Necesitamos dinero

Cunard persists on sending me e-mails promoting their transatlantic voyages. I never asked for these e-mails but I can't seem to get myself to mark them as spam out of that crazy desire for them to be relevant. I want to be someone who has the time and money to spend six days crossing the Atlantic.

I have this vision of my taking a laptop along and spending the time happily typing away, occasionally venturing out to go... uhm... do posh things. I don't actually know what I would do; it is an economic bracket beyond my comprehension.

In truth, though, I would probably hate it. I have always had a similar vision of travelling via train across the United States -- writing and staring at the landscape and writing. But Owen Martell told me once that he has already pulled this stunt and it was, in fact, kind of shit. I guess, in essence, six days on the Atlantic would just be a really long version of two hours on the Irish Sea, which I have done a handful of times. Each time I do that, I am hit with a frontal lobe headache of the sort I always get when drinking too much Stella Artois. Of course, this could have something to do with the fact that I usually spend my ferry journeys drinking Stella Artois.

At the moment, though, I haven't even got the money for a trans-Bristol Channel journey. The child bride and I ain't gots no money, bitches. All those stories of late about the economy going to shit are met at the Cope hovel with a disgruntled nodding of the head. Yes, BBC, I know I've got no money. Why do you insist on rubbing it in my face? "It sucks for you, and it's just going to keep on sucking. Don't you feel stupid for moving here? You might have a house in St. Paul (a) by now had you stayed in Minnesota."

I am probably doomed to think this ad perpetuum until I manage to establish some sort of a Welsh harem (Chris takes several minutes to mentally catalogue his first 15) and therefore able to convince myself beyond unreasonable doubt that moving here was the best idea ever. I am inclined toward this type of thinking now especially that the academic year has come to an end.

I have successfully stumbled my way through two whole years of university and now feel a need to reflect. At the pub last Friday, Llŷr appropriately had to ask me three times if this is the farthest I've ever progressed in university. The answer was eventually yes, and it's an answer that in itself serves as validation. I am now only a year away from actually having a proper degree (b).

And now, in brilliant summer weather, I have nothing to do but write a book. And that's probably what has me most unsettled at the moment: things are coming together. Dude, that's scary. When the pieces of life start to fit I start to get nervous, waiting for it all to come apart in some British drama fashion (c).

Thank the sweet baby Jesus, then, that we've only got £35 to last us the next fortnight. If we weren't in financial dire straits I'd be seriously worried, expecting at any moment for the guy who really killed Jill Dando and Princess Diana to come walking in after us.

-----

(a) It would be more accurate to say that I might have had a house in St. Paul. Almost certainly I would have been one of those subprime mortgage victims.

(b) OK, yes, it's a degree in Welsh, so I'm not sure how "proper" a degree it is. But considering that previous ambitions were for degrees in philosophy and politics, it's not as if I was ever going to get a "proper" degree anyway.

(c) One of the reasons I am so loyal to programmes like "Strictly Come Dancing" is the fact that British dramas can be so soul-destroying. They will build the character up and then suddenly, seemingly without reason, take the person down and end the story with no redeeming element whatsoever. They seem to feel some kind of moral obligation to do this, TV critics always complaining that American dramas "give in" and allow their characters certain levels of redemption. I will watch "Doctor Who" because it is geared toward younger viewers and I feel I can trust it not to pull the rug from under me, but you can see how desperately the writers want to.

Transitional

My second year of university finally comes to an end this week. Like the Democratic Party nomination process, it has dragged on for far too long, with my last lecture actually having taken place more than a month ago. In the interim I have had to try to stay mentally in tune for exams.

The exam process in Britain is comically archaic, placing massive groups of students into large halls and gymnasiums to sit in uncomfortable chairs and scribble out essay questions for two hours. It is an unnecessarily stressful set-up that forces me to develop ridiculous patterns and superstitions similar to when I played sports. You know, the "I always wear these socks and I put them on in this exact way" sort of thing. Before every exam I have to do 100 push-ups and 300 stomach crunches, eat two pieces of toast, and text Fflur; I buy a £1.03 bottle of water at the Somerfield, wear jeans and a T-shirt, come to the exam equipped with three black ink Bic Cristal pens, and keep my phone in my pocket (even though they tell me not to).

