Friday morning Liz, Whitney, and I took a train to Cardiff, Wales. I didn't know a whole lot about Wales, other than the history I was learning from Stephen Lawhead's King Raven Trilogy and the comment on a tourism site, "Wales shares an island with England and Scotland" (Wales is, in fact, a part of the United Kingdom).
This is what I learned:
~Nice hostels aren't always quiet hostels. Our hostel was recently renovated, as was pretty obvious. The halls leading to the dorms were lit by magenta blacklights, and the room numbers were displayed on the doors with blue spotlights. Unfortunately, this seemed to be just the place for a lot of partyers for the weekend, making for a loud couple of nights. Overall, though, it was a very clean and decent hostel, complete with free tea and coffee at all times. Our one roommate was very sweet, a 24-year-old master's student at a university down the street from our school. She wasn't too interested in the party scene, so we ended up hanging out with her Saturday night and watching School of Rock in the t.v. lounge.
~The Welsh are outrageously friendly! On Saturday we walked about 3 1/2 miles down the river to Cardiff Bay. It's a beautiful little bay town, so much fun. When we first got there we saw a lighthouse statue in front of the police station, and on the rocks at the base were written random words like Texan, Tiger growling, Italian, and toaster. We really wanted to know the meaning behind the words, so we decided to be brave and go inside the police station. Expecting a short, impatient answer from a tired officer, we were pleasantly surprised to find a Welsh woman who was very eager to help us. She didn't know the answer, so she asked her co-worker, called a few other co-workers, looked online, did everything she could possibly think of to find our answer! The final answer: it's modern art, there's no meaning to the words.
After our police station experience, we visited the Bay, where we went to the National Assembly Rooms. The women at the front desk answered all our random questions on Wales (about 22% spoke Welsh as a first language about 8 years ago, the number is now larger), but they also printed out all the info we could need for our next museum adventure, St. Fagin's.
On Sunday afternoon Whitney and I were going to check out Moriah Chapel, the place where the Welsh Revival took place in the early 1900s. Well, we didn't know how to get there, so while I was trying to get info from Liz who was online back in London, Whitney boarded a bus and asked the bus driver where it was. He had no idea, and he told her to ask the people on the bus. She did it--she asked the full bus how to get to Moriah Chapel! After everyone said they didn't know, one old man told us where he thought there was one. Our problem was solved, and we only lost our pride.
When we did visit Moriah Chapel for their afternoon worship service, the caretaker was very pleased to show us around and make sure I got a million photos. Although he was so Welsh we couldn't understand a lot of what he said, he was very, very friendly. The people there wouldn't let us get a bus-- the visiting pastor insisted on driving us back to Swansea, and then he took us on a long driving tour of the stunning Swansea coastline. The kindness of Wales was above and beyond what we needed or expected.
~I don't know Welsh, nor do I have the ability to pronounce Welsh. While boarding the bus to Moriah Chapel, I asked for a return ticket to Loughor. The bus driver didn't understand me. I tried again. He still couldn't figure out what I was saying. I yelled to Whitney, who was standing behind 2 giggling preteen girls, and she told me to spell it. I did, and after a moment the bus driver said, "Oh!" and spoke a name which sounded like "l-wispycough-ah." I didn't even try to pronounce it again. Pride? Gone!
~Whitney is an amazing friend. I was ready to give up on finding Moriah Chapel, but she went above and beyond to try and figure out how to get there. She didn't even care about seeing it, but she made sure I was able to go.
~Wales is very different from England. I learned a lot of this while talking to our tour guide pastor. While perhaps not as vocal or politically strong as Scotland, Wales does not like England, nor does it want to be British. Everywhere we looked there was a red dragon or a daffodil, the symbols of Wales. Every sign was both in Welsh and English. The people are friendlier than in London, much more emotional than the stoic English. They have great pride in their culture, something which I think a lot of the English have lost in their quest to be British.
So how was Wales? It was wonderful, a beautiful place full of great people. Yet I don't feel the same sort of connection there that I do in England or Scotland, the feeling that there's something more here, that I belong here for a longer amount of time than a visit. I definitely want to go back to Wales, but right now I don't think it's going to hold the same sort of place in my heart as England.
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