Some Local Color

This place needs some brightening up, I'd say. Here, take a look at these pictures from my brief nature photographer moment when we were in Marloes Sands, West Wales.

Take That, World Bank!

Between my crash of faith on Thursday and this moment, I have:

found and analyzed at least 6 new sources for my paper
come up with a new paper topic (not as bad as it sounds considering my previous extensive research)
found up-to-the-minute studies affecting my new paper topic
written a 4,000 word paper, and then cut 1,000 of it
decided not to even include the subject that had been my main focus
and finally,

Given a presentation of the main points of my paper. Which impressed my teacher. So I'm pretty relieved. But there must be a better way. There must be.

I still have to put in some case studies. Which I hate. I've avoided it so far because I hate when people use case studies as evidence. I wrote the full argument without reference to specific cases because I want the argument to stand alone. And now, because the assignment asks for it, I will add the case studies. And then I will move on to the next paper!

Thanks for all your support. I think I'll play fiddle now, for the first time in months.

I'd Rather Tell You a Story

Today is the day of me deciding i just might not have the brain for this school thing. For some reason the simple act of organizing a paper which I have been researching for weeks is nearly impossible. Turns out, upon analysis, that the problem is all about narrative.

Papers in policy science (I guess you'd call it) apparently require a scientific sort of framework for arguments. You know, with givens and hypotheses and arguments and indicators and things. Of course I know that in the abstract, but when it comes right down to it, I always tell my paper to myself in a narrative. That's what a literature degree and years of dramaturgy will get you, I guess. The best part is that I'm always working toward a happy ending in the narrative. It's kind of funny, really. It took me quite awhile and not a few tears to for it to really sink in. And now I'm forcing myself to proceed in what is essentially a foreign language. There are no epiphanies or catharses. No redemptive possibilities. Just conclusions. Damn, I miss theatre.

Bottom line, I'm struggling. And I'm really pushed for time on these projects. I'd do this semester differently and with more focus if I had it to do over. But it's a one-year program, so I don't. This is it. I don't get another chance to use what I've learned about teacher communication styles and expectations as expressed through films and filters and evasions and laziness. I've nearly figured out what it is they want (I hope), but I'm not sure there's time left to produce it.

I know this is what all student bloggers say and they always come out brilliantly in the end. But this one might be real. I might fail at some of these assignments. I might not be as good at this as most of my classmates. I'm facing it, and I'm pushing on. Wish me luck.

PS thanks to J. for talking me through these devastations and making me pasta with rosemary and zucchini. (After I ate it he said, "That plant that looks like rosemary is rosemary, isn't it?" Strangely, it cheered me up.)

Then my sister called and told me surreal and troubling tales of her special ed classroom. I guess we've all got our crosses to bear.

The Meaning of Local

I sometimes want to call you all. All at once and have a phone party, since you can’t come over for dinner. I want to just hang out and not worry about time or due dates or whether I’m being weird or making a good impression. (For the record, I've been listening to "Tables and Chairs" from Andrew Bird's album, The Mysterious Production of Eggs, over and over again--it somehow is perfect for my current position. Listen to it if you can, or just look at the lyrics here and imagine some beautiful violin music and rock rhythms.)

Unfortunately it’s always very early morning there at the time and that’s no good for phone parties.

… And also, there’s something else. I am becoming an alien. It’s of isolating, learning new things. Mostly my head is full of things no one should probably spend so much time on. Today, for instance, I spent most of the day at a conference about Food Consumption Dilemmas in a Globalized World. We spent over an hour on “The Local.” And I don’t mean the pub down the road. I mean what does “local” mean in terms of food. Is it just about place and if so, how far away can you go and still count as local? And, then someone brought up that it’s really multi-dimensional when we talk about local production and consumption: space/time/matter/knowledge base. Don’t even ask.

