a REAL english christmas, part 1

I know it's been a while, but I'm finally back on track! By all means, lie to me and pretend like you missed my posts. Here is one of many that I have been thinking about and meaning to write for weeks:

When the first few days of December came along, I hadn’t actually thought about the fact that I’d be completely alone in my apartment for Christmas until a girl on my lacrosse team invited me home with her family. It was the first Christmas I'd be spending away from home, and while my Thanksgiving was great with a few friends I was happy to have a family to spend this holiday with.

Sophie’s family doesn’t live in London; they live in a region of England called the Midlands. It is exactly what it sounds like, the land in between the North, i.e. Manchester, and the South, i.e. London. I of course had no idea what any of this meant, not even after being lectured by my British friends multiple times on the differences between all the regions of England and the accents that go along with them. So, naturally, I pictured a mix of Pride and Prejudice and the Holiday in my mind. Despite all rationality that says that Hollywood overstates national and historical stereotypes then overstates the overstatements, I was not at all disappointed.

Sophie’s dad and I drove through the town of Derby (don’t make the same mistake I did, it’s pronounced Dahby) to get to her family's home in the countryside. As soon as we got out of the town (which was slightly industrial for my tastes) we were on small country roads winding through rolling hills. I know, it sounds cliché, but it was real! Even I was prepared for my naïve delusions to be let down, but it was just as I hoped it would be. It reminded me a lot of central New York, in the late summer or fall, though even more cloudy and grey (if that is at all possible). The more I live in Paris, though, the more I find myself in general attracted to grey landscapes, because for some reason I find this city to be the most beautiful in monochromatic color schemes. But in this one, it managed to balance a warm greyness but also display rich contrasts: the grass looked that much greener, the landscape that much more textured, and the clouds disappearing into the distance lent it an even more palpable depth. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the openness of the countryside until I found myself lost in it.

I was still taking in the views around me when we finally arrived in the quaint, one-main-street town of Wirksworth, where I was once more rewarded for hanging on to uninformed assumptions. The buildings nestled together with a hint of the green pastures just on the outskirts felt like a fairy tale. The old brick, cobblestones, and ancient but somber church next to Sophie’s family’s house was almost too much. I’m only just hearing how this sounds, and you are probably shaking your head or cringing at my reactions but there just is no other way to describe it. It was too good to be true, too fairy-tale like even for the fairy tales. It was a comfort to me to know that at least one of those stereotypes, wished for and hoped for about a far away land, the stories of which built the foundation of your childhood, is not completely baseless. Yeah yeah, I’m laying it on thick I know, but TRUST ME. Wirksworth’s legit.