A Brief History of Time

Eleven American lads crossed the pond last week to engage in a frank exchange of ideas and promote American values (the old ones, not the new ones) to our friends in the UK. Though this effort was disguised in occasionally drunken tomfoolery under the cover of rugby rooting, the impact on our sister people in England and Wales was no doubt profound.

Here follows a loosely chronological travelogue from my biased perspective. Most names have been withheld or changed to their Welsh equivalent to protect those who pretend to be respectable in their stateside lives.

Five of us left the U.S. on Wednesday evening for an overnight in London. Smart idea in plan, ludicrous in execution. After a few hours of napping in our luxuriously appointed hostel (78 steps up to the top floor), we did a rock and roll-themed pub tour in Soho. Our guide, a theatrically charismatic Cuban-Russian-Swedish fellow with a background in astrophysics and a current one-man show (a naked homage to James Bond) entitled "Pull My Goldfinger" took us to four different pubs with a musical connection. At the beginning, he told us that we'd only have 15 minutes or so at each stop, so perhaps we should only order half-pints. Challenge extended and challenge accepted. Friends, we did not order half-pints.

We dined that evening at The Guinea, an institution that was the local for the father of one of our number back in the 70s. Food was top notch, wine flowed like water, another of our number fell off a barstool at the neighboring pub and shattered his mug (possible that this was your humble scribe), and then we took our leave. 

After a stop at a chippy, another team member crawled up the final two flights of stairs (possible, once again, that this was the same humble scribe) and we passed an uneventful evening. Uneventful for all but one of us. We'll call him Hrrbrrt. 

At some point in the night, he awoke in the pitch dark with water pouring down on him. Terrified, he inched his way along the wall for (literally) an hour before he made his way out of the bathroom and turned on the light to the main room, soaking wet, his heart racing. We pieced it all together slowly the next morning. As best we can tell, Hrrbrrt somehow passed out in the tub, then accidentally kicked the shower mechanism and turned on the water. There were no windows in the bathroom. 

We know the timeline to be accurate, as his smartwatch captured his thrashings and elevated heartrate. As he finally calmed down, he said to another of us, "I'm 57 years old. When is this going to end?"

I don't know when it's going to end, but it wasn't to be this weekend.

Unidentified Team Member with Gws

We gathered ourselves, slowly, and caught a train to Cardiff, now numbering eight. Reached our well-appointed flat on Penarth Road, in the shadow of the train station, by the early afternoon. Among the appointments, several cases of Guinness thoughtfully provided by our host. Right back into the breach, then, lads.

Also in the apartment, this sign:

In the grand scheme of things, that Friday was probably the least eventful evening. We split into groups for dinner, one going for takeaway Indian food, another to Welsh Applebee's, as the chain pub came to be derisively known. Chrrlyy and I split off looking for proper whiskey, failed at that, but did find The City Arms in the shadow of the Principality Stadium, which would become a bit of a home office for the lads.

It was there we met a pair of young Welshmen who worked in Parliament and began our learning journey. One of them had studied at The College of William and Mary. Good school. Hard to get into. Small world. 

Proper pub, The City Arms

The night closed with what turned out to be one of the mini-themes of the weekend. The last four of us standing in Cardiff's nightlife district (a too-convenient .3 mile walk from our flat) stopped into KFC (yes, that's correct) because Hrrbrrt and Whytttny (The Welsh eschew vowels with abandon) wanted a snack. While they waited for the food, a young Welsh lass came up to me and one other and asked, "Are you Americans?"

I responded in the affirmative and she said, "Can I ask you a question?" To which I said, "Yes, we hate him, too". 

Turns out that wasn't her line of inquiry. Instead, she said quizzically but not unkindly, "Why are you here?" When we explained the nature of our quest to see a rugby match in all six of the Nations, I do believe she was impressed. Right up until Whttnyy made a vulgar display of the relationship between Kentucky and West Virginia, which was her cue to ride off on her bicycle.

The Welsh ladies, you see, seem to be besotted by yours truly. [Did he say besotted? Do you think he meant 'bemused'? Or befuddled? Ah, fuck it. Let a fella dream.]

On that night, as each of the next two, I struck up lengthy conversations in multiple venues with Welsh gals, to the great glee and confusion of my mates. I learned a ton, friends, about the Welsh language, culture, geography, and I perhaps gave a good account of Americans at the same time. I don't think I've talked to that many women in bars in the past decade combined. Could be I was born in the wrong nation. Cymru am byth.

Saturday was match day, and as we took a few trips up to the city center for coffee and breakfast, one could sense the energy rising, the red of the Welsh mixing with England supporters' whites, the hum of a big-event day growing slowly but inexorably.

