Update November 13th!!

More Than Sheep And Coal.
In the grand scheme of things, traveling to new and foreign lands brings little more than relief from stress and a breath of fresh air. After all, when we return from such escapades, we delve right back into the everyday tedium that we call life. But after traveling outside of London for my second consecutive weekend, I am beginning to get used to this work-week, play-weekend lifestyle. It not only refreshes the mind and body, but it gives perspective on the things that matter most.

In Wales, where I journeyed this past weekend, there is a friendliness and hospitality that cannot be found inside a great city like London. This warmth is surely what I will remember most. On Friday, after three hours of lecture and class, I met my friend Rhys Parsons in front of the Old Building of the LSE. We walked to Temple Tube Station and we rode the train to Paddington Station in Northwest London. Paddington is one of the largest train stations in London, connecting many trains which travel to the west and north of England, Wales and Scotland. Our train to Wales left at 16:00 and it was packed to the doors with passengers, sitting and standing. We managed to eek a small space in the aisle, just as the train began to roll west.

The journey from London to Cardiff, Wales, usually takes under two hours, but because of speed restrictions on the railways due to the severe flooding in the UK, our journey stretched to almost 3 hours. We arrived at Newport Station instead of Cardiff, because rugby matches in Wales' largest city crowded the streets. Rhys' father, Richard Parsons, a high school French teacher, picked us up in a mini-van type automobile. Mr. Parsons was from the start a warm and generous man. Throughout the weekend, he offered all and more than could reasonably be expected from a host. His wife Nia was no different, cooking several delicious meals without hesitation. Mr. Parsons drove us back to the family's home in Caerphilly, Wales, population 40,000. There, we ate the first of the many wonderful meals, accompanied warmly by Rhys' grandmother (Mum Gee) and grandfather (Roland). Roland Parsons was a geology teacher before retiring, but, like many of the people I met, desired to talk of the American Presidential Election before anything else. "What do you think will happen in Florida?" the jovial man asked.

Supper was incredible: Lasagne, potatoes, peas, bread, and fruit and cream for dessert. Yes, it was Rhys' little brother's birthday on Friday, so we celebrated with ice cream and a fire in the fireplace. For his success in reaching 14, Gruffydd bought himself a colorful mobile phone, something he had wanted for some time. After dinner, Rhys and I relaxed a bit with his family, him and his brother playfully ribbing Roland for everything and anything. Both Mum Gee and Roland were very interested in the American way, or perhaps just my American way. They were genuine, both in their queries and their friendliness. I began to miss my grandparents.

Nia Parsons is also a school teacher, but an argument has to made for her to become a chef. As any college dormitory resident will attest, cafeteria food, no matter how wonderful it may be, loses its taste after a week or two. To have one homecooked meal would have been plenty; the five which Nia provided were heavenly.

After dinner, Rhys and I strolled down St. Martin's Road to a neighbor's house: Liz and Mike. In their late 20's, Liz and Mike had just moved in to this new house; they had previously lived next door to the Parsons. The friendly couple had played a role in helping Rhys choose which university to attend for his study of British Law, they themselves both practicing attorneys. We chatted for an hour or so, and Rhys and I decided to go as we had a big day ahead of us on Saturday.

In the morning on Saturday, Rhys and I woke and went to a nearby Coal Mine in the Rhondaa Valley. Coal was king in Wales for at least a hundred years, supplying both industry in London and an occasional war effort. The working conditions of a collier were stressful and strenuous if nothing else, and the labor did not pay well to boot. Rhys and I took a tour (which was free because Rhys used to work at the Tourist Office in Caerphilly) which was led by a man named Peter, who hated to be called Jack. Peter's father had been nicknamed Jack, so that as a boy Peter was given the same moniker. For 28 years, Peter worked in the coal mines of Wales, a job which required endless bathing to rid the body of soot and dirt. Peter never once complained.

After the tour, in which I was fooled into believing that we had really gone underground into a real coal mine, we watched a short video reflecting the social implications of the coal industry. Coal mines in Wales, though the major source of jobs for decades, were closed in the in the 1980's by the Thatcher regime.