Make new friends...

I had the very great pleasure of turning 21 while here in Edinburgh. On the one hand, it wasn't really a big deal - no dramatic changes to my life, considering that it has been legal for me to drink (here) for the last several months. And 21 isn't that huge for the British, so the bar tenders aren't that likely to shower you with free drinks, alas. On the other hand, it was massive. I am now a full adult, on either side of the pond, and I got to celebrate that change in a place that I truly love, with people whom I have grown to care about very much. Because my birthday fell on a particularly busy friday we decided to go out to dinner a night early, so Thursday evening we all trooped off to a fantastic Indian restaurant around the corner, called Red Fort. The curries are pretty cheap, and the food is positively mouthwatering. Most of all, though, it was just wonderful to spend time with my friends. Since I haven't talked about them that much, here are some brief sketches of some of the people with whom I am living and laughing. So here are the flatmates...

• Grace is one of my British flatmates, a first year student from Manchester, studying for a degree in physical education. She is about 5'10", has legs a mile long and big blue eyes, and a lovely quiet smile. She is also unabashedly silly, and has a remarkable talent at mimicking the voice and attitude of a large black man who sings soul, probably from New Orleans; she also makes the most ridiculous faces when telling stories, eyes wide and lips drawn tight, and she never fails to make me laugh. Everything suits her, and she manages to look lovely in tiny clubbing dresses and grimy sweats alike. She sings perpetually, dances quite often, and occasionally shouts loudly and somewhat ineffectually for no apparent reason, then grins infectiously when I jump. Grace is the one who always remembers to take care of the recycling, and periodically the two of us go on kitchen rampages, scrubbing and tidying in a frenzy, yelling along to some ridiculous music all the while then collapsing and giving each other shoulder rubs when we are done. It's hard not to enjoy life while Grace is around. 
• Molly is my other British flatmate, a humanities student from Leeds with a lovely broad Northern accent. Where Grace is tall and somewhat relaxed, Molly is petite, intense, and firey, and gives the impression of immense energy and incredible intelligence compressed into her tiny frame. Molly is always impeccably dressed, clad in classy leggings and silky, chiffon-esque shirts that float about her, and she seems to be perpetually busy, always running somewhere with her earbuds trailing and her steps quick and determined. We joke that she really lives at Bedlam, the student run theater around the corner, but it's a bit too true for comfort - I definitely don't seen nearly enough of Molly. She has been in four productions this semester alone, and is quite talented, more than she thinks she is. The most recent one, a monologue from the perspective of a woman whose fiancé is undergoing open heart surgery, brought me to tears. It was somehow shattering to watch her break down on stage. Molly is straightforward, honest almost to bluntness, and simply doesn't mess about; her compliments, therefore, make me positively glow with pleasure, because I know she really means them. She is completely genuine in a way of which I am truly envious.
• Emma is one of my American flatmates, from North Carolina, with just a hint of an adorable southern drawl. She has long wavy brown hair, a beautiful, open smile and is a born dancer: lithe and strong and graceful. Most of the clubs in Edinburgh have been privileged with Emma's presence on the dance-floor as she sensually and deliberately whips her hurr back n forth. She laughingly told us that her friends back home say her head is full of rainbows and butterflies, and her sweetness and half-distracted exuberance about life would tend to support that statement were she not able to compute multi-variable calculous problems with incredible ease. When she gets really excited about something, Emma begins to stammer, just a little bit, and then laughs when we tease her about it, blushing a tad. When she has had a few to drink, however, she develops quite an attitude ~ hip cocked to one side, with drawls of "Gurrrrrrrrlllllll" and "Oh no you di-n't!" complete with appropriately sassy snaps. When said attitude coincides with the impression that someone is treating her friends poorly, Emma becomes fiercely protective. When Grace and Emma spend time together, the combination is incredible: empty insults flying, music belted at the top of their lungs, impressive dance moves whipped out in the middle of the kitchen floor... consequently, going out with Emma is one of the rare pleasures in life. 
• Carly is my other American flatmate, a New Yorker and Barnard student, who is nearly as intense as Molly and even tinier. With porcelain skin and wide chocolate eyes, Carly always looks striking, and her silky brown hair is always elegantly arranged, swept away from her heart-shaped face. Carly is a neuro-science and psych major, and she always manages to look the part of the professional soon-to-be-research-assistant, with discrete, tasteful jewelry and classy outfits. Normally tending somewhat consevative in dress and demeanor (though NOT, she would be quick to tell you, in politics) it is particularly exciting when she decides to let loose and go dancing with us; Carly is a truly talented little dancer, and the two of us have a fantastic time together. She and her boyfriend Andrew spend a fair bit of time cooking mouthwatering meals in the kitchen, leaving the aroma of chicken marsala, or (slightly overdone, due to the fact that the over temperature is given in Celcius) meatloaf. Carly protests that it is all Andrew, but I have personally observed her put together a delicious looking meal or two, invalidating her claims of being a disaster in the kitchen.
• Yingue, or Ying is the most recent addition to our little band of 11/9 companions, and she moved in rather late in the semester, in the first week of march. Unfortunately I have not have the chance to spend much time with her yet, but she is a very gifted student (17 and a Junior) who has lived all over the world. More to come Ying when I have have the opportunity to get to know her better!

