Cardiff Bey

Have you ever landed in a place and known immediately that WOW this is the place for you? In this daydream of mine the sun is shining (oviously), I’m wearing the chic-est outfit possible (likely involving stripes and cateye sunglasses), and I make eye contact with fellow passerbys that’s not creepy nor does it insinuate that I’m a lady of the night a la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I’d look exactly like the photo below:

Have this picture painted in your head? Got it? Good. Erase it. This was not the case with Cardiff.

The start of my Saturday mornin’ travels was nothing out of the ordinary. I deciphered the train station time table with ease, boarded the train, and snuggled up to my kindle (cough cough my mom’s kindle. Thanks again mom). Up until the stop before Cardiff Central the only noteworthy event was the number of selfies that my seat companion took of himself. IT WAS IN THE 30’s YALL.

Then. THEN. Theeeeeen the train stopped in Newport. Glancing up from my reading, through the train windows clouded with grit, I see dozens of individuals pouring down the steps. In my mind the scene before me equated to the moment in the Lion King where Mufasa is mercilessly killed in a stampede (RIP). The wildebeests are replaced with meaty men with their chests puffed out and donning red jerseys and scantily clad, over tanned women tottering on spikey-heels.

They forced, shoved, and yelled their way onto the train carriages. I’m not sure what this looked like from the outside of the train to the Welsh police but I assume it looked like this:

Only everyone was holding an alcohol of some sort in one hand trying not to spill it. This was not so much as a courtesy to others, but not wanting to waste a drop.

The train went from being moderately full, to every flat surface being occupied with a standing body. From my seat I could see people sitting up on the luggage rack.

Five minutes later we arrive at Cardiff Central and my new-found, fellow travelers either exit or fall out the train. I follow suite and begin to attempt to get my bearings/separate from whatever insanity I’ve found myself in.

I walk up to the nearest sign and it reads like this:

Hmmm. Caerdydd Canolog you say?

In my head I could. not. process this sign. I legitimately thought the top line was in English and that I had lost my mind. I gave up attempting to read the signs and followed the “Way Out” aka “Ffordd Allan” signs. Actually, I was herded out of the station. The mob and I were treated similar to a herd of cattle, with the station employees being the wranglers who poked and prodded us in a general direction.

By some miracle Eve and I spotted each other across the sea of red. Our frantic eyes met and we dodged bodies and beer cans until we could reach each other.

Seeing as I am such a die-hard rugby fan, I was completely aware that March 15th was the date for Cardiff v Scottland in the RBS 6 Nations Cup. IN FACT, forget seeing Eve, rugby was the real reason I went. Ha, ha. Jokes guys. I had no clue.

Eve and I started to make our way through the city-wide tailgate party in attempts to reach the Cardiff Market. I warn you though this was no easy task. I was more or less controlled by my stuffed, errr efficiently packed, backpack. My tactic was just to shift the weight in a general direction and use it’s momentum to get me to a destination. Looking back this may or may not have been a blessing in disguise. I was able to propel us through the crowds with Eve following in my wake shouting directions at me.

When we arrived at the market, stalls overflowing with vibrant flowers and kitschy merchandise awaited me. Sah cute. Eve persuaded me (aka just casually mentioned) into trying a lil’ Welsh delight known as a Welsh cake. Fresh from the oven top to my mouth, the little treat was part scone, part pancake and very good.

We braved the crowds again to make our way to the Cardiff Bay. Along the way we picked up Eve’s friend Josie, and her sweet sister Naomi.

If the city center of Cardiff was rush hour traffic then the Bay was a casual Sunday drive down a back-country road. It was largely deserted except for families soaking up the sunshine or perhaps others attempting to avoid the mayhem.

The Bay provided two necessities needed for any decent tourist stop: ice cream and gorgeous views for optimal pictures. It’s debatable about which is more important (lies, we all know ice cream is).

\m/ BURNT ORANGE BUILDING WHOOOOO HOOK EM \m/

After a leisurely homemade dinner we met up again with Josie and Naomi and went for some “casual” fancy drinks at a local cocktail bar. This would have been fairly uneventful except the establishment was packed with men in kilts…thanks again rugby!

I was tempted to ask for a picture with one but I figured that their inability to support their own body weight would ruin the photo op.*

OooOoOoh look how classy we are!

That’s me below, Queen of Class (lol). I don’t know where my eyes go when I smile…Squints it is then.

