MEDIEVAL MURDER MYSTERY UNEARTHED!!! ..........(Or, would you like to take a little stroll with me?)

I am going come back to Macalester next year, and be in big trouble: I am so, so spoiled here! Part of it is the weather, as I mentioned before, which though far from tropical is positively laughable when compared with the ridiculousness that is the midwest this time of year. Part of it is the class structure, meaning that all the work and stress for a class is concentrated on one paper, and one exam, leaving oodles of free time ("'Free time'? What is this 'free time' you speak of?!," demand all the Mac students in puzzlement). Part of it is the city: tiny and compact, meaning that a five minute walk in any direction with get you somewhere exciting, guaranteed. Part of it is my accommodations, which are not only above a bar and around the corner from three different clubs, but more importantly (in an academic sense at least), are less than ten minutes walk to class. Closer by far than lovely 1808 is to Macalester...

My my, she DOES look cranky, doesn't she...
Well, I suppose she ought to: this is
Mary Queen of Scots, with her husband,
Lord Darnley who had recently killed her
scribe and close friend. Not a move guaranteed
to get you into your wife's good graces
(or her bed). Perhaps she was already
hankering for a whiff of gunpowder when
this engraving was made...

"Robertson's Close" is the name of the residence hall where I currently reside, and also the name of the tiny alley where it is located. To get to my classes I walk up the steep, cobbled slope of the Close, avoiding stray bits of broken glass, past Mother India restaurant (curse you and your delicious smells!) and across Infirmary street, trying not to get killed by the taxis and busses that scream by. Once upon a time, there was a hospital not far from here I think (hence the name 'infirmary'), which makes sense considering that the Old College which dominates the view across the busy street used to house the medical school of the University of Edinburgh. Currently the Old College contains a seemingly random collection of classes and is partly under construction: the plan was to build a new courtyard in the center, I believe, but because the College, like much of Edinburgh, was built upon the ruins of an older building, in this case a Medieval Church with its own cemetery, progress has slowed significantly due to an archeological dig taking place. In addition to simply recovering and preserving artifacts and ancient buildings (and exhuming 14th century skeletons... no joke), they are also unearthing evidence relating to a 16th century scandal and murder mystery! Apparently Mary Queen of Scots's second husband of only two years (and the father of the boy who would later become  James the I of England and VI of Scotland) Lord Darnley went to stay at at the hostel associated with the church that used to stand there while he was convalescing from what was either smallpox or (goodness...) syphilis. In the middle of one February night, the building suddenly exploded  ~ apparently the cellars had been rigged with enough gunpowder to flatten a cathedral ~ and the reverberations were felt all over the city. Amazingly, Lord Darnley was not killed in the blast, and we know he managed to escape to the small walled garden in back of the kirk. He did not get further though ~ his body was later found, strangled, in the back of the garden, some sources say clad in a night shirt, others say in more ordinary attire but with his trousers about his ankles. Mary Queen of Scots had intended to stay that night in the very room which suffered the worst of the blast and changed her mind at the last minute, and people speculated that the explosion was meant for the then unpopular monarch. However, suspicion fell upon Mary herself when she appeared to mourn less than was truly proper for her murdered husband, perhaps understandable due to the fact that he had a reputation for womanizing and had been implicated in the death of her Italian scribe and confidant less than a year before, but such disregard was unacceptable none the less. Later, when the man who had supplied the gunpowder for the explosion was inexplicably acquitted, and then  just happened to end up in Mary's bed first as her lover then later as her (questionably legitimate) third husband, her part in the affair became rather more dubious....

Mmmmm, scandals are so delicious!

I don't have any classes in the Old College, alas (although it might be a good thing - I would likely spend far too much time gazing out of the window, hoping to catch sight of something ancient and morbid) so to get to class I keep walking past the Old College, and end up wandering by the festival theater, big, glass-fronted and modern, and apparently the site of rather a lot of the Edinburgh Fringe festival in August. I am pretty disappointed that I won't be there then ~ it sounds amazing. Some reports state that the population of the city doubles for the month of August! Hard to imagine really, particularly because I simply cannot fathom where they PUT them all. (Honestly. Where do people sleep? Tents on the cobbles?) The Indian, Thai and Italian places across the street take full advantage of the theater-going population, offering discounts for pre-performance meals. They also seduce hungry Uni students with their aromas and promises of 5 pound buffets (oh dear lord, so much amazing food). Then there are the discount shops with their random assortment of oddments gaudily displayed in the windows, the cheap diner-ish restaurants, the greasy chips-pizza-kebab joints, and the... I don't even know what it call it. Bookie store? Gambling locale? Place-where-you-can-do-various-things-related-to-betting-that-I-neither-understand-nor-am-interested-in? Two halal grocers are around the corner, and the turbaned workers are usually setting out bins of thick cucumbers, browning bananas and luscious pomegranates when I pass in the mornings, and unloading crates of rather frightening looking meats in the evenings. I catch sight of my reflection in the large windows of Elephants And Bagels cafe as I pass, and I swear it is an effort every single day not to go in and get one of their delicious mochas. So much temptation, so little money... ! More streets to cross, more busses to avoid, and more tempting caffeine to resist: as if the cafes weren't enough, there are little portable stands that sell pastries and beverages at various ideal locations on campus, all of them, it seems, where I must past them on my way to Celtic Lit in the mornings. I have only succumbed once so far. Be PROUD of me.