So far this technique has been relatively effective -- I don't feel that I've tanked on any of the exams. There was a time when I had hoped to achieve stunningly high marks, but that desire has subsided somewhat now that I am less gung-ho about carrying on to earn a PhD. I had been considering that route earlier in the year but then went to speak to my advisor about it. In talking to her I made a flippant remark that perhaps my idea for a PhD project would work better as a chincy TV programme and she laughed a little too revealingly.

The nature of Welsh society is such that it's probable my account of our meeting would get back to my advisor, so I want to stress that she did not say anything to put me off the idea. But something about the meeting -- possibly just the act of explaining my project to another person -- caused me to lose some of my fire for PhD work.

The aforementioned project has now been converted into a venture that Llŷr (and maybe possibly perhaps Annie) and I will tackle next summer.

But first there is this summer, which will be occupied by the writing of a book that you probably won't read. Tentatively titled "Cwrw Am Ddim; a rhesymau eraill i ddysgu'r iaith" (a), it is the non-fiction account of my experiences learning Welsh, moving to Wales, etc. I am attempting to write it in a more prose style, a la Dave Eggers, with the ambition of carrying on to write fiction in the future.

I had written an outline about a year ago but really only started in on the thing last week, with most of that time being used to restructure the 25-page outline. I have no idea whether 25 pages is a lot or a little for an outline. Considering that everything else I have ever written has been sans outline, it feels like quite a lot. Note, however, that everything else I have ever written remains unpublished.

(a) "Free Beer; and other reasons to learn Welsh"

A bit like that, yeah

Rambling

I walked today from Barry to East Aberthaw and decided to turn the experience into an audio/visual blogging extravaganza. Well, perhaps "extravaganza" is a bit much. It's really no more than a slideshow with commentary.

I apologise for the quality of the audio in some of these clips. It's blustery on the coast. Adding to the poor quality is the fact that in most of the clips I was walking. My goal was to do things quickly and give it a sort of "instant" feel, but arguably this still could have been achieved while standing still and out of the wind.

The audio has the added factor of displaying my present hodgepodge accent. It's generally the old Minnesota-with-Texas-twang sound, but occasionally you pick up South Wales phrasing. It's most notable, I think, when I'm talking about mini-golf in the clip from Porthkerry Park.


The journey begins. I took the train from Sweet Home Radyr Way down to Barry. In the audio clip below, I misspell the Welsh name.


Angular waterway-thingy in Barry's The Knap area.


Lake in Barry's The Knap area.


This looks like a building site, but it is, in fact, a historical site. These are the remains of a Roman building that stood here in 45 AD. It's quintessential Britain that you have ancient sites sandwiched into everything else. Those are peoples' homes in the background. Just behind me was an ice cream shop. I was very obviously the only person interested in the site.


Above The Knap. The large body of water, of course, is the Bristol Channel. Off in the haze you can see Flatholm Island.

Audio from Barry:





The viaduct at Porthkerry Park.


Mini golf course in Porthkerry Park.

Audio from Porthkerry:



I don't know what a bulwark is, but this camp of theirs is mighty old.


In the haze, across the water, you can see England.


Phallic stone circle at Rhoose Point.


Giant compass made of rock. Impressively, the markings on the compass are in Welsh. In this picture you are looking to the dwyrain (east).


These stones were very clearly in a specific formation, but I couldn't make sense of it.


The golf course between life and death.

Audio from Rhoose Point:



According to a BBC cameraman I know, you can go down to the beach and see dinosaur footprints somewhere around here.




A ship heading out to sea.


Trailer park.

Audio from the trailer park:



That is a massive sign. Sadly, the sailboat hit it and sank. Two people died. Very sad.


Wetlands near East Aberthaw.


This is a family crabbing in the wetlands near East Aberthaw. I really wanted to take a picture of what they had caught, but I couldn't figure out a non-embarrassing way to say: "Can I take a picture of your crabs?"


Interesting-looking abandoned building.



Audio from the woods near East Aberthaw:





Even the garages are made of stone in East Aberthaw.


The Blue Anchor pub has been around since 1380.


