Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 7: When In Bath...

I. Back To Bath

Since ancient times, there has been something special about Bath that just makes people swoon. The Romans exploited the natural hot springs as their own private spa retreats, leaving behind one of the most well-preserved examples of Roman architecture in the world. Jane Austen's peers used it as a posh country getaway, sunning atop lush green hillsides and drinking tea in funny hats, while she was off writing girly novels (and hating Bath...really, it's true!). Modern tourists pack its streets in such droves that it's England's 2nd most visited spot. Somewhere in the distance, Stonehenge weeps alone and longs for the Griswolds' return.

Behold Bath!

JUMP! Bath

The city itself is so lovely it was named an entire UNESCO World Heritage site. The combination of Roman relics and grand Georgian architecture give Bath a most stately and austere feel; it is almost too proper for it's own good. Walking down the grand Pulteney Road, past the imposing Royal Crescent or winding through the cobblestoned streets lined with charming storefronts, the designation is well-deserved. Despite the abundance of modern shops and luxury automobiles, it is a city beautifully trapped in time.

Totally Happening

Great Pulteney Road: Rows of Georgian Masterpieces

JUMP! Royal Crescent

This was not my first time visiting Bath. I stopped through in 2004 to do the requisite tourist thing: the Roman Baths and Bath Abbey. Locked in time, not much has changed in four years except the fact that I had more time to see the non-touristy side of this fair town. Even the overpriced cafe in the Abbey square, where I enjoyed a fine lunch of my first UK fish and chips takeaway, remains. Like the proud Roman statues lining the Spa walls, watching the numerous pigeons and seagulls crapping all over the place. Living like a local (or, more specifically, like a university exchange student) was a highlight of the trip and a welcome break from the hustle and flow of London.

Bath Abbey And The Gangs Of Tourists

Coincidentally, the last time I was in Bath was also the last time the "occupation" square of my customs card read "student." Returning to this fair city, I actually felt relieved to live like a student again. Or, as close as I ever will be able to again. Knowing that I'm really an uptight corporate square didn't perturb me. Rather, it was refreshing to relive the good old days of walking up steep hills to get to class, pooping in peacefully quiet library bathrooms, living in a dormitory, being too poor to purchase whatever my heart desired, common rooms, communal dinner parties, meeting new and interesting people from around the world, and binge drinking. Although the grad student digs at University of Bath are far nicer than whatever puke-caked halls I dwelled in at UMass Amherst, that spirit remains the same. Even the way I would have been treated by liquor merchants back then hasn't changed. Let me explain.

To celebrate a bevy of things, including a departing suitemate, term completion, foreign visitors, and friendship in general, it was decided to have a party. And what does every party need in order to lubricate our social gears? A wee bit of liquid courage, of course.

Best Curry In Bath

After lunch at the best Indian currier in Bath, The Eastern Eye, Sandra, Kathleen and I pranced to the local Sainsburys to acquire our goods, shopping trolley in tow. At the checkout, I paid separately (for the sake of easy payback division later). Previously, I've never had a problem buying alcohol because:

1.) I never tried using fake IDs before 21;
2.) I didn't drink that much back then anyway; and
3.) I have never been carded outside the US.

So any possible risk didn't even cross my mind, especially since I'm twenty-fucking-seven years old. This all made the following exchange all the more baffling:

Young clerk: "May I please see some identification."

Me, all-too-eager to cooperate: "Sure!" (I even handed it to her with two hands, Chinese style!)

Clerk, pointing to K and S: "I also need to see their IDs."

Me, confused: "I'm paying for this, why do you need their ID?"

Clerk: "You're together."

Me, still confused: "No we're not. I'm paying for this separately, it's mine. Nothing to do with them."

Clerk: "I'm sorry sir, but you're a group. I need to see their IDs."

Since we didn't think this would be an issue, they didn't have ID...

Clerk: "Sorry, I can't sell this to you. You could be buying for them."

Me, almost flipping into angry-American-in-China mode: "I have my ID, I'm paying, it has nothing to do with them."

Clerk, panicking, calls her manager over.

Manager, after hearing clerk's explanation: "I'm terribly sorry sir, but we cannot sell this to you unless we see their IDs. Those are the rules. I'm sorry."

Me, seething, their politeness infuriating me even more: "OK then, what if we had paid at separate registers? It wouldn't make a difference that we know each other, would it?!"

Manager, completely missing the point: "Sorry sir, now that we know you're together, we won't sell this to you, even if you come back."

Kathleen, jumping into the fray: "So if a grandfather comes in to buy alcohol with his granddaughter, do you need to see HER ID?!"

Clerk and manager, totally pwned, looking back and forth at each other, confused like two retards attempting basic maths: "Sorry."

What the fuck can you say to that? With merely a week before turning 27, I was denied the purchase of spirits because of some Prohibition-era rule used to screw local college students. I'm past the age where this type of treatment is flattering. I was livid.

