MAD:

[adjective] wildly excited or confused; frantic
[abbrev. / accron] Barajas Airport, Madrid, Spain.

Madrid was a little crazy. The airport abbreviation made a bit too much sense, for my liking - our stay there, while good in a general sense, was an overwhelming and exhausting whirlwind. To put it into perspective, though, anything would have been tough to come back to after the perfect relaxation that was San Sebastian. Grey, smoggy Madrid, under overcast skies with streets as steely as the clouds and a metro system that rattled and stank of urine and grease, full of people busy and driven and rushing... well, suffice it to say, it was a hard transition. It was made more difficult by the way it began, of course: a long, tiring bus ride, followed by a slightly stressful metro trip - thank goodness Anne knew how to manage the metro - and a short trek to our hostel. Up to that point, everywhere we had stayed had felt comfortable, friendly, and full of other 20-something college age travelers like us. Hostel Numancia, however, which we had booked only because it was the only hostel we could find for less than 20 Euro a night per person on a Saturday night, was rather different. Five silent floors up in a rickety glass elevator brought us to the hostel, where the condescending, slightly arrogant desk worker with too much gel in his hair asked us if we hadn't received his email. "Cancelled - reservation. Email say, cancelled - you reservation," he said, and at our horrified looks he gave an exasperated little huff then asked us to sit where we were while he helped the large, chattering group of Spaniards who had arrived. At this point it was nearly 6:30 on a Saturday evening, and we traded not-quite-panicked glances when we realized that we really would not be able to find anywhere else to stay, and began discussing in undertones what we could bribe the greasy-haired, pasty-faced fellow with to get him to let us sleep on the couches upon which we were anxiously perched, despite their clearly insufficient length and slightly threadbare quality.  After what I swear was 25 minutes, at least 20 of which were purely social chit chat with the cheerful 30-something Spaniards, he turned to us and told us that they would figure something out. ...You couldn't have told us that earlier?! Oh my. Eventually, we ended up in a room with a double bed at the end of a long, dark hallway, and while we were extraordinarily thankful for a bed at all, and the privacy was nice, we also felt very isolated and not quite creeped out, but heading in that sort of direction.

After a little nap we headed out in search of food, still debating whether or not we wanted to go out drinking and/or dancing. After our long day, and the exceedingly long night before (see previous post for the ridiculous details), however, we decided we should just enjoy our dinner, then get some sleep. We wandered about in the crowded nocturnal streets, feeling that somehow this was not quite real; a new city at night time can be a strange feeling. It was made still more odd when we began to notice people in zombie make-up peppering the throng through which we were walking, then more of them, then still more. At first it was just some black make-up, then a bit of fake blood, but soon we were encountering protruding bones, guts spilling and white contacts turning brown eyes ghostly. Pirate zombies seemed particularly popular, and there were several military zombies, some scrub-clad nurse zombies, and what appeared to be construction-worker zombies complete with punctured hard-hats and gore-crusted orange vests. It was so incredibly surreal. I think it would have been quite funny had we not been exhausted, a bit put out over the hostel, and rather bewildered. My Spanish is not quite good enough for me to be able to enquire in a casual way what was going on - no matter how I phrased it in my head, it always sounded stilted and strange - Why are you dead? Why do you have blood on your face? What is [gestures wildly] this??? By the time a couple of undead fellows with particularly convincing make up approached us and began growling in my ear, (growling!) we had had quite enough of that, thank you, and began walking swiftly in the direction of (what we hoped was) the living. A burger and some very vinegar-y salad later, we were feeling slightly better, and headed back into the quiet building and up the creaking elevator and down the pitch-black hallway to our room. (I later discovered that it was Marcha Zombi Madrid night, whatever that means. An annual zombie convention?)