A look at the inviting front side of The Blue Anchor, and its thatched roof.


Heaven.

Audio from The Blue Anchor:



And that's about it. I walked home the same way. I left my house at 10 a.m. and was back just before 6 p.m. If you ever come to visit me and want to see The Blue Anchor, I promise that we will just drive there.

Aesthetically pleasing, or, in other words, fly

If, like me, you feel obligated to watch every television programme featuring a poncy British guy yammering on about whatever subject it is that he thinks is so delightfully interesting it deserves an hour of your attention, you know that the modern Olympics aren't quite the Olympics as they used to be. In the good ol' days, of course, the chaps ran around naked and killed each other. Ah, good times.

Somewhat similarly, the Eisteddfod dreamed up by Iolo "Forgery is Fun" Morgannwg isn't exactly the same sort of thing that was going on back in the 12th century. It is an opium-induced Edwardian romantic vision of Welsh culture. That's an element that I wish they would play up a little more: "Welcome to Eisteddfod: kooky pseudo-druidism from the mind of a nutjob."

Of course, dreamed-up cultural traditions are perfectly fine with me. Made-up stuff provides the foundation of American culture. Thanksgiving was dreamed up to sell cookbooks. I simply bring it up because romanticism is the thing that struck me most about my second Eisteddfod experience.

For those of you playing along at home, an eisteddfod (roughly pronounced: "ay-STETH-vode") is a cultural event/series of competitions that encompasses pretty much anything you've got time for: singing, literature, dancing, arts, crafts, etc. It's a bit like a county fair, minus the baking competition and those kitschy endearing elements that British filmmakers like to feature when trying to demonstrate that all Americans are slack-jawed yokels. There is no eisteddfod leek-eating contest (and more's the pity for that, I say).

The eisteddfodau (more than one eisteddfod) are based on a tradition of poets strutting their stuff for one another, which took place as late as the 12th century and as early as some time that I failed to note when I had a lecture on Eisteddfod several months ago. These events are held all throughout Wales, all throughout the year and they are generally about as exciting as you would expect a bunch of people gathered in a church hall reading poetry to be. Actually, it's more fun than that, thanks to sock-rocking elements like cerdd dant and côr llefaru.

Cerdd dant is a competition that in its essence involves singing to harp accompaniment. But for wacky fun, every competitor has to sing the same song. Or, at least, the same words. I think they are allowed to make up a different tune if they are so inclined, but to be honest I've never been able to sit through a cerdd dant competition long enough to say one way or the other. Here's a clip of a bloke who won £150 for his performance.

The utterly baffling côr llefaru, meanwhile is something that our man Iolo almost certainly would have seen in his opium fits. Like some kind of low-tech Lydia Lunch spoken word performance*, it involves several people reciting poetry in dramatic unison. You should probably be sitting down to watch this clip (although, it's worth it for the hottie flutist).

Easily the most hilarious competitions, though, are those for dancing. They are funny in a surreal way -- the whole thing of performing what should be life-affirming folk dance on a vast, empty stage before an utterly silent audience. It's like attempting to do Def Comedy Jam on Sunday morning at an old folk's home.

Once a year, there is a national Eisteddfod (note the big "E"), the big-money eisteddfod. This is the thing that all the Welsh Bob Dylan wannabes** sing about. Last week's Eisteddfod events pulled just shy of 155,000 visitors, which is about half of what St. Paul's Grand Old Day pulls in a single day, or 1.5 million people short of Minnesota State Fair attendance. But don't let the numbers fool you; Eisteddfod is televised live across the country and the focus of all conversation for the week before, during and after the actual affair.

Well, the focus of conversation in Welsh-speaking circles, at least. The bus driver who took me from Chester to Mold (where Eisteddfod was held this year) had no idea it was going on.

People attending Eisteddfod are probably happy to have it that way. It plays more into the sense of isolation that Welsh people often seek to create for themselves. And minimal numbers of English speakers assist in the romanticism of the event. It meant that in the instant village that was the caravan park one heard only Welsh. Hundreds of people, across acres of land, yammering away in y Gymraeg. It was Welshie utopia.

