Brighton used to be a medieval fishing village, but in the eighteenth century it became a fashionable weekend retreat for the upper classes, helped along by the Prince Regent building a gigantic pavilion there so that he could have affairs away from others' scrutiny. Ever since then, Brighton has held a reputation for being a place one goes on illicit love affairs. Susie explained all this as she took us down into the North Streets, which are full of funky little shops selling all sorts of things, from jewelry to vintage clothing to hats. The buildings were all decorated, with one even painted in zebra stripes.
After a wander through a food festival going on in Brighton, we arrived at the ocean. I have to be honest here: English beaches are much less nice than American beaches. For one, the Brighton beach consisted of rocks; also the water was freezing, and Susie mentioned that it never gets truly warm. To our left was the Brighton Pier, supposedly world-famous, and on the right was the burned-out metal frame of the eastern pier out in the water. The east pier burned down some years back, and there were whisperings that the people running the Brighton Pier were behind the fire. Susie said goodbye to us there, and left us to run wild in the streets. Erin, Nick, Claire, Hillary, and I opted to go back to the food festival for lunch. I had a lamb burger (called the 'posh' burger, although I didn't feel any more upper-class as I ate it), festooned with caramelized onions, ketchup, and some sort of sharp English cheese. It was quite good, although the lamb suffered from an overabundance of charring. Still, for five pounds, it was a good meal. It's amazing to me how ridiculous I was in my first few entries, crowing over getting a game pie for only eight pounds and calling it a good deal.
After eating, we wandered around the shops for a bit. I was looking for a trenchcoat, but alas, there were no trench coats within my price range in the whole of Brighton. I was also looking for a hat, but when I found one I liked, the shop didn't have any that fit my head. My quest for ankle boots also fell flat. Claire, on the other hand, managed to acquire a seafoam-green trench for thirty pounds, which is a good deal by any measure. We ducked into a bookstore and met the bookstore cat: a massive black creature called Simeon. As we were crouched bestowing our attentions, a British man came in, saw the cat, and went into convulsions of adoration, cooing 'who's a pretty pussy cat, yeah?' It was, I have to say (no matter how much the admission twinges my cold black heart), cute. After going to a hat shop called 'the Mad Hatter's' and trying on dashing hats such as a leopard-print top hat, we decided to go back to the beach and walk towards the white cliffs Susie had told us about. Alas, the roads were blocked off for the Brighton Speed Trials, in which rickety cars that look to be soldered together out of the same quality of metal East Germans used to build their Trabants with went screaming down the road at the highest speed they could muster: not much. We turned around, saw that it was about three in the afternoon, and retired to a tea shop Susie had recommended highly for afternoon tea. I shared in a pot of tea with Claire and got two scones with butter and jam. They were, I have to say, delicious. Afternoon tea has been added to my growing list of the many things I love about England.
We wandered around the shops some more, met up with the others of our group, and went to an Italian restaurant called Donatello's for dinner and dessert. Dinner was delicious, and lasted two hours, after which we headed back to the train station and home.
As we trundled back towards Bedford Place on train and Tube, we encountered all manner of people: ravers in neon clothes already rolling on Ecstasy; gaggles of over-made-up women in clothing glued to their skin, clutching bottles of Smirnoff Ice and giggling while their men loitered around the edges of the group; a busker with matted hair and oozing methamphetamine sores who boarded the Tube and played achingly beautiful music on a violin missing its tuning pegs; men sprawled over the seats at the back with iPod on and brain off, who looked as though they'd been riding the Tube so long they'd become one with it; stiff men in starched suits and briefcases getting out of work at late hours. Still, we made it back to Bedford Place by midnight and tumbled into bed, tired and happy both.
The pictures:
A very cool display of antique sewing machines inside the windows of a vintage clothing shop.
The brooding gray Channel. It's impossible to see France from Brighton, even on a clear day; the ferry crossing from Brighton to France is four hours, compared to Dover and Calais' one hour.
Us having a proper English afternoon tea. It's a horrible photo of me, but oh well; the scones were fresh-baked and absolutely delicious. I've also discovered my personal English tea formula: two cubes of sugar and a little bit of cream.
A picture of the Brighton Speed Trials. As near as I could tell, these were speed trials for cars and motorcycles that people had built themselves. They've been going on for at least fifty years. While it was very cool to see old cars and bikes go screaming past on the road below, it was a little irritating, as having the road blocked off meant that we could walk to the actual white cliffs in the distance. Not the actual White Cliffs of Dover, but still chalk cliffs.
Me being a foodie, I had to include a picture of the wonderful presentation of this apple tart Erin got at Donatello's.
Its not a bad pic at all; I want some of that tea!!!
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