In the morning I was greeted with blue skies n’ sunshine and the promise of a British pancake** baking lessons! AHHHH ALL MY DREAMS CAME TRUE. Did I need a baking lesson in yet another delicious carb/gluten-based meal? No. Did I even stop think about the repercussion my waistline might face if I knew how to make my favorite British treat (except for Cadbury chocolate. Nobody comes between my Cadbury and me)? NO! NO! NEVER! NEVER!

Seriously guys, when I get back who wants some?

Above: Caught in the act of gorging myself. Below: giggly Eve-y and her pancakes.

In my last few hours Eve, her flatmate Liv, Josie, and Naomi and I wandered through the now considerably less dense streets and let my tourist-freak-flag fly. This just means they indulged my need for cheesy photos and frequent stops.

Cardiff University, goOooooOOo dragons!

We ended our “tour” in Bute Park. There we had a casual picnic IN FRONT OF A CASTLE and had a PHOTO SHOOT IN A FIELD OF DAFFODILS. Is my life real? No. I don’t think it is.

My arrival in Cardiff may have left me a wee bit frazzled for an hour or so but the events that transpired and the company I kept made up for it three million billion thousand times over.

  OMG.

If I could remember my dreams I’m sure they would revolve around skipping through fields of flowers and dancing to Beyonce for 48 hours straight. Seeing as that’s exactly how I spent my time in Cardiff, I can say with ease that life is currently better than my dreams (yes, I too just gagged on that cheesiness).

Muchos Besos!

* Remember: these men have been drinking since before noon, all in the name of sportsmanship…

**For those unaware that British pancakes even existed as I was three months ago, they are the lovechild of American fluffy pancakes and and French crepes.

 Oh yeah, and this happened. I really love daffodils:

Man, oh Manchester

When it came down to the nitty-gritty of choosing a location to study abroad, it was by far the easiest decision I had to make. I spent more time debating what shoes (*cough 3 days cough*) to pack than I did researching a country to go.

The reason choosing England was such a non-decision was because of, what else, but the summers I had spent working as a counselor at CFA. There, I was fortunate enough to befriend dozens of international counselors and staff members whose home base is either England or continental Europe.

Note: Befriending maybe be putting it kindly. We were forced (i.e. paid very very little) to spend nearly everyday for 10+ weeks together under a scorching Texas sun with little-to-no contact with the outside world. Since a Lord of the Flies situation is off the table, the options are to befriend your companions or quit. Luckily summer camps seem to draw in a certain “type” of person that make for cohesive work environments and always have a couch for you to sleep on when you’re I dunno, spending six months abroad in England!?

So to regroup: I spend these countless hours working and bonding with these people. For nearly three months they are my ONLY friends. Then the summer ends, their visas expire, and they go home. Cue heartbreak and tears. We have Skype. There’s always Facebook. But it takes a month or two to transition back into life without them.

Back to present day. I’m in Nottingham. I find out I’m actually going to a great school* with a reputable science department and I have a handful of friends to visit scattered round Great Britain. After roughly one month in and zero excursions out of the city (except the day trip to Oxford) I’m chomping at the bit, raring to go.

Enter Matt.

Matt worked at CFA summer 2011 and I had seen him once or twice each year since when he visited the States. After several group messages between him, Julia**, and myself it was decided that on February 22nd I was going to Manchester. WAHOO.

Being the experienced traveler that I am (ha ha ha) I quickly opened up a new tab on my browser and Googled “nottingham to manchester trains help”.

Success! After following a link and inputting the various details of the trip along with checking off the 16 – 25 Railcard option (THANK YOU MOM AND DAD THANK YOU MOM AND DAD. BLESS YOU) I booked my first train tickets with only minor difficulties. The biggest being that there was more than one train station in Manchester. This was remedied by repeatedly texting Matt and Julia “help”, “SOS”, “yo”, “are you there? help” until they answered.

Flash forward to Friday, February 21st, it’s 11 PM and I’m setting my alarm clock for…4:45 AM. Yep. The day I had booked my tickets was coincidentally the day I had made my budget here. Realizing that every time I went to the pub or used the bus or went to the pub or bought wine cost money was a harsh realization. Ouch. So with a new sense of ~frugality~ clouding my vision I thought it was best to get the 6:40 AM train out of Nottingham. Why? Because that ticket cost 4 pounds.

Keep in mind I had never traveled by train before. I legitimately thought there would be a security checkpoint equivalent to that at an airport. I had never even been to the Nottingham train station. Ooops. The only bus I could get to the train station came at 6:05 AM and if I missed it I would undoubtedly miss my train. I did however know exactly where my bust stop was. You win some, you lose lots right?

Also it was very dark and very cold and very quiet when I left…but again, it was only 4 pounds!??!