FTYPAH: "caravan" here means "camping trailer." Imagine my disappointment when I first figured that out. In all the times I had heard about people going caravanning, I had envisioned them bouncing about the British countryside like Tevye in "Fiddler on the Roof."

In that vein, I had bundled my tent along with me to Mold and set up with a few friends on the periphery of the rows of caravans. Camping at festivals is an established British summer tradition -- pitching a tent in the mud and stomping around on two hours' sleep is part of the experience. Or, at least, that is the way that it is portrayed. In fact, what I found was that everyone had a tent that was at least three times the size of mine. Mari had a six-man tent all to herself. Rhodri and Elin's tent was so large and equipped with so many guy wires that it reminded me of the tent used by Hawkeye, Hunnicutt and Winchester in M*A*S*H. I kept asking them when they were going to set up the still (a reference that I think was lost on them).

People came equipped with full-size air mattresses, camping stoves, radios, televisions and countless other amenities. The field itself was equipped with proper working toilets, showers, a chippy (FTYPAH: "burger stand"), a convenience store and a bar. This is what I mean by "instant village;" it wasn't camping at all.

At dusk, smoke from barbecues would lift up against the sunset and hills, and from every corner you could hear the constant patter of Radio Cymru or families and friends all speaking in this ancient language. It reminded me of my first impression of Cymru Gymraeg (Welsh-speaking Wales) more than 10 years ago: that I had somehow stumbled into a different country within a different country. That's the romantic vision, the romantic hope of many Welsh speakers, I suppose. It's the thing that makes Eisteddfod worthwhile, which is also what makes it hard to appreciate.

Welsh-language culture is wrapped almost entirely in the language. It has traditional dance and music, but for whatever reason these elements are seemingly shunned within the culture. Its modern music is awful more often than not, and almost all other modern cultural aspects are indistinguishable from those found in England. This results in a culture that doesn't really have an entry level for appreciation. There is no bodhrán or tartan to Welsh culture.

On the most recent episode of "Mountain," Griff Rhys Jones was talking about a British attempt to wipe out Highland sentiment by killing a load of people. He noted that tartan (FTYPAH: "plaid") was at one time banned and people were cleared off their land and killed, and yet in modern times all these Highlandy things can be found pretty much anywhere on the British islands and they are easily recognized worldwide. He suggested that these things have become more widespread than they ever would have been if the British had simply left the Highlanders alone. He then darkly quipped: "Perhaps if there had been a few massacres in Wales, people would know who we are."

There's a certain truth to that. Whatever the reason, it's difficult for outsiders to really grasp the differentness of Welsh culture. If you are an English speaker or person from outside the British islands, there is little to pique your interest because the language is so tightly woven into the culture -- if you don't know the language, you are not likely to see what's so fucking special about this place.

All of this is at the heart of why I was so disappointed by my first Eisteddfod experience. Last year, when the child bride and I went to Eisteddfod in Swansea, I was hoping for a sort of cultural event/celebration that would in some way vindicate all the time and money and trouble of moving here. I wanted to be able to say to my wife: "Yes, I know that I have failed you as a husband by dragging you on some ridiculous dream, but look at what we get in return."

I had long had difficulty answering the question that I am so often asked -- "Why Welsh?" -- and hoped that Eisteddfod would finally provide that answer.

It didn't. Cripes almighty, it didn't. It was a bunch of rocks and white information booths. A third-rate county fair trying to win legitimacy by mimicking the "Ode to a Grecian Urn" scene in "Music Man"***.

But then this year, I was sitting around a barbecue with friends -- beer in hand, smoke rising into the summer sunset -- and it hit me. It hit me again the next day, when I was chatting with people who were spread out on the grass near a beer stand, listening to the caterwauling of yet another Dylan wannabe. The language stupid.

So often in Welsh-speaking situations there is an element of something -- defiance, academia, back-room dealing -- that runs through the experience. But in Eisteddfod, with everyone speaking the language simply because it is a language and language is how you tell your friends about funny things, the simple act of talking rubbish in the sun feels slightly otherworldly. It's romanticism, of course. In this world there is only one radio station, one TV station, no newspaper and the 1990s have yet to occur musically. But with the language clicking in my brain, I was finally able to see the appeal of Eisteddfod.