Huzzah for flatmates. ...Then,... 

• ...Then there is Alice. Lovely, lyrical, linguist Alice, with her Mona-Lisa-laughing smile and her sparkling eyes. I am grateful beyond words that I have had the extraordinary luck to become friends with Miss Alice Jenny Crossfield Ware (not sure I got that right) and the prospect of next semester back at Mac is made infinitely brighter by the knowledge that I will have the pleasure of living with her (I anticipate many Edinburgh-ian reminiscences when we both go through Scotland withdrawal, possibly accompanied by bad dance music and DEFINITELY by whiskey). Alice has an acute appreciation for the beautiful, the quaint, the old, the unusual, and for large drapey sweaters and delicate, almost-masculine oxford shoes. She possesses the innate stillness and inner calm that so many of my closest friends have, a trait that I often lack, and this means that between the two of us we can enjoy both quiet relaxation and the frenzied activity that accompanies going out in Edinburgh. The silence that descends when we wander together, in between bouts of personal discovery and juicy gossip, is comfortable and familiar. She is a staunch companion, to be completely relied upon, and we are at once different and similar in ways that seem to compliment each other. I feel like Alice’s life should be illustrated in sepia and ink, with subtle and elegant and eclectic images like the photos and prints that line her walls, speaking of more years than either of us possess. Lovely, laughing Alice; what would I do without her.

I have been lucky – through this core group of friends I have met several other wonderful people, who have made my time in Edinburgh so much more enjoyable, simply by virtue of their presence.

