Goin' South

England is a tiny country. I should know; I've now traveled from north to south, from one end to the other in one fell swoop, and then some. It felt more like a Montana commute than a long distance train ride, minus the stunning scenery. Not that England isn't pretty, it's just so... developed. Cities swish by, swarming up around rivers and along coasts and in between the only two trees that can be seen for miles. Sheep cohabit (ahem) with humans outside of cities, where what could be quaint, small farmhouses have fallen victim to the British idea of modern improvement: large, metal and concrete, and rundown like a trailer-park eyesore. With livestock. Sometimes you can get fleeting glimpses of green pasture, especially with our spring rains, sometimes the sea, endless and gray, or even a patch of trees left, probably mistakenly, fallow at the edges of civilization. Mostly, though, its a series of cinder-block tenements which give way to suburbs which give way to traditional tenements which give way to, surprisingly, Ferris wheels at the center of almost every city. I know England has it's countryside, but it's all so... British.

Such was the train ride to Brighton, our East Sussex beach destination. We needed an escape from Edinburgh, and I needed the beach. I get that urge when it starts to warm up, and it's insatiable. We hadn't heard much about Brighton, called the San Francisco of England, a reference to it's gay-friendly nature. But we did know that there was a spa there, Bristol Gardens, the kind of place with hot tubs and plunge pools and saunas and Turkish baths and sun rooms and soap that makes your skin smell like (clean) hippies. So we decided to head south.

On the way, we ended up sitting next to what I would describe as a crazy old man. Crotchety and cantankerous and talkative and opinionated and utterly helpless, he relied to on us (our table-mates were wise and quickly ditched us for a quieter locale) to read his tickets, tell him what stop we just passed, inform him of the time, open his cookies, twist the top off his bottled water, and entertain him with our American accents, which he picked out right away. He gave us that fascinating question: "East coast or west coast?" as if the 3000 miles in between were devoid of any habitable or otherwise useful land. When you get a question like that, there's no explaining that you actually live in the middle, because they look at you as if looking for your third arm or evil eye. If it's not LA or New York, then you aren't American. Following this question, the crazy old man proceeded to express his utter disbelief and disgust that I was attending Edinburgh and not Cambridge, because nothing in Scotland could possibly compare to even the worst England has to offer (he was a bonafide ENGLISH crazy old man). He then explained to us how America was ruining democracy and how everybody, especially the Israelis and Muslim fundamentalists, in the Middle East was crazy. That settled, he promptly yelled at the ticket checker, accusing her of trying to steal his money, then unpacked everything he owned, put it on top of the suitcase and newspaper of the girl sitting across from him, and slowly repacked it all while standing in the aisle from after Newcastle, past York, and most of the way to Peterborough. Thankfully, a jovial, middle-ages gentleman was lucky enough to have a seat next to Crazy Old Man for the rest of the journey, and Jonmikel and I could go about sharing raised eyebrows and knowing glances with one another and the girl opposite.

After navigating Sunday traffic in the London Underground, half of which was under construction for the weekend, and making it to Brighton (via Gatwick, which made for a cramped ride), we immediately hit up a beach bar to recuperate. Of course, we had completely forgotten that in England, they won't take Scottish pounds (talk about discrimination!) and had to plead and convince the bartender to take what she was absolutely convinced was Monopoly money. The Fish-n-Chips guy was much more accepting, responding to our "Do you take Scottish money?" with a nonchalant "As long as it's not fake." In England's defense, some of the newer bills (all printed independently by individual Scottish banks) DO look awfully colorful and fake. But we survived with out play money, and had some time to mosey around the beach before going to couples night at the Spa.

First impression: high strung. This wasn't like the relaxed, beach bum towns in the Caribbean (well, maybe a "flamboyant"Cancun, or a "poor-white-trashy" Nassau), or the sun-worshiping-and-fine-wine-drinking Dubrovnik. It was definitely Western European and, like the countryside, so very British. As in many of the old buildings on the sea front have been either torn down and replaced with hideous Soviet-style concrete monstrosities or, like those wayward trees, have laid fallow for years. In the rich sections, as per usual everywhere in the world, architecture is more chic. There just didn't seem to be enough relaxed people for a beach resort, Jonmikel and myself very much excluded. As soon as I saw the ocean, by brain shut off and I just fell into a state of euphoria. It doesn't take much, does it?

So after our beer, we headed out for a relaxing evening at Bristol Gardens, soaking up every last ounce of cedar and eucalyptus from the saunas and bumming around in the hotubs with out fellow spa-goers. I'm really falling in love with saunas. The smell and the heat and the time to just hang out and talk and think... its great, and something I feel I can't normally do in the middle of the city.

All that detoxifying really works up an appetite, so around 10 we headed off to find some foodage, in the form of a late-night Italian pizzeria right next to the Royal Pavilion, a moderately crazy-looking and utterly gaudy palace that looks more like a mosque that fell victim to idolatry than a royal English beach bungalow. Built by King George IV (he's got a funky bridge here in Edinburgh, too) back in the day (think: 18th century), I'm pretty sure it was his way of sticking it to his conservative dad and creating an exotic world all for himself where he could get on with his drinking and womanizing in peace. I dig that. EverReady's gotta have "their spot" in this world to be themselves. A hideous yet strangely alluring palace on the ocean seems as good a spot as any.