This was not for my current studies, mind. You know, those ones where I have a presentation to do on Thursday and another on Monday and two papers due the week after that? (And more, believe it or not, in the next two weeks) No, this conference was because Professor Sabbatical invited me because it’s possibly linked to my dissertation topic. Yep. I chose to go to this thing. And what’s worse----I enjoyed it and felt like I learned something. But how can I possibly call you up and have a normal conversation when my head’s stuck on stupid things like how you define local?

My dissertation topic, by the way, came to me in a flash on a tired Friday night two weeks ago. I hopped up and wrote an outline, even. I won’t tell you here because one of the thousands of my blog readers might steal my topic and publish it first. Or maybe it’s because I’m still shy that it might be useless and academic sounding and put you off. Anyway, it’s about regions and regional identity, and food, and economic development. We’ll see if it stays the same. If it does I might share some more later.

Okay, so, because it’s what’s on my mind, and because I don’t want to isolate myself forever, I’ll tell you what else I’m working on. I have a presentation on Thursday about the Valleys of South Wales and their innovation strategies for economic development. They closed all the coal mines in the ‘80s and can’t seem to keep manufacturing jobs here no matter how cheaply they’re willing to work. And there are tons of low-skilled workers and unemployed. So the Welsh Development Agency and the European Union are dropping all sorts of money into programmes (yep, I spelled it the British way, get over it) to encourage entrepreneurship and innovation in businesses in the area to try and generate jobs, skills and new technology use. The plan involves technology and knowledge “transfer” from local universities into the business community, as well as funding for risk-taking in entrepreneurial ventures and research and development. The idea is to develop a region that shares knowledge and encourages new ways of working for better outcomes. So yeah, that’s one. There’s more to it, email me if you’re interested.

Then, on Monday, I have to give a presentation about the World Bank and whether its practices are living up to its stated commitments to safeguard the environment. I’m researching, among other things, how the World Bank adjusts its energy policies in response to new information and criticism and about the potential for sound environmental projects through the Global Environment Facility and other partnerships. I’m scared to death about this one.

So, um, tell your friends, if they're also my friends, that I posted something. ok. bye. (I first typed "buy" but I don't mean it. Don't buy. Just bye.)

The Latest Episode in Our Sporadic and Spotty Series of Tales from the West Wales Trip of August 2005

So, we last saw our travelers renewed after pizza and a soft bed in Tenby. Here's what happened next:

We took a bus across Pembrokeshire, through the oil refinery country and out to the tip of Marloes. By the final leg of the multi-bus trip, we were on a mini-bus thing hurtling down single lane roads with enormous hedgerows hugging us on either side. It's like being in a tunnel with the top cut off, and its really exciting when a car or bus comes from the other direction! Both parties slam on their brakes and look to see who has the nearest turn out behind them to back into and let the other pass. Loads of fun and exhilaration for what is essentially a bus ride in the middle of nowhere without a view. The driver dropped us off on the side of the road by a sign that said West Hooks Farm. We wandered down the driveway past some jaunty gallivanting horses(that's a good sign!) to a farm house where we paid a bit and made the unplanned decision to stay there two nights. Here's a glimpse of why:



Okay, you can't really tell in the picture, but the view was tremendous, and the field idyllic.

The pub was about a mile away, but we weren't about to walk down the hedgerow tunnel road and so took the coast path and cut across a field and avoided most of the road altogether. Here's the walk:

Pretty nice, huh? Then we had a satisfying dinner of fresh seafood at the pub and wandered back along a cliff path, in the dark, after a couple of beers. Don't worry--we had flashlights and were very careful. (Really, mom, it wasn't that close to the edge.)


Next Installment You Won't Want to Miss: Sun sickness, nice pub lady and a walk around Dale.

And coming eventually: How we paid for a boat ride to see seagulls. And also Aberystwyth, maps, Machynlleth and how to pronounce it, The Centre for Alternative Technology, and, finally, Snowdonia.

