pinkhairthing

PART THREE: Cornwall

At some point in Cornwall, I looked over at Matt and said, “People are going to ask us about our trip, and we are going to say, ‘it was great!’” I was sad when I said this, because Cornwall was so many things, and I don’t think great covers it, and I don’t think I can approximate it, but I promised a part 3, so here it is.

The train ride was magnificent. We met up with Tim, Jenni, and Florence on the party train to St. Austell (pronounced snozzle). There seemed to be people sitting in our seats, but our seats were also weirdly numbered. We all seemed to have 48 or 49 F or B, but why no A, C, D, or E? After several acutely embarrassing and utterly stereotypical brain-dead American moments (at the wedding, an Englishman was to compare Americans to Barney: You’re all a bit big and dumb and lovely and friendly, aren’t you? he said, Britishly. And purple, I said, nodding in vigorous, Scotch-fueled agreement.), a young and exceedingly cute and polite Brit college boy explained that F and B referred to forward and backward FACING, as in the direction of travel. Oh. He was to prove very helpful throughout the journey, if ever so slightly incredulous at just how dumb we are. OK, fine, I’m an idiot, boo-hoo.

At Snozzle, we were met by the adorable Lance Windish, and spent a few moments searching for Steve, a tiny bit of a ding-a-ling, who was in the bathroom. Then onto the Chapel. The Chapel. Cerris is not from a small town. She is not from a tiny seaside village. She doesn’t live near the sea. These are all myths. She is from the hamlet of East Portholland. East Portholland has 8 buildings, a streetlamp, and a phone booth that looks like it fell out of an airplane and landed in someone’s yard. There is a post office, and a lady who’ll make coffee for you in her kitchen. If you think General Foods Internatinal House of Coffees fucking powder in hot water is coffee, which I most assuredly do not. The Chapel sits on a jetty. When the tide is out, there is a huge beautiful beach with little pools and rocky outcroppings, when the tide is in, the ocean is at the door. Every morning there, I found something like coffee and went right out to look at the sea. In England, people think it is weird when you call it the ocean. They say it with a weird accent, the way we would say “the sea”. They’re all pretty fucked up over there, to be perfectly honest.

As we drove down the last bit of road to the Chapel, I was struck by how familiar it looked, and remembered I had dreamt of just this road a few weeks before. It was a sensation that would repeat many times in the trip. I have some weird connection to Cornwall. It was like de ja vu all over again. Many times throughout my life I have woken from a dream about a beach I have never seen in waking life and wondered where it was. Now I know. We met up with Connie and Groomsman Tom, picking ivy and wildflowers for the reception hall. Several hundred feet on, we got to the Chapel and were greeted by the divine Groom Caley and his multi-talented Groomsman Hal, who both got a demonstration of how acrobatic my happiness can be when I get somewhere I have always wanted to go, like the Chapel. If you don’t know Caley, you should try to figure out a way to meet him. He is a good fairy. Lance made us all a stir-fry, and by all I mean everyone in the world. There were probably 12 of us staying at the Chapel, and it seemed like hundreds of other people stopped by. The evening is sort of a blur, I know Hal was playing guitar, Matt was humming, and I was conducting some sort of arts and crafts project on the vintage cake topper that involved the top to an olive oil bottle, felt, and a sharpee, among other things. I hate arts and crafts.

The next day, we decorated the hall. The Veryan Social Club is in a glorious spot, but it is a little bleak. Were it not for Connie Tarbox’s way with a bow and a big team of swathers, there would have been a problem. But we made it a glorious place for a party, and then it was off to the rehearsal. In the car, English Lisa’s husband was very nice to me, making sure I didn’t need to stop home, making sure I had everything I needed. It took him 15 minutes to realize I wasn’t Cerris. After that, he was still extremely polite, if a little less attentive.

The wedding rehearsal was conducted in a 15th century church by, I believe, the original vicar. He spoke to us at length about the importance of relaxing, of feeling relaxed, and of cultivating relaxation. Fortunately, I brought cookies, which kept a few of us awake for 15 minutes or so, but he may want to rethink being quite so relaxing to some pretty severely lagged Americans in the future. After a lovely nap in the church, it was back to The Chapel for a face wash and a change of clothes, and then off to the rehearsal dinner. The Nare Hotel is gorgeous, elegant, and stately, and it sits on a cliff overlooking the sea. We had drinks by the pool in the garden, and dinner in front of the open french doors looking out to the water. There was a lot of wine and incredible food, and I got caught up with droll Groomsman Tony Cross and his adorable gal Danica (both Sarah Lawrentians). BestMan Harry had yet to arrive, earning him the nickname “Harry.” “Harry” was periodically calling from the road, “Harry” was stopping for scotch and carrots and cigars, “Harry” was on his way. When Harry arrived, I admit, I was thunderstruck. He exists, and is a charmer, but in the quiet, mysterious way that can get lost in a sea of screaming maniacs, such as the wedding party was shaping up to be. English bridesmaid Lisa W proves to be more outspoken, wild, fun, and awesome than me and Connie combined, though Connie was somewhat on the injured list and not at full throttle. American bridesmaid Lisa H is no shrinking violet, and Tom, Hal, and Tony are mischievous in the extreme. Cerris and Caley sat at the head of the table looking so gorgeous it was just stupid, smiling at all of us with the sun setting over a deepening dark sea behind them. By the end of dinner, we were all best friends, a village called CaleyandCerristown. And Pahu hadn’t even arrived yet.