On the way back to the Close I usually walk past the student centres and through the underpass (thereby avoiding some of the homicidal drivers). The acoustics in the Potterrow underpass are amazing: walking through there makes every step sound loud, ringing, determined, intentional, important. If I listen to myself walk, I can sometimes convince myself that I know where I am going and why, what my "purpose" is, and each footfall echoes clearly and decidedly (especially if I am in heels ~ everything about my life is so much more important when I am in heels). Half the time, though, a street musician with bongos, or a saxophone, or sometimes a violin is playing underneath the low cement ceiling, drowning out the clack of my shoes on the stone with thunderous, exuberant music, following the passing students with hopeful eyes. After I emerge, assuming that I can resist the lure of the Old College and its muddy, mossy glory I find myself once again on South Bridge, the main street (which is also called North Bridge, Nicholson, South Clerk, and many other things... Streets names apparently apply only for about two blocks before they are, without warning, changed) across from the ever-alluring Tesco with its shelves bursting with McVittie's "digestive biscuits" (aka cookies) and Mars Bars and coupons explaining all the deals you can get by "topping up" your cell phone there. If I make a left, and continue past the store with the gorgeous, ridiculously cheap pashmina scarves and past the big, new, shiny bookstore store as well as tiny, grungy, coffee-stains-and-dog-eared-pages used-book-store, a stretch of street which is my personal hell ~ the TEMPTATION! Books AND scarves! It just isn't FAIR!!! ~ I get back to Infirmary street, nearly home. Half a block further, however, and I come to one of the best parts of this whole lovely city: a tiny little hole-in-the-wall shop, called the Piemaker. Meat pies, my friends, are absolutely amazing; and also frighteningly cheap. Paying only 1.55 for a large pie makes me crane my neck a bit to see if I can catch Mrs. Lovett's gathered lace skirts swishing around in the back, and strain my ears half expecting to catch the echoes of "My Friends" wafting from the floor above... because really, if they aren't offing stupid American tourists and cooking them into Cornish Pasties and sausage rolls and haggis pies, then how on earth can something so good cost so little, especially in this expensive country?!? However they do it, it is brilliant and makes my life SO much better.

I am way too tempted to close with a Sweney Todd song... and as my undying love Oscar Wilde says, the only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it.

Cheers all. :D

Sweney Todd: Little Priest

A Love Letter

Yup, it's that time of the year again. First of all: click the lovely Mumford and Sons link, and listen to the awesome music. Second of all: hands up anyone who has ever woken in the morning, cranky at just the thought of this holiday with all its insipid protestations of love, the candy hearts (that really just taste like chalk even if they do say "yours 4ever"), the red and white teddy bears with glassy eyes clutching plush pillows, the overpriced Hallmark cards, and happy couples snogging all over the place...? If your hands are NOT up in the air, you can reach the keyboard, and hit the little red close button, and GO AWAY; we don't want you here.

...Fine, you can stay, but you are still strange.

Hah.

Honestly, I am not bitter about Valentine's day, or as some of my friends refer to it, about "Singles Awareness Day" (*waves cheerfully* yep, that's me!) (Oh! Here's another lovely link for you when you're done with the first one... hah!); I am far too much of a romantic to object to a day celebrating all the cheesiness and puppy-love I not-so-secretly adore. It is good to have a day to actively remember all the people you are grateful for in your life, and to tell them that you care... And I have a very long list. There are so many people that I could not do without ~ family and friends, new and old. [Mom-Dad-Theo, of course, lovely Alice, Emily, Chelsea, Madison, Lindsay, Seong, Anna, Marissa, Mollie, Maya, Erica, Nathan, darling Liz, tall Dan Allen, Kilian, Victoria!, Anne and Teddi, my fantastic flatmates here, Leigh and her humor, Mac Crew (2009, 2010, and 2011~ you are ALL brilliant), the incredible inspiring Ellen, Maggie, the Tolstoyans, Tessa, Luke, amazing Jamie,... And far too many more to list here. I love you all.] This post, however, is not to you, but to the latest greatest love of my life, for whom I am considering staying halfway across the world. I have fallen head over heels, my friends. It was love at first sight, you know, and it has truly blossomed into something wonderful. Sure, I have been in love, but I swear I have never felt this way before... So here goes.

