lucky girl.  So lucky.  Traditional UK breakfast — BOOM:


One more fun thing before I dig into YET ANOTHER ROUND OF FISH AND CHIPS at the airport…My host this weekend is a property guardian.  This means he resides in and maintains buildings landlords would otherwise want to abandon because they’re just not financially worth the bother.  It also costs money to demolish a building, and if you don’t, you get all sorts freaks moving in and squatting and shooting heroine all over the place, wiping their own poo on the walls, starting cults, etc.  So, my friend fights bums off.  He’s like Batman.  Or something.  Hopefully, that’s enough to explain this note I spotted on a neighboring door as I left today.  I was told by my friends they don’t believe their own kind to be genuine typically.  I think we can all agree, however, the Brits are polite.