I traveled to Brighton this past weekend to attend a beer festival with a few fellow Dickinsonians studying in Norwich. Beer fests in the UK are a much bigger deal than in the States, perhaps because liking craft ale over here isn’t viewed with the same skepticism and derision. It took place in city hall, a large concrete building with hard right angles and sweeping staircases that was most definitely influenced by totalitarian architecture. The crowd was mixed—mohawked hipsters rubbing shoulders with elderly couples, all with pint class in hand. The beer was maybe what you might expect; strong and dark with names like “Warlock’s Brew” and “Midnight Ruby.”

Brighton is a coastal city located about an hour’s train ride directly south of London. It’s known in the UK for being very funky, with an innovative art scene and a large LGBT community. The influence shows: wandering around, we ducked into vintage clothing stores and guitar shops. There was a candy store that sold American products, everything from a box of Lucky Charms (priced at nine pounds, the equivalent of about $13.50) to Hershey’s chocolate bars. For the record: I do not find Hershey’s disgusting compared to British chocolate, it’s just much more of a one-note flavor.

Brighton Pier is the second longest in Britain; it stretches into the ocean and at night you can see the lights blazing, burning like holes in the dark. It is just the right amount of trashy beach side food and bustling, beeping arcade games. The smell of frying donuts and cotton candy (unfortunately called candy floss over here) bring to life every memory I’ve had of trips to the beach. I could almost taste the condensation running down a can of Coke, sand getting all mixed up in everything I taste or smell.

The shore: I’ve missed seagulls and the ocean because they remind me of home. The rhythmic breaking of waves upon rocks; the salt in the air that makes you hungry and tired and glad to be alive; the first chilling step into the water; the awkward plodding through grasping sand always calling you back. The beach wants you to stay—it isn’t aware of responsibilities or commitments. In Brighton I found it easy to realize I was on an island away from America but hard to convince myself that the ocean changes from place to place.

I haven’t gone on a true beach vacation in years, and I didn’t count this latest trip to Brighton as one. I didn’t have any sunscreen or beach towels with me for one; neither did I dive below the waves to try and find the bottom of the Atlantic. Every time I go somewhere new in Britain, I shake with the strange familiarity to America. Everything’s the same but everything’s different. Maybe this doesn’t have anything to do with Brighton, but I guess I expected beaches to be fundamentally the same everywhere I went. They’re not, no matter how much the music of the ocean sings through the salt in my blood.