As luck would have it I made my bus, but SURPRISE, the bus station and the train station are not the same. Crap. As I stood there with my large backpack and sleepy eye boogers still crusted on, I notice several more, errrrr, determined, more confident travelers all heading in the same direction with suitcases. With nothing left to lose (but all of my weekend plans and sense of independence) I chose to follow them.

My gut was right! After a short walk I ended up standing at the Nottingham Train Station. Deciphering the time tables was a whole other battle that I will spare y’all the details of. Essentially, I boarded a train crossing my fingers that it would get me to Manchester Piccadilly.

I made it though, with all my fingers, toes, and possessions no less.

After finding Julia, screaming her name across a terminal, startling the reserved British travelers and then repeating the process when we found Matt, the three of us were ready to go.

Word had spread of my freaky fondness for castles, and Matt’s countryside hometowns provided not one, but TWO to explore. The three of us piled into his very British car and left the city limits as quickly as we had arrived. Don’t cry for me just yet Argentina, we’ll be back.

I had caught glimpses of the English countryside from behind the dirt encrusted train window, but due to it being around 7 AM I didn’t feel like subjecting my fellow train passengers to my gleeful squawking.

Seeing the same sights from the backseat of Matt’s car was an entirely different experience. British radio was blasting and just on the other side of the window was one green hill after another. Each seemed to be dotted with flocks of sheep and spattered with little countryside cottages. It was a “movie moment” if there ever was one.

Continuing the very “English” theme of the day, we stopped to eat in a sort of up-scale pub(?). The establishment seemed to host an eclectic crowd to say the least. Picture bikers, cyclists, 20-something backpackers, and a few families thrown in for good measure, crammed in a room with exposed rafters and looooooots of HP Sauce.

The first “castle” we visited was less castle, more fort maybe? Only about 1/4 of the walls were still standing. This only left more for me to imagine. Ha! Wandering from room to room, I rambled aloud stories inspired by anything I could regurgitate from Conor forcing me to watch the History Channel. I’m 80% sure Julia and Matt tuned me out after the second sentence. Seeing as they’re in their 20’s and not 12, I can understand their lack of amusement and will find it in my heart to forgive.

Reunited, ahhhhhHHHHhahhhah!

We left and drove on to Clitheroe. There, since we are nothing if not thorough, we had ENGLISH tea time at an ENGLISH castle (number II). Is my life even real at this point?

The wind was not a friend.

Like any good castle does, the Clitheroe Castle gave way to panoramic views of the small town that were absolutely stunning. Particularly the hill in the background of the second photo. Yes, the hill that’s just behind mine and Julia’s furry hoods and hook ’em sign. Upon further inquiry, Matt informed me that the hill was home to a “gnarly witch hunt or something. Yeah. It’s famous or something. Yeah.”

As helpful as that was, Google aided me further. I’ve included the link below because I actually spent a gross amount of time reading more about the “gnarly witch hunt” aka the Pendle Witches, while the others were getting ready for a night out. If there is one person who clearly knows how to get ready to party it’s me. Ammirite? Am. I. Right.

http://www.pendlewitches.co.uk/

After an hour or so of down time (i.e. Matt took a nap) and a feast of Chinese take away we met Matt’s “lads” upon our return to the city of Manchester. These guys treated us to a “proper” night out and were much more English gentlemen than obnoxious bros. Between offering us their jackets and cooking us an English breakfast in the morning we couldn’t have asked for more. One fellow even gave Julia and myself a parting gift (see photo below).

It’s something Lord of the Rings related. Because I’m shameless and have neither watched the movies or read the novels I don’t know what it is, but I WILL keep it foreeeeeeever, just as I will the memories from the weekend.

And scene!

Muchos Besos.

*Jokes! I knew that the University of Nottingham was a very good school well before I boarded a plane. This is partially thanks to UT only partnering with schools of comparable prestige and partially thanks to who else but ~Google~.

**For those who aren’t in the “know”, my roommate from the past and of the future (Julia) is also studying abroad in England this semester. She’s residing a bit farther south in the posh city of Bath.

Playing Tourist

HELLO SUNDAY MOURN’

I awoke with plans only to tour Nottingham’s own castle* later in the afternoon. After mindlessly running through my morning routine I opened up the following message from Amy:

Uh, yah! Totally! I scrapped whatever measly breakfast I had been mentally planning and set off to get ready for my newer, better, more posh plans.

Being that it was a Sunday*, Amy had double, triple, quadruple checked that both the White Rabbit Tea Room annnnd the castle would be open. There simply wasn’t room in our itinerary for disappointment. We stumbled around Nottingham’s city centre area, getting lost, asking for directions, forgetting said directions, and repeating the process until lo and behold we spied it up ahead.