Speechless, we stormed out of the store. Having just exited the largest liquor-monger in town, we had to think fast. It was decided that we would visit every market in town until every item on our list was ticked off. It would be an arduous journey, much like Homer's Odyssey, but without all the death and monsters.

M&S, although my favorite food purveyor in the UK, doesn't have a very good alcohol selection. It's all organic and bourgeoisie. Bah! Moving on to ghetto Iceland, whose selection would surely make an abusive drunken babymama happy, I started to miss Carrefour, with it's relatively overabundant bounty. Our last hope was Waitrose, the priciest shop in the land. As luck would have it, they had everything, for decent prices to boot, and our quest ended without further trouble. The cashier even wished me a nice day as I pocketed the tequila. Such a pleasant lass.

That night, after a delicious potluck dinner and some emotional goodbyes, the time had come. Since we didn't bring our tuxes and evening gowns for a nice cocktail soirée, we had no choice but to resort to a classic tournament of drinking games. I didn't partake in these activities much while I was an undergrad, but maybe I should have. What fun, indeed.

English Flapjack: Basically Oatmeal In Maple Syrup, Covered In Chocolate

Potluck Time!

Happy Suitemates

II. Pigs and Prejudice

When not engaged in festivities celebrating Dionysus, a visitor to Bath also has a modest selection of wonderful sights to see. Luckily I had already visited the two biggies (aforementioned Roman Bath and the Abbey), so no time was wasted fighting the tour bus crowds for photo-ops. This allowed for a closer look at the town, slowed down to a local's pace, which did not disappoint.

Shhhhhh! Can't You READ?!

Currently, Bath has been overrun with swine. I am not referring to the herds of tourists that file through here each day. I'm talking about actual pigs. This was my favourite bit about the place, revealing a warmly comical alternative to all the serious and huffy ancient relics (both of the architectural and geriatric human variety).



All summer long, these colourfully decorated pig statues will be plopped all over Bath. Pink pigs, green pigs, pigs with wings. Rainbow pigs, metal pigs, pigs in black fishnet stockings and thongs? Indeed, Mr. Seuss, these are King Bladud's Pigs. We scoured the back alleys and tree canopies (yes, really) looking for these porkers, like their real-life truffle-sniffing counterparts. I haven't had this much fun collecting useless stuff since the Great Pokemon Cull of 2000.

Sadly, we didn't see Spiderpig and I couldn't find Dinopig, but we did manage to collect about 30 varieties all the same. If pork isn't your thing, take a stroll down to Gay Street and munch on a hunk of meat of a different variety.

Sadly, We Missed The Pride Parade

Fans of Jane Austen novels, heed my call. Bath is the place to be. Forget the fact that Austen disliked this place, you LOVE it because you're obsessed with her classic pieces on gender and class inequality. How delightful! For an inflated fee, you can actually visit Jane's home and soak in the same energy that she likely spilled whilst writing Persuasion.

Tastes Like Crumpets

Gazing past the scary statue of the homely Ms. Austen at the doorstep, you're greeted by everyone's perfect fantasy man: Mr. Darcy. Fantasy being the operative word. I tell you, ever since that damned BBC production of Pride and Prejudice aired, Mr. Darcy (and Colin Firth) have been permanent members of the young ladies' secret panty fantasy playground, making suitable suitors such as myself seem like common street trash in comparison to this god amongst men. Yes, I am just jealous, but it doesn't change the fact that if that miniseries were never made, Mr. Darcy would have been forgotten in the annals of printed matter and decent real-world guys wouldn't have to compete for the hearts of romantically confused ladies with a fictional character! Rant over. Medication kicking in...

Bloody Bastard.

Since we couldn't bring ourselves to pay the entrance fee, we sifted through the glut of Darcy-related souvenir paraphernalia in the gift shop instead. Fortunately, I was dragged from the tourist trap before I made the huge mistake of buying the last pair of XL Darcy knickers. Fume as I might, he's just so dreamy.

Best. Sign. Ever.

III. Bye To Bath

Although Bath is a sleepy burg that may leave some craving more excitement and life, it provides a small town tranquility that's impossible to find in London. Most tour companies offer one-day tour packages to Bath and Stonehenge (I took one in 2004), which is highly recommended. After the inevitable disappointment of Stonehenge, an afternoon is more than enough time to soak in the atmosphere and see the main sights.

If you have more time for old Bath, nothing beats a charming bed & breakfast in an old Georgian townhouse, brunch at Sally Lunn's, and a stroll along the canal or grassy hillsides of the valley. When you've had your fill of quaint living, hop back on that coach to London. Or better yet, board the train to Bristol (home of Tricky, Massive Attack and Portishead), where you can catch a plane to the next destination on your whirlwind tour of the world. For us, that next stop was the land to the north.

Coming up next: Episode 8 (yes, we're at 8. Good going, people!), Tour of Scotland.