Why is it that exciting things are more prone to happen when one is deprived of all creature comforts? What a week.
Cutback to last Saturday: the Sidmouth Folk Festival, the biggest annual folk festival in Britain (I'm told) comes barging into the sleepy town. Suddenly, the population triples: old men donning rainbow-print wool pants can be seen buying chocolate and ale at Tesco's; the promenade is burgeoning with youth activity and police arrests; impromptu musical phenomena comprised of any instrument- ranging from harmonicas to rubbish bins- band and disband in the streets. The demographic is altered dramatically, shifting from elderly shufflers to bright-eyed hippie girls. Everyone- everyone- is wearing flower crowns. The noise and bustle begins around ten in the morning and ends in the wee hours of night. The Sidmouth employees are easy to spot. They're the ones plodding up and down the lanes, wearing wrinkled uniforms, clutching their caffeinated drinks like an old man his walking stick.
While I wish I could have partaken in the clamor and celebration, I faced the week with bitter, tired dread. Dinner at the hotel stayed steady and quiet-most guests preferring a night out on the town to a three-course meal- but the coffee shop practically exploded.
The shop is divided into two parts: the café area, where clients can sit to eat and drink, and the shop. I am not the choice waitress (I am told that my service is so straightforward that it is almost rude, which is reduced to my being Canadian) so I run the till. The "fast food" we sell- in the sense that it is pret-à-manger- consists of pasties, pastries and pies. In case these words are unfamiliar: pasties are small bundles of dough, often flaky, filled with something savoury (like steak or cheese); pie does not refer to any of the apple or cherry variety but as single-serving chicken or beef pie. Most of what I did for six to eight hours at a time is set up the pasties, pastries and pies for display, sell them, and microwave them if desired. Over the course of the week, I've endured enough radioactive waves to make a new-age mother faint in horror. There was not a moment of calm. People poured in and pushed past each other, forgetting their manners in their burning desire for a soggy sausage roll (that'll be £2.25, thank you very much). As soon as I could manage to escape out the door and into the street, I had to pause 50 yards down to catch a breath of fresh air.
But staggering out of the shop was only the first half- I still had to be cheery and presentable at dinner whether or not I'd just spent the last eight hours being told off. I did my best, working straight through from 9AM-8:30PM on several days, but I have little choice in conceding that I am not cut out for this kind of schedule.
Despite all this work madness, I did manage to go out and see some of the festival. I made friends with Australians. On Wednesday night I was walking down the street just after 10pm when I was drawn over by this band of amazing musicians who appeared to be improvising in incredible syncretism. There was a lead fiddle, a ukulele, a guitar, a tambourine and a one-string bass box (?). I had never heard such a deep, textured sound from a street group. What's more, they all seemed miles away, eyes closed, nearly afloat on the melody.
I stood watching for a while, when someone with a drinks cart offered me free coffee. Who can refuse free coffee? Even when it's 10pm? Sheesh. I accepted, and learned they were a travelling Christian organization in town for the folk festival to play music and raise money. What ensued was a two-hour discussion on whether some teachings of the Bible might be based on the socio-cultural norms of the time and whether it was reasonable to say that some could be dismissed as outdated in this day and age (no prizes for guessing which side I was on). But it was lovely to have a strong, passionate discussion, which I find often leaves me very buzzed. I didn't sleep that night, and clocked in another 10 hours the next day.
By the time Friday night rolled around, marking the end of the festival, my café coworkers and I were only too willing to celebrate the end. Tequila shots may or may not have been consumed. Tipsy talks concerning David Hume perhaps occurred (I don't go looking for philosophy. It finds me). A frigid midnight swim in the Channel definitely happened. Needless to say, Saturday morning did not find me in the best condition at work.
By last night, I was dead on my feet. Coming home round 10 at night, the only thing I wanted was to dive into bed and not emerge for a full twelve hours. Unfortunately for me, I am sometimes kind of dumb and had left my keys on my bedside table. So I arrived at my door, in the rain, to discover that I was very much locked out.
I rang the bell. What good are flatmates , if not to let you in? But H wasn't home, and E doesn't open the door. Ever. I knew she was there. But she wouldn't open up. I rang the landlord-no answer. I went to the door of the couple I'd stayed with on my first few nights, but they weren't in, either.
Well.
I didn't feel too cool when I rang up my coworker, A, to help a girl out. Lucky for me, she responded to my plea for help and drove into town to pick up my sad wet body in front of the supermarket. I'm eternally indebted. I slept a great lion's sleep. It felt good, too, to hang out with someone my age, which I haven't really done since I left Quebec seven weeks ago. She has a lovely garden. I am lucky. When I got home this afternoon, I slept right through til half-past five.
Please forgive the truly terrible prose of this entry. I still need to catch up on more sleep. I will put a few pictures up later this week. Life's good. Goodniiiiight. X