The next day went better, thank goodness. We checked out of Hostel Numancia, not at all sorry to leave,  and checked ourselves into the next hostel, which was bigger, busier, and full of friendly kids our age; we loved it, and not only because the previous one had been so unpleasant. Cat's Hostel is in what used to be a 16th century palace, and looked rather like a mosque - Moorish influences, I suppose. There was a central open space, roofed in a stained glass dome, and tiled exquisitely in deep maroons, rich blues and softly gleaming golds. The two mexican girls and Irish lad in our dorm-style room were quite pleasant, and we left the hostel for the day in vastly better spirits than we had been in the day before. We went first to Lidl - beloved, cheap Lidl - and got ourselves very fresh baguette - still hot - and other provisions for the day before wandering off. We walked through plazas and squares, markets and allies, and were surprised and a little disappointed to discover that things really do close on Sundays in Spain - whether from vestiges of a religious structure that no longer really exists in most other parts of the world, or simply because having a day off is civilized. Probably a good thing for me, financially - there were far too many pairs of lovely shoes tempting me, and if more places had been open I would not have been able to resist. We ended up sitting at a cafe for a while in the late afternoon, chatting and watching the pigeons and the people, and generally catching our breath. That city moves so quickly! I realized I am not used to places that are so big, and really, have spent no time in them - the twin cities are rather small, and I have not been to New York, London, or even Chicago. San Francisco is the biggest city I am familiar with, and even San Francisco is not really large, just condensed. Edinburgh is lovely city, but also manageable, comfortable. Perhaps if I spent months in Madrid it would feel manageable to me as well, but as it was, it was a bit overwhelming. After catching our breath, we crossed the street and ambled over to the Prado Museum, in plenty of time, we thought, to make the 5:00 pm free entrance time slot (it was then 4:30). Of course, we should have realized that when the biggest museum in Spain offers free entrance hours, it causes quite a stir. We waited in the longest line I can ever remember seeing for at least 40 minutes, in the rain (because that is the way these things go, of course) but then, rather miraculously, we got in. The museum was wonderful, and huge - full of dark old paintings from hundreds of years ago; de Goya, Velasquez, el Greco, and more. It was worth the wait, and worth the dash (through tidal-waves of spray from passing vehicles) back to our hostel that evening.

The next morning, far too early, we got up and Anne (the angel) offered to accompany me to the airport, braving the ever-aromatic subway in a frantic rush as, underestimating the time it would take to get across the city, I spent the whole way panicking slightly. A rushed hug, a fumbled subway ticket and far too many snail-speed escalators later, I found myself dashing up and down corridors, translating directional signs in my head and praying that I was not going the wrong way. I was not, and Ryanair allowed my bag on as a carry-on (I had serious doubts that they would, despite it having worked on the flight TO Spain) and then I was on the plane, high above the city, exhaling.

That was when it hit me: I was going to PARIS.

San Sebastian

Take a deep breath, and close your eyes. Now imagine you are on a beach – the kind with the perfect sand, fine and golden and warm, that seeps between your toes and leaves flecks of mica sticking to your ankles. The waves don’t quite crash, but fall in flecks of turquoise and white foam all along the crescent margin of the bay, from the distant docks to the north to the rocky coastline of the south, far and away to your left. The rocks are black in the shadow of the mountain – small as mountains go, but impressive in its drama, a sheer cliff and steep green slope, capped with trees, walls, and what might be a tower. Rising above the docks far to your right is the old city, all yellow sandstone and red roofs, delicate balconies trailing vines; it looks tiny now, but you know that as you walk the narrow streets (which are so small it is clear they were never intended for cars, and sometimes don’t fit them at all) the buildings are three and four or even five stories each, so that the detailed moldings around the roofs are impossible to admire without straining your neck. Those streets are always shadowed, but bright still in the sunlight, a church or ancient wall visible down every one. High above the old city on the crest of the Urgull mountain you can only sometimes see the white walls and ramparts of the castle, half-hidden in the treetops, stark against the azure sky; the Benediction is visible always, however, Christ’s massive visage and extended palms a sight seen all over the city. The sun is hot on your cheeks and shoulders, and the air smells like salt, and flowers, and newly cut grass, and dusty heated sand; spring just starting to anticipate summer. Behind you, hidden behind the arched terrace that supports the seaside boulevard, the newer portion of the city rears up its head, glass-bedecked and strewn with hotels, lovely shops, and somewhere back in there, a 14^th century cathedral. It’s hard not to feel content – stomach full of the baguette and chorizo you just devoured, and the crisp apples picked up at the farmer’s market this morning, with the delighted screeching of children and the worried cries of gulls mingling with the sounds of the surf. Your fellow beach-goers know how to enjoy the moment - swimming right out into the waves, straight toward the boats tethered about the emerald-and-inky-hued island that looms mid bay, or else flat on their backs, baring too much tanned skin to the sun. One man manages to light, smoke and extinguish a cigarette without moving from his position prone on the sand or even opening his eyes, talking rapidly in the Basque on his phone all the while. Impressive, that. Life, you feel, is good.


