Kango Suz Travels

Amidst the bustle of the modern English town of Bath, the Roman Baths sit, surrounded by buildings, a testament to the city’s history. Their murky green waters no longer drain perfectly or play host to the rich and famous of Society come to refresh and renew themselves. The halls that once hosted scholars and soldiers now play host to daily hordes of tourist tramping through them.
And yet the baths still work. Which is an amazing testament to the ingenuity and beautiful architecture of Rome. The skill that Roman builders had without the aid of such modern tools as AutoCad or Vectorworks is truly amazing. They knew more about building because of their hands-on experience than many schooled architects know today. A visit to any Roman building cannot fail to impress even the casual visitor.
Today, the Baths are home to tourists and archeologists and no longer host anyone in a bathing suit. The underground steams still pump water through the systems though, delighting me and other tourists with the ingenuity and heating the rooms with steam so thick it sent all of my hairs a-curling. I came out looking slightly poodle-like and flushed around the edges. Grand parties, though, are NOT a bygone for this once popular establishment. Concert series and private parties still make use of the grand parlor and rooms with almost as much frequency as Jane Austin movies. To be in Bath is truly an experience of old and new worlds colliding.

After the moving and amazing experiences of my morning at Salisbury Cathedral, I was primed for a wonderful afternoon at Stonehenge. I have studied and admired the prehistoric standing stones for almost as long as I’ve dreamed of Loch Ness. My plan was to use the hop-on hop-off tour company I’d used in other English cities to get me out there and back because their price included transportation and entry fees for less than the public bus fare and the entry fee combined. I had had particular success with such things in Sacramento and Edinburgh and so did not question the plan at all. That was a mistake. [read on]

The train to Stonehenge doesn’t drop you right next to the famous upright stones, of course. Instead, you need to get off in the nearby village of Salisbury and get some sort of transportation to the site itself. I arrived in Salisbury on one of those dreary English mornings that promises rain to come and encourages locals and visitors alike to stay safely within their homes or offices or hostels. My time schedule was tight, I was planning on staying in London that evening, so I had no time to waist with warming myself beside the hearth. My feet hit the deserted train platform about five minutes before the tour bus for the hop-on hop-off tour of Stonehenge was due to leave. My pack bounced against my back as I ran, clomping on the wooden slats, down to where the trip was supposed to pick up. Unfortunately, all I found were construction zone signs. [read on]

I get of the train from Stratford on Avon and emerged into the dreary drizzle of late afternoon Bath. The week I had already spent on the British Island had left my Southern California native self feeling rather drenched. Back home we were in a drought year, having only received about 3 inches of rain in the previous 18 months. I was used to sunshine and warm weather and, being in a particularly bad mood after not being able to find anything to eat for breakfast on a Sunday morning in Stratford, I was well on my way to miserable.
After a week of solo travel and adventuring, I am getting lonely. I had heard and read tales of people making all sorts of friends on trains and in hostels and having a grand time. While I’m a friendly person, I’m not by nature an outgoing person when alone, and so I’d spent the last week traveling mostly in silence from the lack of conversation partners.
Glaring up into the sky, I growl under my breath at the drizzle and reached into the side pocket of my backpack to retrieve my umbrella. It wasn’t doing so well by this point; being from California too, it wasn’t used to this much rain any more than I was. I managed to wrest it free of the handy side pocket and open it up. After a few moments of struggling I get it open, with only one broken side dripping rain onto my pack. By now the drizzle has turned to full-fledged rain and I am ready to get to the hostel. I figure out which street I need to go to, turn towards it and am hit by a gust of wind.
My umbrella is lifted up from my hand, but I manage to keep a hold on it so that it doesn’t go bouncing down the street. This is however too much for my poor Californian rain gear. The gust of wind pulls at the ribs of the umbrella and in a Hollywood style umbrella death it flips compleately inside out.
Standing there, rain dripping down my hair and into my collar, I stare at my upturned umbrella. The poor thing, it tried it’s best. I start to laugh. I’ve been avoiding the rain like I was allergic to water. Stuffing the remains of my umbrella in a nearby trash can I vow to stop avoiding things that are unusual or uncomfortable to me and to start experiencing my trip. Pulling up my hood, I walk off in search of the hostel and some fun.