The next morning there were last minute decorations for the hall, which we successfully transformed from a pretty damn bleak cricket club to a place for dancing and dining and whiling away a long Cornish night. It doesn’t get dark there in midsummer until 11, so the evenings have a fairytale quality of never ending. The wedding was absolutely beautiful, I sang all the hymns in a high English warble which I for one found extremely entertaining, and then it was off to the reception which I will admit was a bit of a blur. That may have something to do with the post-wedding photo call for the wedding party where flasks of Scotch were passed (see also: Hal, Tony). I warned them that I don’t do well with any sort of whiskey, which they perceived as a sort of promise more than a threat I think. Danica emailed me recently to say I am so funny in the movie that Lisa W. and I made that night. The what?

The reception was incredible, so many friends and people feeling really happy and great. The toasts were wonderful, Caley’s Dad made me cry, Cerris’ Mom brought down the house, Harry showed himself to be possibly the funniest man alive, and my husband did the freak with Brenda Blethyn. What more could anyone want? I smoked cigarettes with some disaffected English youth, danced a lot, and went for little strolls around the Cricket green. Finally, finally, it got dark. The shuttle arrived to take us home. On the bus, Matt was trying to find the thing on my seat that would let it recline a bit, and said “I can’t find your little lever…there’s something I don’t say everyday.” Brenda and Camilla cracked up, and in her bawdiest barroom drawl Brenda yelled, “Let us know when you find it!” Goodtimes.

The next day was our last day in Cornwall, and it stretched on for something like 84 hours, in a great way. Connie had yelled her heart out at her own wedding and lost her voice, so she was carrying a pad and paper and wearing a sign pinned to her sweater that said “My husband won’t let me speak. Please don’t tempt me.” That is just not a sight I ever thought I’d see. There were hours of brunch, and then we went on a little walk. For hours, we walked along the cliffs, and we stopped at a crumbling old tiny lookout for a concert by Pahu, Hal, and Matt, on kazoo. Matt has a mournful way with a kazoo. I think the three of them have a future as a band, more so if Tony could be persuaded to join in on fiddle. I would totally be a roadie for that band. Given my proficiency at and passion for the cowbell, I might even join that band. I bet cowbell skills come in handy in Cornwall. When we got back, many people pitched a tent, and a Cornish folk sing along band played for about 16 hours, with periodic accompaniment and even occasional downright replacement by Tony, Hal, Pahu, and Matt. I sat in once on tambourine. Bit of a percussionist, really. Cerris requested that Pahu sing the Carrie Murphy song, but there was no Carrie Murphy song. Now there is one, because I commissioned it, and I really like it. I can’t wait to hear “Carrie Murphy: The Hottest Bridesmaid”; the lyrics are extremely promising and of course, right on the money.

But all good things must eventually end spectacularly badly, or fizzle out, or implode, so instead of any of that, I said a few quick goodbyes and went to bed. Cerris’ mom yelled at me for leaving, she was actually angry I would leave. I feel that. In the early morning, Connie and Lance drove us to the train and took lots of pictures of us with all our bags looking sad on the platform. It took a long time to get home, but our cat and most of our plants were alive and well and happy to see us, thanks to a few good friends. We had a pizza, and went to sleep.

Coming up next: the upshot.

PART II: LONDON

Matt and I arrived in London after a very fun flight with Eleanor, the party stewardess, who asked us if we wanted wine with our beer. Eleanor understands midnight ocean crossings. I watched a good movie about a bride falling in love with a woman at her wedding. That’s kind of how I felt about Eleanor.

On the ground, the tube was snafu. We ended up taking something like 3 buses and two trains and another bus. It took us two hours to get through the first line of directions to Battersea. But people were really nice to us, and Matt navigated beautifully. When we got to what I now refer to as my house in London, we were pretty wiped. Alicia met us at the door. Alicia is a Chicagoan who has fallen in love with a dashing Brit and his city. They live in an adorable pink house with a garden in the fabulous Battersea neighborhood of London, where I would live if I were to move to London. Or where I would have my city place when I wasn’t in Cornwall. More about that later. Alicia is wonderful fun, and was fully aghast when I suggested I might take a short nap. Instead she plied me with cappuccino and took Matt and me on a forced death march of Battersea Park. An operetta was being performed in the park, and there is a fountain that is a huge wall of water the wind blows onto you when you stand in the right place, and there is a big crazy Buddha temple and a gorgeous power station on the river. It was 100 degrees and I was wilting, so Alicia headed home to do work, and Matt and I stopped off for a $10 Sprite. London is expensive. That night we had tickets to an outdoor Midsummer Night’s Dream in Regent’s Park with Alicia and Phil. It was a semi-environmental production. The set was three mounds – exactly like Washington Square Park! And the fairies and lovers were all in white! And the first fairy wore EXACTLY what I wanted to wear when I played first fairy – a corset, a tutu, and combat boots. But Oberon made no sense and they missed a lot of the opportunities the park was providing them. It was fun, but it could have been better. I thought the lovers did exceptional text work, particularly Lysander. Helena was a bit of a drip, which I can’t stand. She has one of the best minds in Shakespeare, and the most lines in that play. I hardly think Shakespeare found her a loser. Sore spot.