• Emma’s classmate and friend Lillie joins us on our outings with relative frequency, and she is wonderful to have a around. Lillie is tall, with naturally blonde hair, an excellent sense of humor and a Carolina twang, and boys flock to her like moths to an illuminated lamp. My friends and I joke about her skill – she manages to find the tallest, most attractive man in the building within an hour or two, and manages to “pull” him within the next. It is truly remarkable, and not wholly a joke. Lillie is good natured, easy going, and liable to tease Emma for her silliness (and the rest of us as well) on a regular basis. Lillie has mastered the art of getting the most out of a study abroad trip, going out on a regular basis and also keeping on top of things academically, and seems to enjoy every minute of it.
• Through Alice I have been lucky enough to have become friends with several of her flatmates, starting with Jess, the lone Scot of the group. Jess is, overall, just lovely. You know how there are some people you meet who seem to be genuinely kind and nice to everyone, without it ever coming across as superficial? Jess is one of those people, and when she is in a group everything goes a little smoother, and is a little more fun, just by her very presence. She is from a farm near the borders, and her friends tease her for "trying to be English" or for being "posh" and while I can't vouch for how true that is (she does have a Scottish accent, though not a thick one at all) it is true that she always looks very put together, in outfits not the least pretentious but with which her oft-seen pearls do not look amiss. Jess studies Classics, and we enthused together about Roman architecture at a certain point, in between chatting about boys and the like. When Jess walks into their flat one of the first things she says is, "Hello girls, what's the gos?" enquiring about the day's gossip, which confused me completely the first time I heard it, thinking this was another of the those Scottish things that I was mis-hearing. Jess spent several months working in Australia in the last year, and experience which I think gave her a little more time to grow up and mature than some of the other first-year British students have been lucky enough to have, and consequently it is extraordinarily easy to talk to her. Jess kindly invited me to come and stay with her for a day or so on their farm, a truly exciting prospect which I definitely plan on accepting; turns out Alice and two other girls are also going down at some point soon, but that is just Jess: kindhearted to a fault, open and welcoming to everyone, though still direct and clear about everything at the same time. 
• Next comes Linda, one of the American girls. Formerly Linda Marie Eckley, now Linda Tuesday Babylon Eckley (she changed her name, which impresses me no end and is just so Linda), Linda is a character in the best of ways. She tells stories that have me crying with laughter, about hilarious college mishaps and fathers who intimate their daughter's boyfriends with very large, very functional firearms, and her quirky dead-pan way of telling makes them utterly unforgettable. Sitting around in Alice's kitchen while Linda is there is always pleasant, somewhere along the range of comfortable to lough-out-loud funny. Linda went dancing with us on my birthday, and she spent the whole time grabbing random people by the arm and yelling over the music, It's her birthday! making me laugh, and blush. She would then grin, completely unashamed, and buy me another shot. She has a boyfriend who is affectionately known to everyone (but him) as Braveheart, due to the costume he was wearing when they met, and his overall Scottishness: a red-headed, thick-accented, rugby-playing, ever-so-slightly-balding, terse fellow who nevertheless adores his Virginian girlfriend. Linda is friendly and outgoing, easy to be around and a joy to laugh with. 
• Kate comes next, another American, this time from good ol' California, and a student at Berkeley. Kate is another character, and well and truly hilarious. On-and-off vegan, free spirit (2011, NO JUDGEMENT!), firm believer in going out often and spending money never, and an arms-akimbo hands-circling-broadly head-shaking storyteller, Kate is an intensely honest personality and someone who proudly professes the fact that she has no feelings. This occasionally confuses the rest of us mortals, caught in the thrall of boy-related angst, and while I am leery of the truth of that statement sometimes, I do admire her ability to have fun with guys in what is actually a truly stress-free way. The poor boys tend to be the emotional ones, in those situations, pitiable creatures. It's hard to miss Kate when you walk into a room - she has a palpable presence, a ringing voice, and a tall commanding figure, with unruly curls, bright eyes and a strong, beautiful face. Kate enjoys life, and laughing at it - whether it be Jersey Shore (oh my) or silly Edinburghian situations.
• Kate's professed future-husband is another Macalester student, tall Dan Allen. Kate and Dan's relationship is one of the great mysteries of life, in that they swear it's all platonic joking and a real friendship in which they share a lot of interests, but all the rest of us are convinced that amidst all the laughter and joking talk of marriage (based on the fact of their shared love of movies, Jersey Shore and I forget what else) there is something more. We shall see, I suppose. Dan is quiet and reserved, especially until you get to know him, but he is also incredibly sweet and quite funny. We have developed a weekly tradition of cooking dinners on thursdays or fridays, and Alice and I make the food and Dan brings the wine. Then, generally, we end up watching youtube videos or sporcling while slightly tipsy, then Alice and I beg Dan to come out with us, while he adamant refuses if dancing is involved. It is going to happen at some point this semester. Dan has been having adventures, taking off to Amsterdam, Dublin, or the countryside on a whim and coming back with tales of St. Paddy's day and pints, houseboats and hookers. I haven't spent enough time with Dan this semester, but he is one of the most genuinely nice guys I have met in a while, and Alice and I are already plotting about how we are going to force him to hang out with us next year, hermit-tendencies or no. 

More to come later. :) 

Something Magical

[So, in case you all were not aware by my general lack of posting in the last few weeks, I have been very busy. Papers have been eating my life, and I am still gasping for breath, having finished the last of four 2,500 word papers in two weeks. I think I am still mostly functionally sane, but it was utterly mad. Life, however, does not stop happening simply because homework has reminded silly exchange students of its existence, and so I have rather a lot of catching up to do. Here goes.]

Remember, way back when, I mentioned something about a castle? Once? Or twice? well, I spent the weeks at the end of February getting to know the castle rather more intimately, to my very great pleasure, and I splurged and went not once but twice.

Oh, my goodness.

