Tudor was my favorite driver yet. As a former professional rugby player who’d traveled all over the world, he was an excellent conversationalist and storyteller, and very curious. Being the only man in town willing to drive me to Haverfordwest that early increased my sympathy for him, which seemed to be reciprocated. I voiced my concern about the possibility of my 7 a.m. train being delayed in the usual British fashion. “Nah, you’ll be fine. It’s the first train of the day; there’s no reason it should have a problem.” Ah, Tudor, if only I could tell you how wrong you were.
Mine and three other upcoming trains were canceled that morning. This led to meeting even more friendly (and charmingly distraught) locals while waiting on the platform. A railway worker finally appeared with his half-reassuring announcement: “There will be a replacement bus, I just don’t know when.” Calling the minivan that came to our rescue a bus was a bit of a stretch. With only five of us fitting inside, squeezed in like my feet under Paul’s overweight dog, we made our way to Carmarthen.
At this point, the amusement at the absurdity of these circumstances added to my appreciation for everything and everyone around me, and it was official in the strangest of moments: I was in love with Wales.
Once in Cardiff, Jon appeared wearing normal clothes this time. While waiting for him outside Cardiff Central, I couldn’t help but notice the dropping temperatures, hinting that it was a good time to head back home. Once at the practically empty coffee shop, it took me several long minutes, holding my cinnamon chai latte with both hands, to stop shivering. From that moment on, the conversation flowed easily, and I soon realized one hour would be too short. He was enthusiastic, confident, and warm, and his easy laughter was contagious. While his outgoing and strong-willed nature was obvious, I remember catching glimpses of something profound and honorable in him as well. And while I will no doubt forget the specific details of our conversation over time, my memory will retain how our casual but also more meaningful commonalities sparked an earnest curiosity in me, making me want to dive deeper into the first stranger I ever met in Wales.
Losing track of time meant heading out in a rush, frantically dodging a truck suddently blocking the way. But the fear of missing my train wasn’t distracting enough for me to miss Jon’s chewing gum being thrown away in the bin with calculated anticipation. At goodbye, barely one minute shy of being stranded in Cardiff for another hour, his lips landed on mine.
I could sit here and say no cute Welshman is cute enough to make me want to risk missing a flight. But the fact that I smiled like an idiot all the way to Switzerland means that a tiny part of me wished that lory had stopped us for just three more seconds.
And this is how my first truly solo overseas adventure concluded. Wanting to clear my head and regain a sense peace and grounded autonomy, my expectations were exceeded in ways I did not anticipate. From the charming small towns I visited, to the breathtaking remote natural sights I explored, and the warm, wholesome people I met every single day, this experience cast a beautiful light on my perception of the world, others, and myself.
As a finishing touch, I absolutely love the UK.
I might be biased, and I might not have spent enough time there to make an accurate, representative assessment. Yes, the British railway system is even more terrible than the German one. Yes, it rains all the time. But let’s be real: I would trade the British rain for your average grumpy, middle-aged German with public scolding entitlement any day.