Dearest, darlingest, loveliest 

Edinburgh:

Happy Valentine's Day!

It's taken a lot of guts, dear old city, to work up the courage to tell you this, but... *blush* I like you. Quite a lot, actually. I mean, like like you. ..Er.

I've been wanting to thank you, Edinburgh, for a few things that I've learned since I have been here. One of those things is that some things never change. The horrible noise of my morning alarm is just as awful when it wakes me up for Celtic Lit as it used to be when I was in Turck or Bigelow. Waiting for someone to call or text is just as nerve-wracking here as it is in frozen Minnesooota, or (relatively) sunny California. The feeling of  laughing with friends is the same, the bad (often American) music played in clubs with the same, and the awful Valentine's Day decorations, alas, are also the same. Thank goodness that, just like in the states, Valentine's day is also an excellent excuse to eat waaaaay too much chocolate. Some things don't change, no matter which side of the pond you are on (mmm, Lindt. So amazing. Also, Swiss and Belgian and German chocolates are far more accessible here...).

But despite the fact that some things - the paper hearts, the explosions of red and pink, and all the wishing [wish he was single; wish I was single; wish he was interested, or I was, or both; wish I had the time; wish he had the time; wish we were on the same continent; wish I wanted him; wish I didn't want him; wish it wasn't complicated; wish there was something - anything - to be complicated] - are the same no matter where you go, I am discovering that being here means that some other things are utterly different. Living in a new place, meeting new people, becoming someone new means that you don't have to carry around baggage. The past is irrelevant, if you want it to be. You don't have to be the person who had someone, once, and now doesn't, or the person who never had anyone at all, or even the person who has someone now and wonders if it is right to let things go on from habit and affection and fear. All you have to be is you. Right now. And if you are happy, then that is all that really matters isn't it? And that, my lovely Edinburgh, is so, incredibly liberating. Being here makes me feel like opportunities are endless! Not just for love (although compared with wonderful, tiny, oh-so-limited Mac there seem to be tons of romantic opportunities, simply by virtue of there being more people...) but for life: studying, dancing, learning, exploring, connecting, basking, working, walking, meeting, adventuring. Breathing. Laughing. And this Valentine's day, I feel pretty much in love with life. Mostly, though, with you, dear Edinburgh: with the bumpy cobblestone streets that KILL my feet in heels, with the low-slung sun that reflects off the wet sidewalks ever morning, with the seagulls and pigeons that whirl and scold overhead, with the hint of salt and brewing beer that flavors the air, with the curries and the meat pies and the chips, with the double-decker busses that come tearing around corners like a hurricane on a mission, with the clank of glass and muffled music that puts me to sleep every night, with the old stone and the new glass, with the allies and closes and wynds, with the towers and the sunken streets, with the looming crags that demand to be scaled, and with the twisted streets that beg to be explored. I am in love with Scottish accents, as I might have mentioned. Once. Or twice.

I am in love with the way the clouds appear and disappear in an hour, unpredictable and dramatic, and with the way the chimneys stand starkly against the sky in the evenings and the mornings. I am in love with the adrenaline that comes from being surrounded by a group of yelling, desperate or elated rugby fans in a smoky little pub (especially when some of those fans are rather lovely boys in the Royal Airforce... !!! Om nom nom), and with the contrast of daffodil costumes and dragon-blazoned flags (for Wales) and formal kilts (for Scotland, obviously). I am in love with the way the afternoon light paints Arthur's seat a warm brick red, the way the Old College Tower lights up orange in the evening out my window, the way the air vent from Mother India Cafe - which sends delectable aromas redolent of curry coiling down our alley - makes me want curry all the time, and the way I no longer think twice when someone tells me it costs three "quid." I am also a little bit in love with the taste of "Banoffee tart" (bananas, toffee, tons of whipped cream and chocolate...) when shared with friends after too much Indian take-away and red wine, and with the warm feeling I got when an acquaintance told me my American accent, unlike most, did not make him want to punch me in the face. Considering he is a typically terse Glaswegian, that was actually quite a compliment.