 It was, without a doubt, one of my favorite things I have done since I have been here, and I honestly don't think I can do it justice in either words or photos, but I will try (too many photos to put up here - they are all on facebook though!). I loved it so much, I splurged and went not once but twice; once with Victoria and Matthias and once later that week with my friend Katherine. When Katherine first arrived, we went for a long wander (as I am wont to do) in the process of which we circumnavigated the looming, lovely castle. The weather was gorgeous, and the whole spectacle was washed in the golden light of the early-sinking sun, the crocuses (croci?) were blooming, and if there wasn't a rainbow somewhere there darn well ought to have been. The two of us, as history enthusiasts and general nerds, took one look at the imposing fortress, and straightway began planning our assault. If we were going to storm the castle, how would we go about it? The causeway to the front gates was too obvious, so we would put the useless nobles there, looking impressive and distracting, then take the functional warriors around the side, and climb that bit by the outcropping and use grappling hooks to scale the next bit, and... yeah. We have it all planned out, don't you worry. If you ever need to lay seige to Edinburgh castle, we have got it covered.

If the castle is impressive from the outside, however, it is nothing to how incredible it was to pass beneath the heavy portcullis and actually go within the walls. Both my visits, one with Victoria and Matthias and one with Katherine, began with gaping jaws, and whispers of Oh wow...  I felt so very American as I stared, wide eyed, at the towers, the battlements, the curtain walls, the cannons and arrow slits and holes for dropping hot oil. I tried to explain to a Scottish friend that it was made all the more amazing by the fact that we just don't have anything like this in the states, but I think that I might have been impressed even had I grown up here or some other place as wonderfully strewn with castles: the fortress that caps the Edinburgh mound is truly incredible. There were many levels to the castle, and Victoria, Matthias and I wandered around happily, climbing onto the battlements to see the view, peeking past the cannons to peer through the openings in the wall, oohing and aahing at moss covered walls and worn statues... We clambered up onto the narrow, sloping walkway that ran along the inside of the curtain wall, peeking though the arrow slits and stretching on tip-toe to peer over the top of the crenelations and down into the sunken Prince's street gardens. We imagined hordes of invading English massed about the foot of the mound, replacing the holly hedges and camellias with restless horses and bristling lances, imagining the opposite side of our pretended siege - planning how we would repel invasion. Obviously, with such a lofty fortress, and a little boiling oil, it would be no problem. There are several individual buildings and keeps within the castle, and large sweeping courtyards that curl up the rock, cobblestoned and big enough to house a village or two.We decided whom we would invite into the keep: the musicians, of course, to keep us from going mad, and the blacksmith, the fletcher (you always need arrows), and the apiary keeper (honey AND mead),), though not, we decided, the fishmonger or tanner, because tasty as salmon is and useful as leather is, we figured stale rushes, animals and ale would be causing enough of an aroma to be going on with. We hiked up the nautilus-curve of the path to the apex of the mound, where in addition to a "whiskey and book shop," and a 14th century guardhouse (dank and damp and smelling of mold) we found the royal apartments, the great hall, the prison, and a memorial to the Scottish soldiers who fell in the world wars. Under a grey sky we stood in the wind-whipped courtyard at the top of the mound, and gazed at the centuries-old buildings and tried to make sense of the age of the place. It was overwhelming, and Katherine and I kept looking at each other and grinning like mad things, lost for words.

The World War memorial was absolutely gorgeous. If it was not a chapel once upon a time, then it was specifically built to look like it was, and they did a wonderful job. They had a commemorative plaque to each of the divisions in which Scottish soldiers served in both world wars, with large books bound in red leather listing every Scot who fell in the line of duty. The stained glass windows were lovely, with a combination of rather usual floral borders and slightly incongruous images of trenches, gas masks and bomber planes, that somehow did not seem out of place but merely fragile, beautiful and heartbreaking. 

The Great Hall was traditionally used for feasting and celebrating, but under Cromwell's rule in the 1650s it was transformed into an armory, so in memory of the interregnum the walls were lined with pikes, blunderbusses, bayonets, rifles, and swords and cutlasses of every period and description. The ceiling, however, is the same that stood on the 14th century keep, and still bore delicately painted knots, swirls and designs that represented a culture that was here long before England and her kings claimed ownership of Scotland. It was interesting to see different periods of history brought to life in one building, with the 19th century scarlet carpet, the 17th century wood paneled walls, and the celtic looking ridge-beams of the roof... 

