Incompetent Abroad: Do Not Go Gentle into That Gift Shop
Roger has rented us a car that in its former life was a tomato can. He, David and I wedge ourselves into the tiny vehicle with only the bleakest hope that we will ever emerge from it unscarred. David is especially outraged at the indignities the car is inflicting on him. Without warning, he discharges a volley of curses so original in metaphor, so devastatingly targeted, so dripping with venom that I am moved to tears by his uncharacteristic inventiveness. Were I not fearful of dislocating a shoulder, I would lean forward and pat his noble head.
Roger is bristling as well, not a good sign since he’s only now adjusting to driving on the left side of the road. Nonetheless, he rockets in and out of the clotted afternoon traffic like the suicidal maniac he’s so often mistaken to be. I sit quietly in the back seat, biting my tongue, the only movement my present confinement allows.
The English countryside is a green and yellow checkerboard of immaculately tended fields. Roger says he thinks the yellow vegetation is rapeseed, but he may very well be saying this to cause me embarrassment when I repeat it here. His motivations have never been altogether clear to me, and I always suspect the worst.
We are journeying to Swansea, Wales to see the birthplace and early stomping grounds of Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), my favorite British poet and drinking model. His is the voice I invariably hear when I recall my early college days, that charmed era during which I was led to believe that majoring in English would actually prepare me for a job. All these many years later, I still count the holiday season dim until I have listened—in bed and in the dark—to Thomas reading his “A Child’s Christmas In Wales.”
Swansea is not, I soon discover, the quaint little fishing village I imagined. Instead, it is a sizable city with the customary urban blight that sprawls along a harbor festooned with sky-high freight cranes, tacky tourist hotels and Mexican and Pakistani restaurants. As we drive into town, we pass an Amazon.com/UK distribution center the size of Vermont.
When we finally arrive at our bed-and-breakfast, we are too stiff to stir from our mobile coffin until Roger’s volcanic adrenaline kicks in and he commands us to squeeze out into the gray and narrow street. That in so doing we leave patches of skin on the upholstery seems to bother him not at all. Our exploration of Swansea consists of visiting three different pubs (one several times) and the public library (once). At our advanced ages, we are not given to lingering over popular attractions, even historic ones. We figure we can absorb the essence of a place in 15 to 20 minutes, tops, unless it’s a bookstore, a newsstand or the soccer field at a women’s college.
The next day, we motor to Laugharne, the town Thomas immortalized in his play for voices, Under Milk Wood. (There is an Undermilkwood Bar there, and we have the picture to prove it). While David sits in the car conjuring up grievances to share with us upon our return, Roger and I make the long climb from the beach to the boat house Thomas once lived and wrote in. The weather is chilly and overcast, perfect for appreciating a poet’s lair. I rejoice that the place has not been tarted up and sanitized to make the casual tourist feel comfortable. There is only one attendant, a pleasant but bored volunteer who sits at his desk and permits us to roam freely throughout the cramped rooms of the two-story structure. The house is filled with family photos and old books. Best of all, it smells musty, just like my own living quarters in faraway Nashville. This moment alone makes the rigors of my trip worthwhile. Next we trek up the road to Thomas’ grave, which rests unfenced, unadorned and almost unnoticed in an ancient village churchyard. Roger takes my picture, and there is nothing else left for us to do. And so we return to our villainous car and a far less lyrical century.