How do I love thee, Edinburgh...

So, while yeah, of course I would love it if some guy (preferably with one of the aforementioned accents) decided to start reciting Keats to me, or quoting Neruda in passionate love letters ("I want to do to you what spring does to the cherry trees" ... sighhhh...) I don't really need that this year. Because sometimes life is bigger than love. And life, right now, is pretty damn wonderful.

What do you do with a tuppence?

...Is that even grammatically correct?

Ought I say, what do you do with a two-penny-piece? Hmm. Well, how ever one refers to them, I am a bit at a loss as to their usefulness. The existence of a tuppence would make sense, I suppose, if the cost of things was in even, rather than odd, percentages of a pound: 1.04, for example, or 6.12. I would happily pay .02 for something! But alas, this tends not to be the case. There is no tax on food here as there is in the states, so no awkward tabs with random cents/pence tacked onto the end. The cornish meat pies from the pie shop around the corner (with which I have fallen suddenly and madly in love) are 1.55 (waaay too reasonable; it is SO hard to argue myself out of getting one...); a chai tea "steamer" (aka, caffeinated delisciousness in a cup) from my favorite coffee shop is 1.20; a package of mushrooms, which I have been virtually living on in proper hobbit fashion, costs 80p, and a jar of the curry sauce I have been frequently dumping on said mushrooms is 75p. For none of these would I use a tuppence. Crabbies alcoholic ginger beer, which, as previously mentioned, is ABSOLUTELY AMAZING,  costs far too much in bars and clubs, but from the local grocery store it is 1.49... perhaps I could use some of my two-penny-pieces there? Kronenberg beer, another favorite of mine, costs about 2.80 at most bars; again not a number requiring me to whip out my handy little tuppence.

Kronenberg has become my drink of choice when I am not in the mood for something sweet, and I have begun to order one once a week at Frankenstein's Bar, half a block from campus. With the acquisition of a student card, one becomes eligible for their weekly student deals: a free meal with the purchase of a (discounted) drink. This means that a decent-sized goatcheese and onion salad and a (rather large and very tasty) pint ends up costing less than just the pint would elsewhere. Of course, it's really a good deal for the bar, because once there, it is tempting to sit, and order another drink or perhaps a side, while laughing at the decor (mad-scientist style electric lights and suspicious looking pipes and wheels that call to mind images of Gene Wilder and Marty Feldman cackling and conjuring over test tubes and cauldrons) and half-heartedly watching whatever bad monster movie they are playing on the tv (Helsing, last week). They really play up the cheesy theme, with long, angsty quotes from Frankenstein on the stairwell walls, and monster noises echoing through the bathrooms (extremely disconcerting if you don't know what you are hearing), strange-colored shots served in test tubes, and a larger-than-life-sized doll of the Creature which is lowered down upon its slab as it sits up jerkily to a creepy soundtrack. But because their drinks, their service and their food all are good, the kitschiness is cute and funny rather than annoying. Also, the fact that the building used to be a church, complete with stained glass windows and a pulpit, makes the gothic theme even more appropriate and amusing.

And yet... not even at Frankenstein's have I yet spent a tuppence. I have been given plenty of them as change (I have a small pile growing on my shelf, after it overflowed my wallet's coin pouch) but haven't had the determination to find a way of spending one. I felt silly removing them from my "purse" (I have been told that only men carry wallets; women use purses) but because change is actually something that one uses here, unlike at home, I could not let them get in the way of my pound, two-pound, and fifty pence coins, all of which I use with extraordinary frequency. It makes me hope that the dollar coin catches on in the states - I LOVE the pound coins! And the two-pound ones are absolutely gorgeous. Of course, it might in part be because I am biased, and think that "Queen Lizzie" as I heard her affectionately called, is far prettier than ol' Abraham, and the fact that instead of rather boring monuments on the back there are LIONS

and CELTIC KNOTS

 and SHIELDS (with UNICORNS)

 and DRAGONS!!!

and... and... well, and leeks, but I am more amused and less excited about those. Leeks are the national plant of Wales, I think, which explains it but does not make it any less silly.