Love in the Big Pit

One comfort I've found in Cardiff when I'm lonely or worried and missing close friends is that the fellow who runs the nearest corner store calls me "Lovely." The volunteer ladies at the charity shops call me "Darling." Guys in their twenties, with no irony at all, say "S'alright, Love?" when I'm squeezing to get by them at the bus stop. Now, I am aware that it's reflexive for them, it means nothing, but on my worst days, it's enough to warm my bitter aching heart a little. On a good day, it just makes me smile all the more.
And today, best of all, an old ex-miner in an orange coverall, a hardhat and a big tool belt bade me farewell with a chipper, "G'Bye, my Love."

That was at the Big Pit. I had a good time, learned a few things, and made it through another day of the jockeying (against my inclination and better judgment) with new classmates and dozens of potential new friends and rivals. We took a bus to the Pit--an hour each way of sitting next to one person who has somewhat randomly ended up beside me and with whom I will likely share classes. On the way up, I easily slid into the seat followed by the Australian who I'd met the day before. We shared a pretty comfortable chat on the ride up.

I had forgotten the details of what it's like to enter a new scene. There's the subtle scan of the room, not wanting to seem like I'm sizing people up while I'm sizing them up. The non-committal smiles if one makes accidental eye contact. Then the mental analysis of the smile shared and the potential opening for conversation as the group breaks up, or perhaps at the next class meeting. And I've got to sit somewhere. I want it to be casual, random, without too much thought, but I'm too self-conscious, can't stop thinking about whether it will seem casual and random. All of this is complicated enough in a classroom full of people from which, at the end, one must choose whether to linger or head on out with an air of purpose and self-confidence. But on a full day trip made up of multiple shufflings of groupings formed and disbanded only by our own initiation, it's downright exhausting. For instance, I've taken the easy road in the morning, and sat next to my friendly Australian from yesterday on the hour-long trip up to the Pit. But then, when we get off the bus and form a queue (they love that word here, and the act of forming one, it would seem) at the entrance to the museum, I must decide whether to stick with him, which has its obvious pitfalls of never meeting anyone else, seeming to cling and causing him the worry of never meeting anyone else, and running out of conversational topics, OR somehow find a way to mosey on without making a big deal of it, and then face the necessary task of launching a chat with one of the many strangers roaming around me. Not the mention the possibility of everyone else clinging to their newly made bus acquaintances and being left the loser in musical chairs. I moseyed. and I suffered for it. I stood around bored for awhile, eavesdropping on other conversations. I was alone for most of the next three shuffles. The queue moved forward into different rooms and sat on two different sets of pews before being led into the mine in the default groups we'd ended up near. I was alone for most of this time, excepting a couple of short lived beginnings of connections cut short by line movements. At one point the faculty chaperone even came and talked to me--an almost definite sign that my isolation was obvious and that I may have seemed more emotionally affected by it than I was. Luckily, my accent was heard by the guy next to me and he turned to start the inevitable exchange of where froms, and I've not been there, but I have been to this other place and what course are you on and so on. He was a Briton who looks a fair bit like that guy on The Naked Chef. Until he spoke to me, he had remained angled slightly away with his back to me, doubtless because I was not as young and blond as the student on the other side of him. Nevertheless, we had an enjoyable few minutes and even moved together in the next shuffle and so ended up on the same mining crew.

I won't go on with the play-by-play, but just know that this went on all day, though I managed to hook up again with the Portuguese woman from yesterday and the Australian once again for awhile. I lunched with Portugal and new arrivals Turkey and Italy. And I'm proud to report that I chose to take the plunge and sit next to a complete stranger from India for the bus trip back to town and it went just fine. She's the only other married person I've met so far. Go us.

Oh, and I talked to one of the old miner guys about Welsh, as he's learning it now after having grown up in a time when it was nearly a dead language because they weren't allowed to speak it in school or at work. It was fun and he understood the couple of things I tried on him and answered them and I understood the answers and then we together tried to remember the word for "tomorrow." For no reason at all. It was the highlight of my day. For the record, he's not the one who called me his love. Though I would have been flattered if he had.