My inner history nerd really got her rocks off on the royal apartments, however. I was expecting some lovely rooms, some ancient paintings, and some fancy molding: I got that (and more ~ Mary Queen of Scots gave birth to the future James the VI and I in one of those rooms). What I was not expecting was a full historical tour of the history of the Scottish Crown Jewels which are, it turns out, the oldest royal regalia in the British isles, and then the 'Honours' themselves at the end of it. Like many of the museums we have visited, the displays were interesting but a little oddly organized; a little dark, a little irrelevant, and a little less viewer-friendly than many of the museums I have been to in the states. The mannequins creeped me out somewhat as well, I must admit,  especially with the 16th century style wigs sitting a little cock-eyed above their vacant faces and flat eyes. But the history itself was fascinating. Mostly it consisted of fighting with the English, losing the Honours to the English, recovering them from the English, fighting some more with the English, hiding the Honours from the English (often in bread, or a woman's skirts, or under a mattress), and then fighting the English some more. Then Cromwell came stomping though, there was the Jacobite rising and the controversial Union of the Parliaments (in 1707) and a great deal more of fighting with the English. At the end of the displays, we entered a dark, barely lit room, where the only things illuminated were the sparking, gem-encrusted Honours. The crown, the MASSIVE sword (really, no one needs a sword that is five feet long! You wouldn't be able to pick it up, much less swing it! Overcompensating perhaps...?) the scepter, wand, royal collar, the Ruby Ring and the Royal broach were all very well (understatement of the century ~ they were gorgeous and breath-taking. I would steal that ring... haha) but somehow they were overshadowed by the large hunk of rock that resided in the bulletproof glass case alongside them. The STONE OF DESTINY (cannot write that without the caps, it is far too epic) is a large block of red sandstone that was used in the crowning of Scottish kings for centuries, possibly since the Gaelic Lords of the Dal Riada (the western kingdom of the Gaels) brought it from Ireland sometime before the year thousand. When the king sat upon the stone it was said to represent a symbolic union between the King and the Land, and between the King and the People, uniting all three. It was captured by King Edward I in 1292 and was taken back to Westminster, where it has been used in the coronation of English, then later British monarchs ever since. The STONE OF DESTINY remained in England, supporting the royal derrieres of British kings and queens for several hundred years, until 1996 when dear Queen Lizzie not only granted Scotland their own parliament once again (for the first time in nearly 300 years) but also returned the STONE OF DESTINY to Scotland, to be transported to Westminster for coronations and then returned to the Edinburgh Castle. Yeah, I was pretty impressed. By the STONE OF DESTINY. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

And as any good tourists in UK ought to do, we ended the afternoon with tea and snacks in the castle cafe, where we paid far too much for a cup of earl grey but due to the fact that out the window we looked across the Firth of Forth to the northern shore which was perfectly clear, all misty hills and swelling mountains, we didn't complain. We sipped our tea and soaked up the otherworldly feeling of the place, glowing with the knowledge that we were inside a castle. It was magical.

If music be the food of love

Play on.
Give me excess of it, that surfeiting
The appetite may sicken, and so die.


Sandy Bells is one of the many Edinburgh pubs in which I have had the pleasure of passing time, but it stands out for several reasons. One of them being, that it is remarkably old, and has been attracting thirsty patrons for more than half a century. Second, it is tiny. Really, really small. Probably about six or seven feet from the front of the bar to recessed, misted windows, and maybe... twenty feet from the door to the back? When you pack about forty people into that space, suddenly it is steamy, the damp air redolent of warm bodies and whiskey and heavy IPA beers, and verging on claustrophobic. Thank goodness people there are almost universally friendly and squeezing past people results in grins and 'Aye, dinnae worry' rather than discomfort or offense. The most memorable aspect of this tiny little pub, however,  is the music.

Every single night, and all afternoon on Sundays, a group of musicians gathers in the back of the pub, each gets themselves a pint, and they begin to play. Old men with epic mustaches and clever hands, boys with floppy hair and swift, light rhythms, middle aged women with bright eyes and long hair that brushes the sides of their fiddles as they coax melodies from the strings, a lonely banjo player always just outside the circle, a pair of laughing drummers persuading reluctant feet to tap... The tunes are not pre-determined, and there are different people playing every night; anyone with an instrument and half a pinch of talent can sit down and join in. One will start a song, and after a few seconds of head-nodding and quiet plucking, the rest join in. Once when I was there, a group of eight was playing; the next time, only two. They play traditional celtic music - reels and jigs and walking songs, fast and quick and complicated. This has been going on for decades, my friends, and still every night people gather to talk quietly, and to sit or, more likely, stand, listening.