Of course, single pennies are relatively useless too, as a general rule, on both sides of the pond. I definitely have to go out of my way to actually make use of the little copper coins clogging up my coin purse. My flat mates recently introduced me to a new use for them, however. Drinking games are not as common here as they are in college parties in the US, it seems ~ people are much more likely to sit and chat while pre-gaming than they are to whip out the notorious red cups and start throwing ping-pong balls around, and not being a fan of beer pong, I approve of this (apparently the last group of American exchange students to live in our flat threw wild parties with obnoxious, loud music, crazy games of flip cup and discarded cans everywhere. We are trying to prove to our British flat mates that not ALL Americans are like that...). However, one of the common ploys used to get one's mates to drink more/faster in this bit of the world, is apparently to "penny" them: if someone has their hand on their glass, you can drop a (hopefully rather clean) penny into their drink, and they must down it. "SAVE THE QUEEN! SAVE THE QUEEN!!!" Everyone started yelling when my flat mate Grace slipped a penny into her friend's glass. Throwing an exasperated look at Grace, the poor girl dutifully began to chug her drink, as Grace explained the premise to me: you could not, of course, let the Queen drown, and therefore had to drink quite, quite quickly, trying to empty your glass before the penny reached the bottom. I was very amused, but made sure not to let my fingers linger on my glass any longer than necessary after that.

I wonder what would happen if you dropped a tuppence in someone's glass...

To the lads.

[Blogging is a funny thing. I waver between two equally false perceptions of the process: on the one hand, I sometimes feel that it is wholly public, and everyone I know is reading everything that goes on there the minute I put it up ~ my life on instantaneous display to the WORLD!!! Aaaaah! (Not true: clearly, most of you have better things to do with your lives... ahahha). On the other hand, I occasionally feel that this is totally private and actually just a cyber-journal. Also, not the case. I think my posts vascillate along this spectrum, going from rather personal, written primarily for myself, to rather public, written for a larger, and possibly nonexistent audience. This is one of the latter.]

To the MEN, BOYS, LADS, GUYS, BLOKES and CHAPS at the University of Edinburgh (Scottish and otherwise): After a month here, one full of both excellent interactions and some that are less excellent (but typically more amusing, thank goodness) my friends and I have some recommendations to make.

• Don't assume that all American girls you meet are from either Miami or LA. I know it will come as a shock to you but....they are not! (Some of us might even be offended...)
• Don't assume that, if a girl stops dancing with you to dance with her (female) friend, that is because she is a lesbian. Really. It is actually possible that she might just not be that interested in you...! Sorry honey.
• If you DO think that the ONLY reason she could POSSIBLY stop dancing with you is because she is into girls, do not ask her if that is the case in a loud, offended, incredulous tone. If she wasn't interested in you before, how do you think you sounding like a homophobic twat will work out for you...? And really, whether she prefers girls or is just letting you down, you are probably interrupting, so that leads me to the next one...
• Do take a hint. Honestly, if its clear we are not that interested, and we say we are going to the bathroom/to find a friend/to make a call, and if we don't come back, it is reasonable to assume that it isn't because we magically got lost on our way back from the toilets (we do have functional senses of direction, thank you very much) but because we didn't want to tell you, "I am not into this, go dance with someone else." That means we don't want you to come find us later and act aggrieved at our abandonment, and that likely we were not mourning your absence. 
• Do strike up conversations. In coffee shops, in clubs, after class, you name it. We are here to get to know the place and its people (meaning you) so we probably will be up for a chat, if you want one. (Three cheers for all the guys who have done so!)
• Do buy girls drinks. :)
• Don't assume that by accepting the drink, she is agreeing to let you get into her pants. Or her "pants."
• Do dance with girls. (Many of you do! It's great! There are so many guys on the dance floor - more than girls! And it will always, always make this girl happy. Huzzah!)
• Do not grab, smack, pinch or otherwise molest a girl's behind, whether you are dancing with her or whether she is just walking by... unless you know her really well, and/or she has given you express permission... (Really boys. This happens waaay too often.)
• Don't be offended if a girl asks you to repeat something. She is probably just as embarrassed to have to ask as you are to have to repeat yourself. (By the way... sorry about that...) Also, because accents are AWESOME, she would probably rather hear you say it mildly unintelligibly than to hear it said in a midwestern American coo, or a Southern twang.
• Do remember that as international students, we all get off on meeting new people - it's why we're here. Sometimes that means as friends, sometimes not... 
• Do offer to walk girls home. :) Assuming you are getting along well, (and she doesn't think you are creepy,) she will likely really appreciate it. 
• If you are an American guy and you meet a girl from your hometown/from your school/who you get along well with, do make friends with her, do hang out with her, but do also remember that if you want to be more than friends, you are working with an extreme disadvantage. It's nothing personal, but the lack of accent is going to make things much more difficult for you... Hahaha