This, my friends, is San Sebastian.


A tiny little town on the north coast of Spain, almost to the French border and a thriving center of Basque language and culture, San Sebastian is quite literally the closest I have ever been to heaven. When Anne and I got off the bus, dazed, sleep-deprived to the extreme and rather lost, we were still struck by the loveliness of the town (it is a testament to the beauty of the place that it managed to penetrate the fog of cranky grogginess in which we were operating, the product of literally no sleep, and a seven hour bus ride. Awful combination, let me tell you). The buildings just got more older, prettier, more interesting as we moved toward the water and the town center, 'la Parte Vieja'  and our hostel, trying to ignore the way our bags pulled heavily at our shoulders and cursing our Barcelonian sunburns. We experienced the occasional inconvenience of the Spanish siesta when we showed up at the tourism office at 2:40 pm and, after some very perplexed peering though the windows during which period we wondered if we were still lost, we discovered the little sign indicated that the office was closed from 1~3:30 pm. We sat on a bench on the edge of the tree- and flower-lined street, scrunched our brows and tried to imagine such a  thing occurring in the states, and failed, but were then so distracted by the tulips dancing in the ocean breeze and the tender yellow sycamore leaves that we forgot to be frustrated and simply basked in the sunlight. Eventually the Spaniards returned from their siesta, we found our way to our tiny, adorable hostel, and exhaled in relief. The hostel was a single flat, four bedrooms, a kitchen and  a bathroom, and the room Anne and I had to ourselves was particularly nice, with brightly curtained windows and, instead of a locker, and ancient wooden chest. The key we were given to lock it literally resembled the key found by contrary Miss Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden -  unnotched, thick round metal stem with a single, simple tab at the end. Thank goodness we felt the hostel itself was safe, because the "security" provided by this key made us stifle delighted laughter behind our hands; if anyone had twiddled a hairpin in the vague direction of the lock, it probably would have opened. Thankfully no one did. 


The helpful hostel worker (who, upon discovering that I spoke some Spanish and needed practice, cheerfully ignored everything I said in English) gave us a map, circled important sites, places to eat, and things to do, and shooed us out into the sunlight. All weariness forgotten, we wandered about the Parte Vieja for a while, jaws agape at how gorgeous it was, before finding our way to the docks and then the bay. I don't know how to express quite how beautiful the bay was, and can only beg you to look at the pictures that are going up on facebook because no matter how hard I try I don't think I will be able to convey how perfect this place was. The bay is shaped like a large C, with a small mountain at each end and a broad white beach along the curve of it, and between the hills in the mouth of the bay rests a small, rocky island, with a lighthouse just visible at its peak. The water was perfectly aquamarine blue, and with the sun upon it, sparkled. The narrow streets of the old town and the wide sunny avenues of the newer area stretch away from the promenade along the waterfront, and despite the fact that there are plenty of tourist sites and a functioning city center, the place also just feels relaxed, sleepy. We felt like we could truly exhale. We wandered all afternoon before at last getting DIVINE gelato, which turned out to be our dinner since we decided to crash at our hostel before looking for food, but fell asleep literally as soon as we got in.  

