Lost in Britain

I'm sitting in a bar/lounge in a hotel in mid-Wales after a nerve-shattering ride through the black and stormy Welsh countryside. It's nearly eight o'clock--late by village standards--but the kitchen is still open so I ordered a tuna melt to compliment the half pound of peanut M&M's I ate between here and Bristol.

Unlike the cookie-cutter Holiday Inn I stayed at last night, where the décor is as new and shiny and devoid of taste as the industrial estate surrounding it, this hotel is a one-off, gothic affair going slowly but elegantly to seed. It's a sleepy and somber place, full of bric-a-brac and shadows, a place where you know nothing exciting is going to happen and no one interesting is going to turn up and where the staff need to be roused from dreams of better times in order to serve you a beer. The room is scattered with Christmas decorations, but they don't suggest merriment, rather, they seem desperate, and just a little sad.

There appears to be only one other guest staying here this evening and she is occupying the cluster of overstuffed chairs on the opposite side of the room from me, a full glass of wine and untouched club sandwich on the antique table in front of her. She is reading a newspaper and studiously avoiding eye contact. At least she didn't castigate me when I lit up my cigar.

My tuna melt arrived. The description said it came with chips, which in Britain means fries, but here it means a few potato chips stacked next to the wilted salad. The tuna melt is covered with thick blocks of some unidentifiable cheese that they didn't even bother to cut the rind from. It's too thick to melt properly, but that assumes they heated it, which they clearly did not. The cheese is cold and slimy to the touch and tastes a bit like oily wax. I scoop the cheese wedges off and take a bite of cold tuna salad. Now I know why the woman hasn't touched her sandwich. I see she's sipping her wine now, probably trying to get the taste out of her mouth.

I've spent the past two days driving around England and Wales in a perpetual state of confusion. It's clear to me now why the 'must-have' adult Christmas gadget this year is a satellite navigation system. Despite all the maps and directions I printed out and memorized, I, all too often, found myself making snap decisions at busy and confusing road junctions containing no directional information of any practical value. The decisions, it goes without saying, were always wrong.

I'm still used to driving in the States, where large route signs begin to appear miles before the intersection, and even bigger ones line the intersection itself. Other signs guide you directly onto the road you are seeking and periodic markers remind you which highway you are on, just to set your mind at ease. In America, there is no assumption of intelligence or competence and that suits me just fine.

Here, you're apparently supposed to know where you're going before you get there, or hope you accidentally pick the correct route. When directional doubt creeps into your mind (or, in my case, pulls up a chair, kicks back with a beer and settles in for a long stay) your only option is to drive to the next roundabout to see if you guessed right. In rural Wales, this can mean a side trip of ten miles or better. One way.

Even asking directions is of limited use.

"Go straight over the next roundabout," seems reasonably clear, until you understand that 'straight' and 'roundabout' are mutually exclusive terms. 'Straight' may mean to stay on the major route that runs through the traffic circle, or to take the second exit off of it, assuming, of course, the roundabout is a substitute for a standard crossroad intersection. If a larger number of roads converge into what I like to call 'a big, scary roundabout,' straight technically means the number of exits, divided by two (in the case of an even number of roundabout exits) or divided by two and add one (in the case of odd numbers). Obviously, even this level of mathematics is beyond me when I enter these tarmac free-for-all zones and I generally end up following the crowd and exiting onto the most popular road.

"Left after the traffic light" is an apparent no-brainer until you get to the traffic light and begin to ponder the possibilities. Did they mean left at the intersection where the traffic light is, or am I to go left at the fork in the road immediately after the traffic light, or should I take the turn just beyond the fork? Signs might help, but there are, naturally, none to be seen.

Somehow, despite the dark and the rain and not having a computer read-out of my exact location accompanied by a soothing voice assuring me I am, indeed, on the A479 and should take the first exit off the next roundabout for the A470, I made it, albeit a little later and more frazzled than I would have liked. At least I landed in amenable surroundings. The frayed furnishings and tired carpet make a comfortable combination; put lace dollies on the oval tables and it would look like my grandmother's parlor with a bar. I can't think of a better place to relax after a long and trying day.

And, for now at least, I know where I am.