I wanted to make a recommendation based on last night, but... I am at a loss. My very petite flatmate Carly and I went out dancing to the Big Cheese (HAH! So much silliness) and we were dancing ridiculously and singing, loudly and - in my case - poorly, along with the bad '80s music when were were approached by a very tall fellow (6'3" ish, I would guess?). He leaned down, and patted my flatmate's head, and over Britney's confession that oops, she did it again,  he yelled "HOBBITS! YOU ARE HOBBITS!" Now, I am not tall, it's true, but neither am I a hobbit, thank you very much! Neither is Carly, of course, but at barely 5', and no heels, and especially while dancing, she is rather tiny. It was positively hilarious to watch her leaning up to this guy, poking him in the chest in indignation and screaming, "I am NOT a hobbit! You are just FREAKISHLY TALL!" He grinned carelessly, and repeated, "HOBBITS!" gently patting her head again. "GIANT!" she cried in response, then yelped as he lifted her off her feet and up into the air. Her feet were about level with my waist~ this guy really was quite big. And Carly is a little on the small side. The fellow was grinning manically, and poor Carly was half laughing, half yelling, wide eyed and shocked, struggling to get down without being dropped or kicking anyone. Thank goodness she was goodnatured about it, because he was drunk enough that he might not have noticed if she were really upset. He put her down relatively soon, and went back to dancing through the rest of the song and into the middle of "I'm Blue" when apparently he got bored and started hefting Carly up into the air again, roaring with laughter, while Carly wailed "No more no more!" and beat his arms ineffectually with her fists. After he put her down we began to maneuver (completely obviously) through the crowd, just in case he decided to start tossing girls around again. It was honestly hilarious, but ...it was just a very good thing that Carly wasn't upset by it. So, my recommendation would be, I suppose, that if you are going to be ridiculous, do cross your fingers that the girl has a sense of humor.

Back to Basics

Looking over my shoulder, metaphorically, is something that I tend to avoid doing. When I am in a new place, having exciting novel experiences and growing and changing as I do, I hate the feeling that I am hampered by strings and commitments that tie me too tightly to who I was and get in the way of who I am becoming. I have in the past let go of some wonderful parts of my life for this same reason, and it was incredibly difficult, but not a decision I regret. It's hard to jump feet first into things when you are constantly holding onto what used to be, and jumping is what I do best.

That being said, sometimes familiar and comforting, when in a new situation/location, is absolutely wonderful. We had a bit of a Mac reunion spontaneously last night, with four of us Macalester Edinburghians, (not sure that is a word... spell check thinks not, alas) and two friends visiting from London and Berlin respectively. We had drinks, raucous chatter, and general good times before going out to the club around the corner. Some ID mix-ups ensued, but we enjoyed ourselves anyway. It was at once strange and good to be around people whom I have only ever experienced in the wonderful world of Mac, and this time to have them sitting around the table of my flat in Scotland, talking about accents, cultural differences, and attractive men (here and in MN), much to Dan Allen's chagrin (sorry Dan). Few of us were very close friends prior to this semester, and it is exceedingly odd to think of how different things will be for us when we head back to the states, back into our old way of going through life, back into the groves we have worn for ourselves in the Macalester community. Not sure how I feel about the thought, honestly.

                    

Oh dear, we DID have a bit to drink, didn't we... Hah.

Look at Dan, hiding. As usual. :)

Hahaha, Alice :D

Dan Allen's perspective on life: everyone is beneath him!

WHAM!

Today, in a fit of boredom (which leads to excursions) combined with laziness (which prevents said excursions from involving running or sweating) I took a walk a little further back even than Macalester (because really, Mac isn't even the past, it is just on hold for now) and went to find the Edinburgh Rudolph Steiner School. Twelve years of Waldorf education is apparently not enough for me, considering my summer jobs for the last eight years have involved running after kindergarteners clad in tie-die through gardens and pink-curtained classrooms, and I am not over it yet. I was worried that I wouldn't recognized the building, and considering the fact that I struggle to find street signs here, much less address numbers, this was of some concern; I shouldn't have worried. The helpful blue signs were nice, but pretty much unnecessary once I had spotted the art in the windows, and the (pink) silk curtains. A slightly confused woman with a thick Scottish accent asked how she could help me, and 15 minutes later I had been introduced to a few different staff members, been give three various phone numbers and provided with the dates for assemblies and plays, and been asked whether or not I wanted to join the teacher training class. Not for another 20 years, I told them. They laughed.

These are class buildings...!!

Looking back across the Meadows (formerly marshly lochs, long since drained and
made into parkland on the University campus) past Uni buildings to Arthur's seat.
It looks a great deal less high, and less freezing, than it really is. 

This is where I live. Next to a building with.... a cow jumping out of it...?