FROM LAST WEEK

My student life is now beginning in earnest here in Cardiff. Yesterday was enrollment, today a crash course in British Planning systems for us foreigners. I met a pleasant Portuguese International Development student and an Australian whose enthusiasm rivals my own. Tomorrow we're going on a class field trip to The Big Pit, which is likely to be only slightly more exciting than its name suggests. It's a defunct coal mine up in the foothills of the mountains to the north. We get to see a depressed, post-industrial mining town and put on hats with lights and go underground. When the professor asked who wanted to go, I and one other girl sort of timidly raised our hands, someone said, "You mean you just go there on a bus and go down in a hole and come back?" Prof said, "Yes, something like that." And the Canadian who'd been there before said it was interesting, but depressing and definitely don't go if you're claustrophobic. So Prof asked again for a show of hands and 14 people said they'd like to go. An inexplicable change of minds, if you ask me. Evidently, advertising works differently here. So anyway, yeah, I'm going down into a dark hole in the ground with my new classmates tomorrow. Fact is, I can't wait. For real.

When I got worried today about being a new student and wondered what kind of impression I'm making on my new fellow students and try to figure out what kind I want to make, and how to do it, here's what I thought that made it all better: I thought of all the people who'd be willing to call me friend, and realized I couldn't ask for better people. Then I figured if you all like me well enough, then those that matter here will too, as long as I'm true and diligent and open. So, um, thanks for being my friends and family and giving me courage even here so far away and without even being around for a pep talk.

SHEEPISHLY RETURNING

I'm writing into a void, I know, as I've not written for longer than I was writing and I'm sure everyone's given up on me. Strangely comforting, in a way, to think no one's reading--or waiting for me to produce something interesting. Part of the reason I stopped, I think, is that I don't feel able to communicate anything meaningful in this medium. Up to now, I've used the internet either as a form of entertainment or business communication or just for quick information bits. When I miss my friends and family, I call them up or we go out. Or I see them through the regular course of events. Now the internet is my only way to keep in touch with most of you. And I'm not doing very well with it. The funny thing is, I talk to you all the time. Walking home from the store, digging in my new garden, cooking up some eggs. I have little conversations with you. I write blog entries about things I've noticed that I think you'd find amusing. But come some free time when I could sit down and write, I'm exhausted or I have a headache, or I really should get that other thing done. Then there's the pressure of wanting to have an entertaining and insightful blog, one that you'd read not only to keep up and see how I'm doing, but because it's a great read.

Unfortunately, creative reading is not my main pursuit, and a blog requires frequent updating to be useful. I'll try to be better about just putting up what I'm thinking about, polished or not.

WELSH CAKES

These deserve their own entry. Maybe I'll send some round to the States at Christmas or something so you can try them. I'd seen them around and not paid much attention. Modest little bread rounds with raisins in them, looked kind of dry. But we picked some up on our first stop in Tenby and had them with us for the eight and a half mile hike to Manorbier. We had completed the long walk across the beach, where I'd laboriously bent over to pick up a few shells before deciding it wasn't worth it with such a big pack on. We had walked along amazing bluffs with whirling birds and views of islands and ocean and cliffs. We had stopped in a strange "town" for some water and toilets, getting our first view of a "Holiday resort" full of resort-sold caravans lined up row after row on the land above the beach. (This is a fairly common way to go on summer holiday here in Wales--we saw several of them along the coast--little trailer parks of summertime fun.) And we were tired. So we stopped, sitting on dried sheep pellets because we were too tired to care and, really, where else were we going to sit? And we ate ... welsh cakes!!! These things are delicious, let me tell you. Not much to describe really, just mildly sweet little cakes with raisins in them. But oooooh, I can't begin to tell you how pleased we were. And you can get them anywhere here. All over the place, little packets of welsh cakes. Here's a picture Jason took from where we were sitting and eating welsh cakes. As if the view mattered.

