all these places: Caerdydd, Cymru [or Cardiff, Wales, if you want to be that way about it]!

I had a few days before I had a place to stay in London, so I decided on a whim to head to Wales, since I had never been there.

Whenever I think of Wales, I think of this botched translation from English to Welsh.

The first night I went to a pub to have some traditional Welsh food [mmmm, mozarella/spinach pasta bake] and listen to some traditional Welsh music [who knew the Welsh also have a song about "the Reeboks with the straps"?!?]. A local talked to me a bit when I was ordering at the bar and looked shocked when she heard I came to Cardiff just for kicks - probably the same look I give people when I hear they've been to Wisconsin ["what?!? why?!?"].

The B&B serves breakfast at 7:30-8:30 a.m. on weekdays and takes it a bit easier on weekends - 8-9 a.m. Bah. I was hoping for rest and relaxation, but I refused to sleep through the full Welsh breakfast [exactly the same as a full English breakfast, but don't tell the Welsh I said that] I paid good money for.

I didn't learn much Welsh - except that "beth" means "what." I feel like that's very appropriate.

When I was walking around the shopping area, I noticed that they had a TJ Maxx - but...it was called TK Maxx? I can understand changing, say, car names that have a different meaning in the local language...but...why just change the J to the very next letter?

The second night I was having dinner in another pub [and this time I at least had a dish with Welsh cheese], and a group of student-age Brits sat down at a table near me. They started talking about the World Cup, and one of them said, "Don't worry about the Americans, they don't know football - I mean, come on, they call it soccer!" He was so indignant. I giggled quietly to myself.

My last day in town, after meeting up with a local CouchSurfer for a coffee and a walk around the park, I rented a bike and went around Cardiff Bay. I saw the Norwegian Church [clever name, that] where Roald Dahl was baptized and a harbor where all the rich people park their yachts before stopping at a Hungry Horse, which seems to be the UK's version of T.G.I. Friday's - except that, like pretty much all pubs, there is no table service - you have to go up to the bar to order.

The weather was beautiful the whole weekend, and after the bike ride I realized I was even a little red. How many people do you know who have gotten sunburns in Wales, of all places?!?