Thrills, chills, and the ongoing spill

The Gusher in the Gulf is truly horrifying. It's getting harder to watch the news every day, more difficult to comprehend the statistics, even as they keep getting worse (an Exxon-Valdez every 8 days?). In our little flat in our provincial countryside village, we've gone from cluelessness at the beginning (we were in the midst of our move, and saw something about an explosion, but didn't have internet, cable, or a newspaper subscription), to abject horror, to frustration with our own slightly-too-unflappable president, to now a sickening acceptance that this disaster will permanently change both our already fragile environment and the livelihoods of so many who live in or near the affected areas.

I've gotten lots of messages from American friends, ranging from the merely curious to the (justifiably, certainly) outraged. The answer is yes, British friends here feel horrible, and surprisingly, the British press coverage of the spill itself has been pretty balanced. It's hard to know on which side the tone first went so personal and hostile (it feels from here like perhaps Obama first lowered the boom, under pressure from media and Republican heavies) but for these strangers in a strange land (whose daughter is debuting new words in a British accent), it's painful and confusing to watch.

As red-blooded Yanks (and longtime opponents of domestic drilling), our loyalties of course lie with the Gulf Coast. At the same time, we feel how tenuous the new government here is, how anxious Brits already were about an economy on the brink, how deeply they fear losing huge chunks of their pensions to BP's horrible, irreversible, possibly criminal blunder. And when we see headlines like "YOU BRITS ARE GONNA PAAAYYY" underneath a yelling Obama face, we're also anxious to, well, cheer for the U.S. at a bar while watching the World Cup.

"Oh, for f@*k's sake!"

Which brings me to one of the more surreal moments in recent memory. Why, just that morning I had innocently asked if "Allez les bleus" was the battle cry of a French-speaking fellow Michigan fan. Hours later, I stood elbow-to-elbow in a wine bar (my choice, having called and asked "are you showing the soc – er, football match?") with probably two hundred spectators ranging from the bored (the famed "football widows" huddled together, trading lipglosses and gossip mags, no doubt discussing the recent and mysterious "Eurovision" beauty pageant/singing competition as well as the fate of footballer wife Cheryl Cole) to the maniacal, faces painted and dressed in full regalia.

Thankfully I was in the bathroom when the U.S. "scored" our goal – Jeff reported the rage in the room was a bit terrifying. For the remainder of the game I half-attempted to follow the action while posting and skimming on Facebook; I believe only the bartender learned our true identities, and we were thus able to escape the bar unscathed.

Sunday we spent the morning at HomeBase, the British version of Home Depot, which I keep slipping and calling "Home Plus" à la Big Love, buying flowers and supplies for our garden, and in the afternoon hit a street fair/block party called "Widcombe Rising." For a town everyone warned us would be "quiet," even "bucolic," particularly in comparison to Paris, Bath manages to support giant, well-attended events nearly every weekend. In the past 6 weeks we've attended a flower show, a coffee festival, the International Music Festival, the Fringe Festival (ending with Saturday's fabulously wacky moving – I mean traveling, not emotional – production of Treasure Island in our neighborhood park), and this hipster street party in the funky nearby nabe of Widcombe.

Hipster Josie Rising

Clutching a Pimm's and watching about three dozen Brits of wildly varying ages cheer for a band dressed - like many of Widcombe Rising's attendees – in pirate costumes and chant in unison a song I'd never heard (something about a girl named Molly and a bar she kept for her father), I remarked quietly to Jeff that at times this entire country seems to be in on some huge private joke. Don't get me wrong, the street party rocked: giant slide, bars everywhere you turn, three bands, Ferris wheel, face painting, but why was everyone dressed like pirates? Why were a keyboardist, two half-naked women and a grandfatherly type engaged in street theater that involved asking for kindergarten-aged volunteers to swallow raw eggs? How does a smallish neighborhood pull together to close streets and raise enough money for a party of this scale?

As we left, the soiree seemed to continue down the canal; on our waterside route home men, women and children mulled about on houseboats, drinking cider, grilling, juggling, playing banjos, with no sign of stopping though the temperature had steadily dropped and a Sunday twilight (accompanied by menacing storm clouds) descended.

Pirates, Pimms and pleasure cruisers (not to mention pride. And prejudice). This is Bath.

Please plug the hole, guys. Toute de suite.

Treasure Island in the Park