A Posh Ghost Town after 5:30

I understand now why the Wife of Bath had to make her own 'fun and adventure.' There's not much to do here. Bath has been described as the old Hollywood of England. It's packed with boutiques, overpriced feed-you-almost-nothing restaurants, velvet clubs, slightly withered queen-like powdered women and parks that charge you to lay on the grass. The culmination of all excitement is the fabulous Jane Austen Center. Yey. It makes sense. I like to think that Bath is a sort of "objective correlative" as to how I feel about Jane Austen: gaudy, decorative, lofty, impressive but disengaging ("objective correlative" is a jazz-word our prof taught us, it means when your sad you write that it's raining outside). The two most famous Georgian strips are here: The Royal Crescent and the Royal Circus. They are beautiful and undoubtedly English. I keep wanting to say in a thick accent with my face mostly stiff, "George Banks!" and then swing the black steal gate open with my umbrella handle. But without my imagination, Bath is my least favorite city. I can't like 'em all, right?, or I no one would believe anything I write.

There was a night though, when I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else: Barcelona v. Arsenal for the Champions League Final at St. Christopher's Inn. The pub was packed and we all huddled, sweat, and clenched our fists as we watched Arsenal slowly decay, 2 to 1. Every near goal the voices would rise together, eyes widen, and then cease at once to allow for the cussing and cursing at a bad call or missed shot by the two loud, drunk Henry worshippers in the back. I understand a little better now what English football is, what English life is.

The charge me my life here for time ont he information super highway. See you on the 2nd in Sea-town, and 6th in the MN.

Cheers.