I've been lucky enough to spend a few nights there, first with Victoria during her visit, and later with my Macalester friend, Katherine. It was particularly busy when Katherine and I were there - a friday night, packed to the gills, with the usual brand of clientele all crammed together like sardines. There are always a fair number of students around, which makes sense considering that it is about a minute from the center of campus and the whiskey is always discounted, quite apart from the music. Usually there are a fair number of grey heads in that crowd as well, however, older Scottish gentlemen with thick accents and well-cut wool coats (try saying that five times fast: well-cut-wool-coats...) to keep off the cold, and they always seem vaguely amused at our presence; even before we open our mouths and betray our American heritage they seem to know that we do not belong. Perhaps we just exude foreign? Or perhaps they give the raised-eyebrows-you-don't-really-know-what-you-are-drinking-do-you looks at most silly students with the audacity to sip whiskey in their pub. The last time I was there, a group of five Spanish tourists were chatting exuberantly at the bar, enjoying the Scottish experience they were getting, while a pregnant woman perched on the windowsill behind us, with her attentive husband plying her frequently with water and juice.  Everyone seems to end up in Sandy Bells eventually, and that is what is so fantastic: it is not just a student hang out. It feels more real because of that, somehow, and whiling away a few hours there makes me feel like I am actually almost an Edinburghian, just for a little while.

The last time I was there, Katherine and I decided that pints were for sissies, and we proceeded to sip and savor our way through various types of whiskey. I was previously unaware of the fact that, apparently, I am quite a fan of the stuff. While we were ordering, a rather lovely young man near us made some comment, about the music or about our drinks, and we fell to talking. He introduced himself to us as Ansom, and apparently he makes a point of meeting new people and hearing their stories, and hanging out in Sandy Bells for an evening makes that incredibly easy. As it turns out, he is a musician himself, plays guitar and mandolin, and he explained that his current project was to build himself a guitar that he could travel with when he went to climb the mountains of Nepal in the near future. Goodness me. Despite being from a little town up in the north of Scotland he has lived in Edinburgh for quite a while, and his father (whom he was there with) is apparently friends with many of the folk musicians, some of whom were then playing. This meant that Handsome Ansom knew all the best places in the area to hear music, and proceeded to take us to some of them, after Sandy Bells closed at 1 am.

In the next pub we went to, the somehow even TINIER Royal Oak, a red-faced man with scruffy black hair, a beard and a truly impressive paunch was singing a folk song (not one I had ever heard) in deep though dulcet tones, and just as we opened the door everyone was joining in on the chorus. It was like being hit with a sheer wall of humanity: so many bodies packed so tightly, everyone drinking, singing, smelling, laughing... I walked in after Ansom and Katherine and said, 'Excuse me, sorry' to a round-faced woman as I pushed by her. She looked at me, interested, and said, 'Are ye Irish?' Now, this is not the first time that someone has mistaken my accent for an Irish one, and to be honest, it is so flattering. Better than the scrunched-nose Oh, you're American which I sometimes get. I told her that alas, I was not, but she was too far gone to hear and began demanding that I do an Irish jig. Considering that there was not room to breathe, much less jig, I just laughed and let her friend do the explaining as I elbowed and squirmed my way up to the bar. Once there, I ended up wedged between two middle-aged, completely smashed Scottish men, who were either complimenting me, or insulting me, but I could not tell which because their accents were so thick, and by this time of night a bit slurred too. I just nodded and smiled a little cautiously, which made them laugh uproariously and made me even more suspicious. Then one of them caught sight of my locket, and pointed at it. I later realized that he was (half jokingly) offering to buy it off me, but at the time all I was aware of was a rather inebriated Scot pointing in the general direction of my chest and offering me various sums of money. I kept shooting longing glances at the bartender, hoping he would hurry up with my drink. The fellow was very disappointed when I refused to sell him my necklace for twenty quid, and his friend was laughing at him as I escaped. The rotund fellow with the beard had launched into a hearty rendition of the Black Velvet band, accompanied by a dour gentleman with an accordion, and Ansom was suitably impressed that I knew the words (thanks, Dad, for educating me in Irish folk tunes). We had quite a little chat about folk music in general, and it made me happy to NOT be the stupid uncultured American but to actually be familiar with what he was talking about. Three cheers for the Dubliners and the Clancy Brothers! Haha. Several songs and a pint later (Katherine and I had decided we were sissies) that pub closed too, but because we had been having such a good time we decided to stretch the night out a bit longer, so we went dancing at the lovely-sketchy-club-around-the-corner. The night ended with us being wholly ridiculous and singing along to the excellent, awful music, and somehow still managing to get home in one piece. It was a lovely time.

