My treasured friends and readers,
Today on Leigh and Becky's recommendation we took a day-trip to Brighton, a beachside town that has long been a favourite holiday destination of English men and women desperately seeking tans. Up early and out early, we took underground transportation to the London Bridge Railway Station, where we boarded a train to the beach. An hour later, we had arrived. Train travel here is so convenient. "Lovely weather for it today, girls," the ticket collector beamed at us.
To be perfectly honest, Brighton looks an awful lot like...Santa Monica. There is a pier. There are cafés and little boutiques and ice cream shops. The main difference is the beach itself, for in place of sand, there are great big rocks that poke and prod and get lodged in your sandals while you walk atop it. That, and the waves don't crash on shore in quite the same way.
Hungry by the time we arrived, having not eaten much for breakfast, we settled on a place called "Buddie's" which I would not recommend to any seeking pleasant service or good food in Brighton. When I asked if they had iced coffee, the waiter curtly stated "No"--despite the menu offering both ice-cold drinks (hence, ice) and coffee. When Diana asked if the lemonade they had was just Sprite (which it usually is, here, she has discovered since being here) he said, "No, we have both lemonade and Sprite." Then, he brought her Sprite. My veggie burger ended up being deep fried, Diana could not get a side of hash browns despite they, too, being on the menu. All in all, not the best meal I have ever had.
After, we made our way down to the beach, where we lay upon the warm rocks like lizards for an hour or so. We then explored in town a bit, stopping for ice cream at Scoop & Crumb (mmm...Cinnamon and Swedish gingersnap) before strolling along the pier. When the wind started to pick up somewhat and the sun had crept behind the clouds, we lay back down on the beach. We were shortly interrupted in our lounging by two young men sitting near us on the beach who requested to engage us in conversation. With no reason not to, we agreed to meet in a spot equidistant from our two initial resting places, and began to talk, if somewhat stiltedly. Their names were Simon and Dan. As it turned out, they were cousins who lived in Brighton. Simon, the older one who it was later revealed was 26, had just moved back from the South of France where he had been living with his girlfriend (for two weeks), and was feeling depressed (though it was not entirely clear why, since he kept referring to her either as his girlfriend or his ex-girlfriend or the girl who told him she was pregnant at the airport when he was leaving and his response was to leave--it was not entirely clear what the story was). Evidently, he wanted attention. His cousin was personable though. They both had horrendous teeth. Simon was quite inebriated, and kept offering to get us onto a carnival ride on the pier for free since he used to work there, while we not-so-subtly tried to leave for dinner. While I talked to Dan about movies, Simon professed his momentary love for my youngest sister, then drunkenly rolled over on the rocks. We excused ourselves politely, while the other cousin looked faintly bemused.
We sat down for dinner at a Japanese restaurant, before joining other sunburnt beachgoers on the train back to London. The rest of the night we passed in our separate rooms conducting our respective business, except when I shouted out my window to Diana's to look out at the bat flying around outside.
Tomorrow, to the British Museum we go!
Yours,
A
Also, we've been singing this song for the past two days:
I think it's the chanting that really gets me. Becky was playing this in the car for the kids, and we just can't get it out of our heads.
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