The next day, we went to Covent Garden and bought Matt a little cap. We went to the Tower of London and took a tour narrated by the most English man in the world. A beefeater. At one point he was telling us the superstition about the ravens and the monarchy, and said, “You don’t really think we believe in this? How silly do you think we are?” And Matt muttered, “Have you looked in a mirror recently?” After the tower we made our way to the Royal Court where Tom Stoppard’s new play was closing its preview run. That shit blew us right out of the water. Everyone needs to see Rock’n’Roll when it comes here, or go there and see it. Unless you don’t like gorgeously acted plays about ideas and passion and the importance of Pink Floyd played really loud and the meadow Lord Pan. After the show, we went with Tim and Jenny who also caught the show next door for a Pimms. Tom Stoppard walked past us. That is a GOOD celebrity sighting, right up there with Lou Reed, and this time I didn’t humiliate myself. But then he didn’t have his dog with him.

Day three and I am feeling as tired as year three of grad school. At home, I have maybe two ounces of coffee in my decaf. In London, I probably had 6 espressos a day. I had extra shots. My head would literally blow off my neck if I did that under normal circumstances. In Cornwall, I would be reduced to drinking Nescafe, black. We’ll get to that. Anyway, that morning, we walked along the Thames and took pictures of each other to try and photoshop so it looks like we were standing together in front of Big Ben because no one was around to take our picture. We walked past the National, where I stopped to pee (see: all the espresso, above) and Matt had a look around the place. We were headed for the mothership. Upon arrival at the Globe, we had a fun tour, and I got pollen on my face that made me look like a crazy person because I leaned too far into a bucket of lilies. We went out for fish and chips and back to the Globe to stand in the pit for a 3-hour Coriolanus. It is probably not my favorite play, I don’t care much for the will to power or political machinations, but the relationship with the mother is pretty astounding. It feels like it was written tomorrow. I loved how all the politics was completely relevant to right this minute but they didn’t shove it down our throats setting the show at the White House or something. And the actress who played the Mom was so good that in one of her scenes, I was leaning so far over toward her that I LOST MY BALANCE a few times. If anybody wants to produce Coriolanus in 25 years, give me a call so I can audition for that part, OK? I’ll send you a headshot. After the show we rode the eye of London, unfortunately intruding on a date between a young London guy and this gorgeous girl. I think it probably worked out for him anyway.

Our last day in London we planned to spend in Notting Hill because I was at the end of being cultural. Sometimes I just like to screw around. OK, I always just like to screw around. So I put my foot down and picked a place that seemed like funky people might hang out there, actual English people. Like Hugh Grant. But when I woke up, and a soft breeze was blowing through the roses into our bedroom, I suggested not doing anything but lying around in the garden eating scones all morning. Matt pulled me out of bed ad forced me out into the world. Notting Hill was really great and we found an extraordinary wedding present for Cerris and Caley, and I bought a union jack t-shirt for myself, and we got to have a nice, laid back morning. We were schlepping all our luggage. At one point Matt had his backpack, his drag-along suitcase and my huge camera around his neck and someone stopped and asked him for directions. He was the most obvious tourist in like a 6-mileradius, so we figured the guy was fairly hard up. Next, we were slogging to Paddington, and I went through low blood sugar I hate food and you and everything moment. We solved this with the procurement from a grocery store of my favorite kind of biscuits (McVities Plain Chocolate), a good deal of prosciutto, a baguette, and a few other such provisions of picnicy goodness. Then we got to Paddington where a handsome fellow made me the best cappuccino of my life. The secret is the extra shot. I tend to not like hot milk very much, but I drink cafe au lait and cappuccino in Europe because they can’t make drip for shit there. Extra shot of Espresso makes everything wonderful. If I am talking about coffee a lot it is because I love it like a friend, sue me.

We met up with Tim and Jenny, got on our train which was thankfully not on fire, as we had originally thought, and reluctantly left London. I had been looking forward to the train ride with Tim and Jenny and Matt, and to the scenery, and I had been literally dreaming about Cornwall, but I still hated to leave London. According to Ben Brantley, the mood there is disenchanted and perversely nostalgic, and I feel that. A few days later, someone said to me, “The day’s not over yet, and you don’t even know all the wonderful things that are going to happen.” That is probably the best piece of advice I have ever gotten, even though it wasn’t said as advice. A big part of being disenchanted and perversely nostalgic is that you don’t believe the best is yet to come. But, indeed, good things were yet to come. Stay tuned for Part III: Cornwall.