Manorbier, I'll Take Both

I haven't managed to get together much of a narrative about our Welsh travels, mostly because time keeps passing and there are other things to do and write about. But I do want to make sure I put some things out there. So here's a bit from early in our trip:

After a night in Tenby, with it's pastel Victorian row houses built into and on top of the old castle walls, we hiked with too-heavy packs to Manorbier. We paid a piddling sum to camp in a field with a bunch of families. The next day we decided to give our sore selves a break. We toured the castle and had a picnic in the courtyard.

We sat in the garden of the only pub in town and read books and drank cider while leaning on our packs in the shade. I took a walk out the main road to see where it led. I had the idea, seeing a sign that said "Tenby 5 miles," that we could catch a bus there and have the pizza that we had passed up the night before, and then maybe even catch a cab back to the cheap campsite. After such a hard hike the day before, and Jason, who loves pizza, having not gotten to sample it during our one evening in Tenby, I thought it would be a nice surprise suggestion for dinner. As I got back to the beer garden behind the pub, and began telling him about my plan, we heard the last bus of the day stop, open its doors, and head on its way. Oh well. (I had been under the mistaken impression that there was one more. Alas.) So we had dinner in the pub. Jason ordered chicken with stilton (he loves the bleu cheese, he does) and I ordered a leek and mushroom crumble. Only the crumble (leek and mushroom, it said) had corn in it, and I'm allergic to corn, so Jason had to switch meals with me and I ate the extremely delicious chicken with stilton. So he didn't get pizza or bleu cheese for dinner. I felt like a cad. Then we went back to the field and camped again. Pretty nice day.

The next morning, we decided that the best thing to do with heavy packs and lots of trail ahead of us would be to, um, to go back to Tenby. Cause it's cute, and they have pizza there. On the bus out of Manorbier, a boisterous woman who seemed to know everyone on the bus told us a sort of joke about the name of the town: "Man or beer, you're better off with the beer." Now we know how to say the name of the town. We'd been wondering.

In Tenby, the pizza was good. We did some laundry and stocked up on welsh cakes, cheese, bread and fruit. We had a nice relaxed walk around the promenade and watched some locals fishing off the pier after dark. Coming back to Tenby was the right decision.

I spent a fair number of those waiting for the apartment days out looking for organic and natural food shops. I found them, and they're cute as can be, tiny stores on side streets, with their grains and dried fruit and nuts and--my favorite--concentrated blackcurrant and elderflower cordials. Add sparkling water and it's a party. Elderflower cordial is my new favorite food. Organic produce can really only be bought by joining a box scheme, or local produce delivery like Pioneer Organics in Seattle. For now, I'm walking to the greengrocer down the street for fruit and vegetables. It's all marked by country of origin-- Spanish onions, English strawberries, Belgian whatever. All relatively local, when you think about it. I also found a Danish butcher who sells streaky bacon (otherwise known as "bacon") instead of that fried ham-like stuff they kept trying to pass off to me as bacon at the bed and breakfasts on our trip. (I eventually got it down to asking for scrambled eggs on toast, and then finally to just cereal, thanks.) I also found an Italian import store and a Mediterranean store. One of the little organic shops also sells vegetables grown by neighbors in their allotments (the equivalent of P-Patches, but much bigger) and cakes made by a lady down the street. Cool, huh? And I keep running into little things that make me happy. Today we discovered a taco place--I can't wait to try it. I've been craving a burrito for some reason. There's one place downtown that does Mexican food, but they charge £9.95 for a burrito and I just can’t support that kind of scam.

And now, in addition to streaky bacon, photos of other useful things to be bought at Cardiff Market, a covered arcade market similar to Pike Place, but with more randomness. Note the Student discount sign at the Barber Shop--all signs are in Welsh and English.