"Mo creach sa thainig," or, Scottish Gaelic 101

I have some truly amazing classmates here. Some of them speak some Scottish Gaelic. And, some are willing to sit down with a few of us American students who are curious about the language, and to teach us rudimentary conversational Scottish Gaelic, essentially for free (we are buying him drinks, so it works out all right, and he swears he needs the practice. I think he is just being inordinately nice)! I overheard one of the kids in my Celtic lit class asking the professor about how he could learn a little Gaelic, and talked to him about it afterward; and shortly thereafter one of the Scottish boys in the class offered to teach us! We met in the Library cafe, and in 40 odd minutes learned some of the basics: "my name is -," which is "s' e mise," but which sounds like "chemise a," and "good morning" which is "maden mhat," pronounced "madthen vah," etc. It was fun, but so frustrating! The last time I was learning the basic beginnings of a language, I was in second grade singing songs about flowers and spring and vain milkmaids in Spanish! Oddly, despite the fact that the two languages bear very little resemblance to each other, I kept wanting to fill in my sentences with Spanish words, saying "yes it is cold today" in Gaelic then adding, "pero aqui, siempre esta frio." Not functional at all. In Scottish Gaelic (which here is pronounced with a flat 'a' rather than a long 'a,' as in "fallacy" or "bath," rather than in "name" or, say, "Jane"), "mo chreach sa thainig" is a common response to the question, "Ciamar a tha thu?" (How are you?). It means, "my ruin/destruction has come," and apparently is very frequently used by University students come exams period. The modern English equivalent? "I'm screwed." Yes, I was amused.

The fellow who was giving my classmate and me the informal lesson is a second year student who is in my Celtic Literature class. He is from the west coast of the country, and in addition to walking us through what must have been agonizingly simple hellos and goodbyes, and only laughing at us a little, he also hopped up at the end of the hour and came back a few minutes later with maps of Scotland and Europe. It appears he has travelled quite extensively (though I feel like that might be commonplace here, since everything is so much closer and more accessible.... garrrh, stupid big, expensive, non-public-transportation-supporting U.S.) and he set to covering the maps with dots and stars and labels. I now know exactly where I want to go in the Highlands, the Western Isles, and the Lowlands, and with any luck I will be able to get myself around Scotland during exams period. Six weeks, three exams... I feel like I ought to have the time. Right? Our esteemed tutor was also able to make recommendations about where to go in Continental Europe. He told us which were his favorite cities, which were the most beautiful, which had the cheapest booze, and which were so sketchy that we should avoid them at all costs. SO! Grand Tour plans are slowly being made! In addition to Spring Break and exams, I have six weeks to fill after the semester ends. So many places to go, so many things to see! Alas, my bank account is not infinite. And traveling is not cheap (even if you do it right). And with the ridiculous cost of living here... ! Well. Mo chreach sa thainig.

I Wonder As I Wander

There is a walking Labyrinth on campus,
in the middle of the Quad (which is really
an English garden in disguise).
This a smaller version; the grooves are
worn smooth, and just the size of the pad
of your finger.

Happy St. Bride's day! Traditionally, the first day of February is the feast of Saint Bridget and also the beginning of Spring! I approve of this, especially considering that the weather is behaving itself for now: it was not last night. We had torrential rain, and wind that whipped up out of no where. One minute it was silent and drizzling, then suddenly the rain was lashing the windowpanes. The wind crashed like waves on an angry sea across the buildings, shaking the windows and hurling itself in fury against the walls of Robertson's close. Just as suddenly, it would be silent again for a few minutes, until another gust would shatter the quiet air outside my room. Thank goodness for well sealed windows and hot tea. This morning though, the air was bright and clear, and the sun was blinding against the wet slate and cobblestones of the sidewalks and alleys as I walked to class. I have Celtic Literature on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday mornings, which is rather a lot but I enjoy it (mostly) so it's alright. The sweet lady who teaches the Irish half of the class ended the lecture on Cromwellian destruction and devastation a little early (we were all getting depressed anyway, enough was enough) to take us out into the tiny little garden that is tucked away behind the Celtic Studies building. The building must once have been a row house (it still looks like one, and our classroom, with it's robin's-egg-blue walls and creamy trim, fireplace and antique paintings, was likely a grand sitting room) and the little space behind it a tiny garden. I felt like I had slipped into the Secret Garden as we filled out of the glossy black-painted doorway and past the ivy-covered stone walls and slightly unkempt poplars. The lecturer Katie produced a plate of gingerbread, and apologized for not having baked it herself, then explained the tradition as we passed the plate around, taking a little slice each. Four times a year were traditionally marked by the baking of celebratory bread, or bannocks, at the feast of St. Bridget for the beginning of spring, at Beltane in for the beginning of summer, Lammastide for the beginning of Autumn, and at Samhthain or All Hallows' Eve for the beginning of winter. On the feast of St. Bride, it was considered lucky to take a "bannoch Bride," eat a bit, and toss a bit over each shoulder. As you did that, you would call upon the Saint to banish evil spirits, and ensure your health and prosperity for the new year. We stood around in a circle, and Katie began by banishing the Spirits of Unnecessary And Detrimental Bureaucracy. We continued and banished the spirits of Evil Papers, of Procrastination, of Snow-That-Stops-Public-Transportation, and of Improperly Formatted Documents. Should Saint Bride really eradicate all those things, it should be a very productive year! Unfortunately, though, there is a saying that however much the "breeze blows in the door" on the feast of St. Bride, is "how much snow will be on the floor" at the feast of St. Patrick.... And there was quite a breeze, that whipped the girls' hair into flapping halos above our heads and bound the coats tightly about the legs of the boys.  Fingers crossed that the saying is incorrect ~ I am tired of snow!