I don't like saying this, but I actually enjoyed it.

*Whoa, in the great game of obscurity baseball, I have just knocked one out of the park with that reference.

**For some inexplicable reason, one of the most-respected Welsh-language pop artists is a dude who blatantly stole his style from Bob Dylan ( here's proof). Even more confusing is that there are legions of younger performers who are blatantly stealing their style from him.

***I couldn't find that scene on You Tube, but I did find my favourite scene from the musical. His producing a marshmallow (7:25) is one of the greatest bits of random comedy ever. I also wish that I had had the guts to use "It's alright, I know everything and it doesn't make any difference," as an opening line when meeting a girl.

Home

You know those dudes who live for events like Sturgis?

Those of you playing along in Britain can't really relate. There are plenty of tough-looking dudes in this country who look like they would consider glassing* to be foreplay, but in the United States we grow a special breed of grizzled individual. Madmen who tear across the American expanse in motorcycles with engines larger than most European saloons (FTYPAH: sedans**). Baked by the sun, battered by mother nature and seemingly impervious to whatever things come flying off the road at high speeds, they are tough sons of bitches.

Suddenly I am wondering who would come out as being tougher -- an actual biker dude or one of Britain's finest. I think the British thug would have speed and agility but I think the American biker would be a little more stamina and have a more concentrated sense of cruelty. It would be tough to call a winner in a head-to-head match-up.

It's probably an unanswerable question. A bit like how I've always wondered which would win in a fight: a polar bear or a lion. In the polar bear - lion contest, you've got two creatures who have mastered their environment. Part of what make them so tough is how they deal with their surroundings. So any fight would favour the home team. I suppose you could put them in neutral territory, but then you'd have two competitors who weren't at their best. The same thing with your American biker and British thug, I think.

But that's not the point. The point is this: right now I feel like the leathery skin of an American biker. I feel rough.

And this after only two nights at Eisteddfod.

*FTYPAH: "Glassing" is when someone breaks a pint glass and shoves it in your face.

**How the hell Americans and Brits came up with such vastly different meanings for the word "saloon," I can't even guess.

The Ghost of the Ice Cream Van

My latest column is out. Actually, it's been out since Tuesday, but I wasn't near a computer to post it. Random line from the column: "In Britain it is more acceptable to kick an old lady in the shins than design straight roads that are easy to navigate."

Eisteddfod

I'll be up in North Wales for Eisteddfod for the rest of the week. Although I theoretically could blog via my phone, I almost certainly won't. I have asked the child bride to blog in my absence but she has refused.

I suppose if people really felt like it, they could create their own sort of Chris blog in the comments section. Feel free to blog about things you think I would blog.

Otherwise, I'll see you in a few days. I am currently planning on returning on Thursday night but there's always the off chance that Eisteddfod will be shockingly less sucky than it was last year and I will decide to stay longer. Money and willingness to go days without showering (I'll be sleeping in a tent) will be the key factors in my decision-making.

Hwyl fawr.

Nant Gwrtheyrn

I've got three good names for bands that I need to mention straight away:
Heroic Doses (from Eric)
Aural Small Print (from Mr. Phin)
Absent American (from Chris)

The last of those is inspired by the fact that once again I will be missing a blogger meet-up in London this weekend. I am genuinely upset about it, but I suppose that on the plus side, I won't yet have to pay up on my bet with Huw that he couldn't create a Chris Cope fan club on Facebook that would have more than 50 members. Currently there are 83 members, which I find both delightful and disturbing.

Instead of drinking in London, I will be travelling off to Nant Gwrtheyrn as part of Cwrs Meistroli.

I'm doing my very best to temper all the good things people are telling me about Nant Gwtheyrn. The Welsh have a certain knack for overselling things: five defeats and one win against England is a successful rugby season; a dozen people are a good showing at a protest; third-rate talent shows are revered cultural events.

It's a side-effect of national pride, this kind of thinking. As a Texan, I can relate -- you can produce all kinds of evidence to the contrary, but I believe to my very core that Schlitterbahn is the greatest place on Earth, that the Houston Rodeo cannot be outdone and that Shiner Bock is the trump card in any "good beer that you can actually drink" discussion (and as a half-Minnesotan I also believe that societies lacking a Dairy Queen are far more likely to fail*).