Short bits about Cardiff:

It has a drinking problem, and a bit of trouble containing itself in the streets. Convenience stores sell two liter bottles of hard cider and something called "White Strike."

Cardiff's cars are tiny, except in the most wealthy neighborhoods, where it seems a few American vehicular monstrosities have crept in.

All of its houses, and I mean all, are built onto the ones next to them. We had to walk a long way to see a freestanding house. (PS this is also true in very small towns. It's incredibly space efficient and probably why an island this small with this many people can still have so much agriculture and manufacturing. Which leads me to: You can buy most things manufactured in Britain. When's the last time you saw a can opener made in the States?) It also means that rural landscapes are never far away.

Wherever you are in Wales, there is a pub within walking distance. You can bring your kids and dogs to these. Mushy peas with dinner is always an option and if there's a game being played anywhere in Britain or with British players, it's on the telly. In Cardiff, pubs are all exactly the same and are clean and modern, something like I think people in the States call a "fern bar," though I've never been exactly sure what that means.

Cardiff's inhabitants appear mostly to live for beer and Indian curries, which you can buy at the 15 takeaways on any given street. And that's a lot of them, when you consider that addresses are generally given by saying, "It's on _____ street." The streets are very twisty and every little new curve is given its own name, so you can always find something just by knowing what street it's on. So yeah, a lot of curry shops. And then there are those places with fish-n-chips, pizza, doner kebobs (yeah, I don't know either, but I think Santa's pretty upset about it), and fried chicken. Jason noted that the only places that sell pizza also sell everything else, so it can't be good. For about the first week, every time we'd pass one, he'd say, "Pizza and socks." Needless to say, we have not eaten at these.

I'm starting out by jumping right in with a random and unpolished post. I'll get better, I promise. For this one, just take it slow and easy. Take a break when you need to, and don't forget to drink plenty of water and eat enough calories to sustain you through the thing.

After a week or two of apartment hunting and two weeks of jaunting around Wales seeing who's cool (everyone outside Cardiff, apparently), we got back to Cardiff and managed to open a bank account and sign a lease. Then we settled back into the dorms for a few days of waiting for money to transfer to pay our deposit and rent. That was a sad day. Our flat was ready and waiting, but we were back in separate rooms in an echoey concrete building with noisy cleaning ladies and workmen drilling for new internet cable first thing in the morning. I don't know why, but I somehow thought a wire transfer could be nearly immediate. I guess I'm a spoiled child of the computer age.

On top of my general disappointment about not getting into the flat, we failed to get back to our storage unit before they locked it for the night and had to buy a throw blanket and pillowcases and sleep on bare mattresses in our dirty clothes that night. For the next four days, I twiddled my thumbs, roamed around town, organized pictures from our trip and thought about writing to you all, but couldn't because I was in a funk and it just didn't seem right to inflict that on you. Jason played video games and watched movies and listened to me whine. I had set myself up for homemaking mode, so I was compelled to tear pictures out of magazines and hang them on the bulletin board with tacks and make my bed of sheet and throw blanket every morning and arrange my body products neatly on the windowsill so the light shone through attractively. Kinda sad, that.

We moved into our new flat on Tuesday. It's spacious and beautiful (except the living room or "lounge" as they call it here, which needs some serious help) and has a little backyard and a skylit kitchen. I'll post a photo or two soon. I wish you could all go on a little tour of all the holes we looked at so you could realize what a find this is. You wouldn't believe how much they charge for some smelly little crooked floor places with 80 year old carpet. So, we're in a palace by comparison. We found a set of dishes for £3.75, or about $7, at a charity shop, spent the money we saved on dishes to get a couple of pans, and started settling in. And finally, now, I'm ready to write, which means I'm happy and convinced that this is all going to work out just fine. I'm also ready for you to start visiting. Bring it on, homies.