Above is what we should have seen. We did see a similar image except the door was closed, the curtain was drawn shut, and the lights were off. Oh yeah, and the door was locked. Yep, it was closed.

Not ready to give up we found a nearby establishment and looked to see if it met all of our criteria. Is it open? Check. Serving brunch? Check. Does it have tea? Check. Whattabout scones?! Check, check, check! Maybe it was because our expectations had been mercilessly crushed by The White Rabbit, but by the end of our leisurely meal the disappointment from earlier had been long forgotten. In it’s place were full bellies and even fuller hearts (cue cheesy music).

Below is Katie’s Egg Florentine. I couldn’t have been bothered to whip out my camera at the mo’, for my hands were a lil’ occupied holding a fork and a knife (the instruments for which I used to stuff my face). I can assure you my Eggs Royale looked nearly identical, just replace the spinach with salmon (mmmmm protein!).

As we left Amy (brunette on the left) was visibly nervous that the castle wouldn’t be open. Who could blame her though? Websites here clearly aren’t held to the same integrity that they are back home. Theheheh. We arrived at the castle and quickly this conglomerate of international students formed. In total there ended up being 22 of us. Woah!

We entered through the gates and saw the castle! OooOoooh so intriguing. Much mystery. Thanks to the blood n’ gore that had surrounded Oxford’s buildings history, I expected much of the same from this Nottingham Castle (because every old building is like the same, right? Right?). I buzzed around from plaque to plaque looking for key words. My list included but was not limited to:

• death
• hanged
• gallows
• pyre
• burned
• sentenced
• escaped
• beheaded

No such luck really. I found a handful that mentioned the Royal Sherwood Foresters Militia and the Robin Hood Rifles, but alas, no beheadings. We circled the perimeter of the grounds taking in the panoramic view of Nottingham.

We entered into the castle* expecting to see some real medieval goodies. Like the set of Tudors or How to Train Your Dragon. Surprise! It’s actually now a museum! I looOOoooOove museums and I attribute this mainly to my Grandma & Pop-Pop (thanks for all those birthday trips y’all!). However touring a museum with 22 international students is not exactly the same.

It felt like we were running through the museum at a dead sprint. I think we covered the four floors in under 45 minutes. NEW RECORD! YAY! After everyone had quickly bustled through the art hall I quickly got with the program and followed suite. Fingers crossed I absorbed some knowledge/culture through osmosis!? On the way out I snapped this selfie with a Lord Byron bust. Sah gucci.

As we left mumbling ’bout how yet again our expectations hadn’t quite been met we looked back and it was clear that the joke was on us. Our departing view was the stuff postcards are made of*. This quickly prompted a mini photo shoot. Some of results are pictured below.

^^Not ready^^

annnnnnnnd got it!

We scurried along to join the rest of the gang at Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem (est 1189). This pub was rumored to have been the oldest in England*. The real hot spot for the crusaders back in the day. This storyline somehow morphed into a running joke that Jesus himself visited the pub. So now not only have I wined n’ dined where J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis did, but also Jesus. Man! I’m on a roll!

Of course we were sidetracked by the Robin Hood statue.

But we made it! Only to find our clique already one pint in!

After everything it was still an A+ day. I’m really really reaaaaallly lucky to have been placed with such an awesome crew.

Muchos besos!

*Somehow, after like day one, my flatmates dubbed me as Weird-Castle-Girl. Apparently I get really excited whenever the topic of castles comes up. Apparently I also make sure that this topic comes up often. Whatevah.

*For those who aren’t in tha know, Sunday in Europe is not the same as Sunday in ‘Merica. Stores here close (if they’re even open) at 4:30pm or 5:00pm. I was told by my Aunt & Uncle that this isn’t so much as a religious thing anymore as it is a matter of principle. I was also warned it’s much worse on continental Europe. Meh.

*Nottingham’s Castle actually isn’t technically a castle anymore. The original was almost demolished in its entirety in 1649. Lucky for us, the Duke of Newcastle built a mansion on the same grounds. Not so lucky, rioters burnt it to bits in 1831. In 1878 it was reopened as the Nottingham Castle Museum. According to one of the cooler exhibits, it kinda-sorta holds the same layout as the original castle.

*Shocker! There was a postcard of this image in the gift shop (and I bought it)! Ha!

*There are also several other world’s/England’s/Nottingham’s oldest pubs, so who knows. Guess I’ll just have to visit them all! Ohohoho!