Nant Gwrtheyrn is a sort of re-education village for Welsh learners. Or so it feels from what people say about it. They tell you that it is beautiful and inspirational and life-changing and on and on until you start to wonder when they're going to hand you a glass of Kool-Aid.

In reality, it is an abandoned quarrying village in North Wales that was turned into an immersion learning centre. Everyone and his uncle will tell you that the slings and arrows of immersion are the best way to get up to speed in a language. But that is difficult in the Welsh language, where English is always a fall-back option. In Nant Gwtheyrn they've apparently established little rules for themselves where everything is done through the medium of Welsh. The village is isolated from the rest of the world to the extent that TV, radio and phone signal are unreliable, so it exists there on the Llyn Peninsula as an Epcotian dream of the Wales that nationalists are always telling themselves still exists.

Obviously I am being aggressively sceptical about it. One of the best ways to ensure that I won't enjoy something is to tell me how great it is. My problem is that I actually believe people, but my definition of what is great often doesn't match that of others and I have a powerful imagination that creates difficult-to-fulfil hopes and expectations. So, I try to beat down my visions of things before experiencing them. This is especially true when it comes to things in Wales. There have been a handful of staggering disappointments in the last year.

I'll be up in Nant Gwrtheyrn for a week, so intermittent blogging will be reduced to no blogging at all.

Despite my efforts, I am looking forward to it. I'll apparently have time and space to wonder around, and there is a reportedly a pub within walking distance. That's pretty much all I need.

*Thankfully, DQ is planning to begin expansion to the European market in the next five years.

And suddenly it gets busy

I have three different people asking me to write articles by the end of the week. I'm not complaining. I want to be a writer, and having people press me to write is certainly better than sitting around wishing I had an outlet.

My only problem is that I am unsure whether I will meet these deadlines. Because at the same time as I am supposed to be writing I am also immersed in my Welsh Cult Experience. A few days after I ungratefully accepted a position on a Welsh course for the month of July, I got a call from one of my professors informing me that I was, in fact, being offered a place on a higher-level course, Cwrs Meistroli.

I was much happier about accepting a place on this course, if not simply because it involves a weeklong trip to a secluded area of North Wales. So, I get to go on holiday and hopefully walk away with the ability to survive my degree. Brilliant. Another positive of the course was highlighted on the first day by one of my professors, who said* in Welsh: "Ooh, look Chris. Six girls in your course. That should make you happy."

The only drawback is that I have effectively sold my soul to Canolfan Dysgu Cymraeg. The course runs from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., Monday through Friday. There are also evening activities, trips to various locales, and the weeklong venture up north. And homework. I feel as if I have joined some kind of cult -- like I'm going through Scientology training and soon Rhys Ifans will be denouncing anyone in my family who doesn't love Wales, Welsh, and Welsh things.

So I am left with little time to focus on doing things like writing, or reading, or working out, or keeping the house clean. Thankfully, though, there is still time to watch "Last Man Standing," which is the best show ever.

The credits suggest that it was produced in part for Discovery Channel, so those of you playing along at home may get a chance to see it, but probably without the swearing and topless women. You may want to just fly to Britain to catch the rest of the series.

The idea is that they take a load of guys around the world and have them face all sorts of ridiculous indigenous challenges. The show's tagline is: "There's only one rule: Try not to die." Last week they were wrestling tribesmen in the Amazon, this week they were Zulu stick fighting. Next week they run 51 kilometres in high altitude. I am so addicted to this show.

Brad is my hero. He won last week and should have won this week, but was defeated by his own greatness. This week's winner was chosen by a Zulu war chief who based his decision on the quality of the contestants' fighting skill. Brad won his fight by basically storming in and scaring the shit out of his opponent, who gave up after three seconds. So there wasn't opportunity to display skill.

Crap. It's almost midnight and I've got homework to do.

*Because she may read my blog, I should point out that not only am I translating what my professor said, but paraphrasing it, as well. "That should make you happy," was said with body language.

