My Journey begins at the quaint,
stately home of my dear friends, the Rileys, whose unmatched hospitality and
never-ending supply of millionaire shortbread I have regularly exploited for
nothing short of a decade. To paint you a picture of this sumptuous, Sussexan
scene, our current station is that of the cream-colored Row House, idyllic and
one of many on that most perfectly metric kilometer, Walsingham Road, Hove.
Situated not 150 yards from the pebbly grandeur of Brighton beach and a ten
minute walk to the famous Pier, life here is not for the faint of heart, as the
hardy locals are wont to make obvious. The Brighton stock is one of pure Saxon
lineage: berserkers, joggers and power-walkers all, pasty with a lust for blood
and SPF50. This land is rich with whole-grain muesli and powerful allies...
their ferocity is matched only by the quality of their boutiques. Breakfasts
here are meaty, with a side of free-range, organic egg whites.
A week of primping, comfy pillows and
home-cooked meals is what I'm after (or at least a few days) before I begin my
latest and currently paramount safari into the wold or, more appropriately, the
"Wald" as I make the trek into the German heartland, on a mission of learning.
The task is to grow and be born anew: an attractive Aryan avatar of my former
latinized self. My confidence is high that I am under-prepared in terms of
paperwork, but equally so that this is by far the most fashionable way to
start. I was recently thrilled to read, via blog, that my good friend, has successfully launched her own journey to Bologna, also for the
year. I so marveled at her cleverness for staying so sinfully savvy that I have
started my own blog for a similar purpose: to keep you lot at home as dreamy
and titillated by this year abroad as those of us on the front lines.
This week's activities have included
beachcombing, lollygagging, table-tennis, gnome-painting and boardgames: a
rousing game of Apples to Apples, using my expertly American cunning to my
advantage as English friends were slow to moisten their sense of humor. All in
all, a wonderful way to end the summer, the seaside beautifully salty and the
Rileys just as sweet. Caroline is a living saint and perpetually mothering,
whether in the form of providing acetaminophen to the fluey, or repromanding
the unrighteous. As my mother famously put it, "Do you have a Caroline in
your life? If not, you should get one." Her loyal husband, Matthew, is
less a saint than he is mortal divinity: an abbot of sorts, being of finest
soul and magnanimity, yet oozing with earthly sensibility and a love for beer.
Also, he's a Yorkshireman, which is grounds for vassalage in the kingdom of
heaven. Their children, Charlotte and James, are delightful and better friends
could not be found in between an era of such immense grief and one of such
frightening anxiety. Truly, I am nothing but for the strength of such people,
just as the sea is nothing without Matthew's bizarre yet glorious beachgoing
outfit of capris, crocs, backpack and floppy-brimmed hat. If anything, I am delighted
that my chum is such a foil to the trendy, cosmopolitan boutique-shoppers that
define this city and embody the new, youthful Britain. However fashionable
England becomes, it's the wallies that keep it charming.
More words later, but it's time for a cuppa. God bless this country.
