Life on Brighton Beach

I bet you didn't know that in Brighton, recycling collection begins at 5 am. I didn't either. But now I do. It came right after a gaggle of giggling girls swept by our room doing that drunkenly thoughtful "SHHHHHHH" really loudly to each other. Which of course came right after the sun came up, because 5 am is when it gets light here. Ridiculous. At any rate, I was already awake and drifting peacefully back to sleep when my poor brain was slammed awake by the crash bash smash of oodles upon oodles of glass bottles from the giant inflatable cow bar across the street being hurled unceremoniously from large metal bins into large metal garbage trucks. Not the best morning in the world.

But we do get up and leisurely mosey down to the breakfast room to partake in what is widely considered the best part of this hotel: the buffet (well, okay, the location directly across from the world famous Brighton Palace Pier I guess would be the best). But the breakfast was certainly nothing to be scoffed at, so after my fill of toast, baked beans, and bacon, we headed off to enjoy the summer sun.

Already hot at 10 in the morning, we stepped out onto the pier to see if we could spot the buildings in this picture I have of me in very attractive pink rain boots (very in style in England today!), a pink umbrella and a little-boy bowl haircut. It was taken probably 20 years ago (ha! I can actually say that now!) during a Christmas vacation in London. Our mission for the day was to find that spot again. However, the city is so much more built up today, plus the British have this great habit of tearing down pretty old buildings to replace them with ugly new ones, that we totally failed in this mission. We walked up and down the beach and the main drag to no avail. We couldn't even find equivalent hills. I really think the place has changed that much.

We were totally disappointed, but we did manage to scope out a few bars and seafood shacks that we wanted to patronize for dinner. Many bars are located right down on the beach, which is where my ideal bar should be. It's all pebble beaches here, so no running sand through my toes as I sip a pina colada and peal shrimp (think: Key West), but the ocean (the English Channel, actually) is always calming, and the sun saw fit to bust through the notoriously lackluster and dreary British weather to bring us clear skies and sunburns galore.

So we picked up some sunscreen, too. A little late for me.

We make our way from one side of town to the other, stopping by the famous Royal Pavilion on the way. I'm not sure what George IV was thinking; more like he just wasn't. It's big and gaudy and surrounded by big and gaudy gardens filled with tourists lazing about and sneaking pictures of street musicians so they don't have to pay them (one of my biggest pet peeves actually). The soft gray stone would look soft and cool and caringly worked if not for the total lack of consideration for good taste the building was built with. It has towers sprouting from every orifice, octopusing their ways upward in a hurry to reach the heavens like worried evangelists. Turrets crowd the rooftops in imitation of Mosques Gone Wild, in a very non-Halal way. The basic design comes from "The Orient," I suppose, during a time when everything non-Western was considered high culture in very stereotypical form and function.

It being gaudy and exotic and eccentric and slightly ADD in nature, I loved it.

We then hit up the beach for some much needed sun bathing. By "much needed" I mean that I had already burnt the crap out of my arms, so really didn't need any more sun at all. But that has never stopped me before! So we headed out, armed with our brand new, 2 pound beach mats (very posh), a giant bottle of water, and out bathing suits. I even tried jumping in the water, just to say I had been in English Channel. This was immediately followed by an emphatic and totally unavoidable, "Oh SHIT, that's cold." And indeed it was quite cold.

After a stint on the beach, we began a sojourn back to the main drag (we had found the furthest beach I could comfortably walk to with my bum ankle), stopping for a rousing game of putt-putt, which, as per usual, I lost by about 10000 strokes. Seriously. The boy used to play real golf with business compatriots. How can I compare? On top of that, while beach hopping in my bathing suit, I managed to lose my shirt, which prompted me to improvise using a scarf I happened to bring with me. Fortunately, it seemed to work out rather well. I have a taste for beach wear.

This excitement was then followed by a stop-by-stop journey backwards. We stopped in at a couple of bars, accompanied by pots of various kinds of shellfish served in ocean-side stands. We watched table umbrellas attack unsuspecting tourists. We observed a fight between rakishly trashy teenagers/young adults arguing over who stole whose cell phones and who was pressing charges and who should go home with the various men that were involved. It was kind of like being back in Kentucky (ahem).

And of course, we had to stop by the Pier in order to utilize the vast assortment of video games. I promptly schooled Jonmikel in the fine art of shooting games, and even tried my hand at this ghetto horse racing game. Real horseback riding is waaaay easier than that thing, unless there's something about British horses I don't know. Then JM schooled me in car racing, which is completely unfair because I am the better real-life driver. :-P

Between the beach and the spa, I have never been so relaxed. Recently, anyway.