[15 July, 2009]


While in England, we desperately wanted to visit the coast. We realized that driving a few hours to the south of London would not get us to a "real" ocean, but "merely" the English Channel, and yet there was still something exciting about putting my toes into waters on the other side of where I had been before, in Northern France. So we took the challenge of getting to the seaside.

When we consulted an English-man, though, he proceeded to dissuade us from our terrible idea. The coast is gloomy, he said. The water is dark, the sky is rainy, and the wind is piercing, he persuaded. We would not have fun, he concluded. But we failed to listen, and boy, were we glad for it.

The English seaside greeted us with clear blue waters and chalk-white cliffs. Green hills speckled with sheep-dots rolled in the landscape. I had never imagined the English countryside so benign, or even so pleasant. As we lay on the rocky shore, our spirits calmed by the crashing waves and warmed by the summer sun, I remember thinking that for this, I could even forgive the British-asshole-dom earlier part of our trip. I could take my dad up on the invite to live here.

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