Summer school

Well, scrap the book idea, I think. I got an e-mail today from my university adviser that said: "Hey Chris, how's your summer going? I was thinking that a really good thing for you to do would be, uhm, actually learn Welsh."

I'm paraphrasing, of course. The e-mail was in Welsh and contained three words that I had to look up in the dictionary. I was informed that an intensive month-long course for intermediate speakers would be starting up on Monday and it was very politely suggested that I attend.

The course is for people who have had one year* of Welsh. I have been studying the language for nigh seven years. So, my first reaction was something to the effect of: "Ouch."

This Welsh experience is like a Howitzer to my ego. I don't yet know how I did in exams, but I can't help but think that it was thoroughly unpleasant if I'm being encouraged to attend intermediate courses.

But after thinking about it all day, I realise that I should not be pissing and moaning. One thing that I worry didn't quite come across in the programme about me back in May is that Cardiff University's School of Welsh has done a fair amount of bending for me.

A lot of people were eager to tell me that I wouldn't have had such a rough time of it if I had attended university in Aberystwyth, The Greatest Place in Both the Earthly and Heavenly Planes. But I can't help thinking that things might have actually gone worse.

Because here's the thing, this course that I will be attending costs a shitload of money. But thanks to the School of Welsh, I will be paying considerably less than the course's stated cost of £600 ($1,200). As in £600 less; they've offered to let me attend for free**. I should be grateful. And, if I'm honest, I am grateful. The School is -- for whatever reason -- trying to ensure that I succeed.

But I can't help feeling that twinge of, you know: "Ouch."

The course runs from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. five days a week (see what I mean about intensive), so that pretty much spikes my hopes of writing a book this summer. I'll try to work on it in the evenings if there's time (which there almost certainly won't be if this course has homework), but really I won't get a chance to touch it until August. I'll get two months then to work on it, but that won't be enough. So it will be shelved until Christmas break or next summer.

What I hate about this most is that awareness that I'm actually kind of a stupid person. Charmingly stupid, perhaps, but stupid. I knew that already, but it always sucks to be reminded of it.

*OK, true, that one year is a year of Wlpan, which is a super-intense course that gets people up to fluency.

**It's worth pointing out, however, that over the three-year span of my degree I will be forking over some £27,000 to the university -- compare this to a UK student who will be paying closer to £9,000. Those students are also eligible for grants and scholarships, which I am not.

Oh, hello

I feel disoriented. It's been a fortnight (FTYPAH: "two weeks") since my last exam and I seem to have gone into hibernation mode since then. I spent the first week of my summer holiday sitting on the couch. Occasionally I'd turn on my iPod, but for the most part I'd just sit, staring at the wall, not really thinking about anything.

I've spent this past week putting together a 20-page outline for a book that no one will read, either because they have no interest or because they can't -- the book will be written in Welsh. I'm writing it in Welsh so I can say really awful things about my parents without them knowing. No, I'm lying.

Ideally, said book will be completed (if not polished) by the end of the summer. I will then store it away with my other book that no one will ever read (the novel formerly known as "Drinking Stories") and it will serve as light amusement to my grandchildren.

Exams went OK. I am worried about how well I did on the grammar exam, but I am hoping they will award pity points, since I am retarded: "You can't conjugate the subjunctive, or identify an adverbial phrase, but your shoes are tied so nice and tidy -- you pass!"

I have been trying to catch up on reading other people's blogs. I am also at least telling myself that I will write to my friends that don't have blogs. I respond to stress (like, say, trying to earn a degree in a language that you don't understand) and new situations (like, say, moving to a new country to earn a degree in a language that you don't understand) by pulling inward. Now that I'm on the other end of this first year, I find myself thinking: "Gosh, where did everybody go?"

They didn't go anywhere, I just stopped talking to them. So, that's where I am at the moment -- promising myself that I am going talk to people and stretch beyond the 50-mile radius I've confined myself to since November 2006. And how are you?

Random memory

Our first summer in St. Paul was particularly hot and our apartment did not have air conditioning. One day I came home and found the child bride making dinner wearing nothing but an apron.

I responded as you would expect -- with glee. But when I attempted to grab her she was having none of it. She hadn't been naked to be sexy, but because she was that hot.