Same species, allegedly

Took us a while to get rolling after breaking our fasts, which turns out to be a bit of a metaphor for the match. First bar we went to was packed, so we headed away from the arena. Second spot, an outdoor garden, blew out their nitrogen lines and only had flat beer. On we went, undeterred, to another too-crowded place. Finally back to a bit more of a posh spot where we found purchase and a video screen showing the Italy/Scotland match - the first of the day's three Six Nations contests.

To the arena, then, bang downtown, looming over all of the pubs, standing guard over a plucky people. As we reached our seats (in three groups spread across the stadium), two young Welshwomen sat down next to me. Whattyaknow about that? The streak continued! A pair of Emilys, friends through their fathers, and lovely to chat with.

Top to bottom:
Chrrlyy, Clyffy, Jyssyn, Rwb, The Emilys

Less lovely, the performance of the home side. Wales are in a bit of drought on the international level. Understatement, that. They've lost 17 consecutive international matches. Their squad is young and inexperienced, and they fired their manager in the midst of this Six Nations cycle. Nonetheless, their enmity for the English is never far from the surface, and this correspondent expected the red side to make a go of it.

Friends, they did not. First, though, a bit about the atmosphere. The Principality is the largest retractable roofed stadium in Europe. It seats 75,000, and with the roof closed, it was a bubbling cauldron, complete with pre-match pyrotechnics so massive one could feel the heat of the flames from 75 meters away. A choir sang a medley of rousing local tunes, and the anthem gave this American goosebumps. 

And then the match started. England took a mere 150 seconds to score their first try, then followed that with another seven minutes later. Wales looked to have drawn one back in between those tries, only to have the score ruled out by video review. On 31 minutes, Welshman Ben Thomas scored the first of his two tries (that bright moment captured below), which made the score 14-7 after a conversion. Wales' resurgence was short-lived, however, as England restored the 14-point margin two minutes later and added two more tallies before the halftime break to lead, 33-7.

And that, gentle reader, was that. After England scored to make it 40-7 15 minutes into the second half, we adjourned to The City Arms to try to beat the post-match traffic. At least we were able to get in. 

England kept its foot on the gas, even scoring a try in added time to try in vain to catch the French to win the tournament. The 68-14 final was Wales' worst-ever home defeat in Six Nations play. Our group of intrepid travelers fell to 0-3 in backing the home side on our sojourns. England are not happy to see us coming in 2027.

We spent the rest of the evening at The City Arms, where I chatted with a pair of young Welsh lasses (21 year-olds, as it turns out, which...yeeps) for 45 minutes or so, again to the glee of the rest of the lads. One was named Ffion, and she gave me an extended tour of the Welsh language. You learn something every day. Headed home amidst the carnage of a big event in a city centre.

Sunday was meant for taking it easy, as we all had to catch early trains back to London to catch flights home on Monday. We were meant for ignoring that direction.

After a bit of edification at Cardiff Castle (the keep you see in the photos below was built in 1130), Jyssyn and I made our way to The Elevens (so named because its owner, Welsh soccer legend Gareth Bale, wore number 11 throughout his storied career). We went to watch The Old Firm match between Glasgow Celtic and Glasgow Rangers, one of the legendary fixtures in world football. The rest of the lads joined us a bit later.

The lads. Behind us, Cardiff Castle and The Principality Stadium

Classy pub, The Elevens. A large contingent of Rangers fans lived and died on every kick, their exhortations and angry recriminations fun and funny at the same time. They left happy after their side overcome blowing a 2-0 lead to win, 3-2 at their rivals' stadium. We left, too, for a calm afternoon of winding down.

Ha! No we didn't. We stayed to watch Arsenal/Chelsea. We stayed still longer to watch the Carabao Cup final between Liverpool and Newcastle in the company of a number of supporters of both. Newcastle famously hadn't won a trophy in 70 years, and it was a blast to see the joy erupt from their backers when they held on for a well-deserved 2-1 win. And then we left.

To go around the corner to Temple 7 Bar to listen to live music and drink more beers. I chatted up the lady bartender for while, closing out my account with the distaff Welsh. Got a couple of free shots of whiskey for the boys because of my repartee.

Finally, back home to get some rest before early-morning wakeup calls. After we had a nightcap and told stories.

All of us made our trains back to time, and spent a lonnnng day flying back to parts American. I left Dulles at 6:15 and headed directly to coach a high school soccer team. Once I got home and the adrenaline wore off, I felt exhaustion like I can't really recall. Today's a bit better, but it's weird to be hungover after not having had a drink.

It's not weird to feel the afterglow of time spent in fellowship, joy, and love with a bunch of one's besties. While there are parts of the trip I won't remember for long (in the case of our evening London, I didn't remember parts of even the next morning), the overall experience will take up a prominent chapter of my life's story for some time to come.

Love you, boys. Yma o Hyd.