Speaking of snow... In my multidisciplinary Scottish studies class, we learned a bit about the Scots dialect, which, the lecturer insists, is a different language from English (not Gaelic, mind you, but Scots: "I cannae tak the coo inne to the hoose" sort of Scots. Yeah.)* She showed us an online dictionary of the Old Scots Language, in which there seems to be about 140 words relating to snow. I feel like we should adopt some of them:
Kaav: To fall heavily in drifts
Flaucht: "A broad flake of anything that spreads out and looks like it is going to fly"
Grue: Half liquid snow and ice (SO FAMILIAR WITH THIS. Gross.)
Shell: snow blown into sheep's wool (HAH)
Spitter: A light shower of rain or snow
Glush: Anything in a state of pulp (slush)
Feevl: A thin covering of snow
Wreath: A snow drift rounded by the wind
Frog: A flying shower of snow
Fyoonach: A sprinkling of snow, "such as just whitens the ground"
Smuir: A smothering blanket of snow, or to perish buried in a snow drift,  (As in, "I was afeared I'd die in the smuir o' the snaw in the Snowpocalypse 2010.")
Smoor: To be confined or bound up by snow or mud (see above)
...Of course, many of these words are a little (or very) antiquated, and probably no used that commonly even here but... I am determined to bring some of them back. Glush? Grue? Definitely going to happen. Not that I want snow to describe! *Shouts at heavens* Don't get any ideas, weather gods!

[*I can't take the cow into the house.]

I really cannot complain about the weather here though - it is more dry than wet, and clear almost as much as it is cloudy, and above all, it is not freezing! It is so, SO nice for it to be February, and to have the idea of going for a long, wandering walk be pleasant rather than irrational and possibly dangerous. (I am forseeing a lot of complaining from me about this time next year: apologies in advance to all my friends who will have to listen to me gripe about the Minnesota chill.) That is exactly what I have been doing, actually~ wandering, not complaining! Alice and I took a meander through the city center to the Royal Botanical Gardens last week which was wonderful and surprisingly exhausting; despite the fact that it was only five miles all round, and that we stopped mid-wander to get AMAZING chai lattes and coffee cake, we were both delirious and ravenous afterwards. The gardens themselves were larger than I expected, and very peaceful in the sleepy way that winter gardens have when everything is damp and cool and the trees are still bare grey skeletons. The grass is green here, but despite what St. Bridget has to say about the advent of spring, the garden beds and lanes certainly still looked wintry, and my fingers got quite chilly while I was being a shameless tourist and snapping photos of the 'glasshouses' and trees.

  

My wander today was equally chilly, despite the sun, but I enjoyed getting lost in the quaint little 'Village of Dean" neighborhood, and then sat in the sunken gardens by the castle, basking in the sun and watching the crankiest, ginger-est little two year old with his mother. His hair was literally carrot colored - no exaggeration - and he was most seriously displeased to be walking. He kept yelling, then sitting down with a look of disgruntled rebellion on his tiny face, and his mother would simply look at him, and raise an eyebrow, and a few moments later he was staggering after her, only start bawling again as he plopped himself down on his stomach this time. He saw me watching him, and grinned, then yelled louder than before. He perked up when one of the trains from the nearby station went rattling and thundering by, but promptly remembered that he was supposed to be throwing a fit as soon as it had passed, and returned to his shouts of protest.