...But why is the rum gone?!

Dear friends, this is a moment that I think I have been waiting for for years:  the moment when my fellow Pirates-of-the-Caribbean obessees and I can sit down, and drink rum together. Then finish the bottle. Then ask of each other (drunkenly, as is appropriate, and in poor imitations of Captain Jack Sparrow) "But why is the rum gone?!?"

Worlds were colliding in serious and wonderful ways this last week. My dear friend from high School, Victoria, who is spending a year studying abroad in Germany, came to visit Scotland and me for a few days. Ridiculousness ensued, as it tends to. Victoria and I have known each other for... going on eight years now, and yet in the last three we have spent very little time together, alas. This made up for that, in an amazing way.

Scotland, it seems, agrees with Victoria almost as much as it does me. We walked from one end of the city to another, got covered in mud climbing lovely Arthur's Seat, sipped chai lattes in my favorite coffee shops and whiskey in my favorite pubs, watched monster-pigeons waddling over crocus strewn lawns around Prince's street, listened agape to the strains of bagpipe music wafting up the hill, swooned at the amazingness of pies, curries and fish-n-chips, and in general enjoyed the hell out of life. It was her 21st birthday the saturday she arrived, so that of course called for a party of "special magnificence." We went out to an Indian restaurant and ate until it was all we could do to stumble back to the flats, clutching our happy, painful stomachs. We then sampled one of the favorite deserts of this wonderful little island that I previously mentioned, called Banoffee Pie. It is a deadly combination of cookie-crumble crust, layered with bananas, toffee, chocolate, and tons of whipped cream. Heart attack in a dish, but so strangely good. Then we took to the streets and went out dancing! Huzzah! Matthias, Victoria's German boyfriend (who was a sweetheart, a bit of a goofball, and except for his rather unappealing facial hair was wholly above reproach) was exhausted from a few days of confusing travel and general sleeplessness, so he crashed in my room rather than accompanying us, which was somewhere between disappointing and liberating for Victoria I think. It meant that we had a real girls' night out, the first I have had with her in years, complete with cheesy music, cheeky dancing (with each other and with nice Scottish boys,) and perhaps just a little bit of drinking, considering it was her 21st. We had a marvelous time.

Later that week we took a wander over to the Botanical Gardens again, the first time I had been there in a month. When last I went, the slush was still clinging to the gutters and the shadows in the lees of buildings, and we had to hurry back so as not to be caught in the darkness that descended with the sun far too early (at about 4:30). This time, however, it was as through spring was just starting to stir. It is warmer now than it was a month ago, mid- to high-forties most days, and that seems to have been sufficient encouragement to bring the snowdrops into bloom. There is a whole field of them in the gardens, where the ground between the trees is frosty with delicate green-touched white blossoms. Flowers, dear friends, make me inordinately pleased. The "glass houses" in the gardens were lovely as well, and as I was coming down with a cold I was especially pleased to sit under softly dripping fern fronds, and to breathe deep the humid, jasmine scented air. The structures are so much more beautiful than many of the green houses I have been in in the states (not that I have spent much time in green houses of course) and I felt very pleased with myself when my estimate of a mid 19th century construction date was verified by the little sign that read, Originally Built 1858.There were palm trees with glossy, shiny leaves about which the jasmine vines trailed, and somewhere there was water softly trickling. It was utterly peaceful.

The next day we joined a raucous group of international students and as a mob trouped off to THE CASTLE. I think it needs it's own post, because I have too much to say here, so keep your eye out. :)