The next day we set off, first in search of breakfast, then wandered for a while. We walked around the base of Urgull, the hill upon which the castle sits and just marveled. Though I didn't remember it at the time, the bit of the Atlantic at which we were gazing in awe is called the Bay of Biscay (I really like that name) and it crashed in violent splendor upon the rocks at the point. After walking the circumference of the hill, we began our ascent in the green silence up the wooded slopes. The fortress at the top was spectacular, and we peeked through the cannon-sized openings in the battlements, ran our fingers over the rough gold of the sandstone and leaned against the walls that dated back before the Napoleonic occupation of the site. One of the informational signs (which, unusually, was NOT in either Spanish or Basque but also in English) told about a particularly ruinous bit of the castle which once had housed a gunpowder storage chamber, but which was struck by lightning several hundred years ago; the explosion caused extensive damage not only to the castle but to significant parts of the old city as well, apparently...! Somehow this struck us as rather funny, because really, what are the odds of the lightning striking the ONE bit of a building that happens to be packed with gunpowder..? I suppose that's what you get for keeping your ammunition on the top of a mountain...

We retired to the beach, to soak up the sun and lounge and swim (just a little) and to acquire the second layer of sunburn in as many days. Bad choices, perhaps, but it was heavenly.

After a short visit to the old cathedral and a brief siesta, we set out in hunt of tapas, which, when eventually located, turned out to be AMAZING. Mushrooms soaked in some kind of gravy-ish-sauce tooth-pick-pinned to chewy baguette, Spanish tortilla thick with spinach and cheese and potato, shrimp lightly grilled and drizzled in salty olive oil and orange-zest sauce, and fishy bacalao in another tortilla, mouth-parchingly salty and reeking of the sea. It was absolutely delicious. Then, because it was Friday night, we decided to go out dancing and/or drinking, and once again, we discovered the madness that is Spanish night life. Here is the way that went:

• 12 am - Get ready to go out, finish our naps, get properly attired, etc.
• 1 am - head out. Stare longingly at the gelato stand (still open). Realize that three times in two days is probably a bit much.
• 1:20 am - arrive at the club, in time for the beginning of the "English Party" supposed to begin at 1:00. Apparently, though, this is equivalent to when they say a Macalester Kagin dance starts at 10:30 - ie, don't show up until midnight unless you like empty dance floors. No one was there; we were quite upset (having already paid cover) and went to a bar to get drinks to console ourselves.
• Met two silly Basque boys in the bar, one of whom spoke some English, while the other spoke none. With a lot of Spanglish and a lot of explaining, we ended up having a really nice chat, and they told us they were headed to the club we had just vacated - apparently by 2:30 there would be people dancing. Sooo, we went back with them, danced with them, and I spent quite a while translating bad pop music on the request of the non-English speaking fellow ("Er, caliente y frio, eres sí cuando es no, eres... in? And... uh.. eres up y abajo, ummm incorrecto, correcto, eres negro cuando es blanco, we... um... besos? Yeah?.... crap. Darn it Katy Perry, sing slower!"). We also had to explain the pronunciation differences between particular curse words and large stretches of sand, and there was a space of a few minutes where one of the boys was simply chanting, "Beach, bitch, beach, bitch, beach, bitch"  under his breath, trying to get the pronunciation correctly. Mildly hilarious.
• 4:00 am - I was getting antsy, and was starting to think that a) going to bed might be nice and b) that if we waited much longer I would have to pry the nice Basque boy off with a crowbar, so I hinted to Anne that it was time to take off, and despite the passisonate Spanglish protests to the contrary we left. We were chatting away as we did so, and had not gone a hundred yards before the group of kids behind us asked where we were from. They were all Basque as well, and were learning English, so we chatted with them for a bit. They were also very nice, and when they told us that there was a disco to which they were going, and into which they could get us for free, and when Anne gave me the puppy-dog eyes, we of course ended up going along with them. 
• 4:30 am - got the second club, and were impressed with the fact that after a hushed word to the bouncers, we walked in without paying,  but somewhat unimpressed with the venue - good music, but not that many people on the dance floor. 
• 4:45 am - the club begins to fill up. Apparently this is when people go dancing, in San Sebastian.
• 5:15 am - club now actually crowded. Had a great time dancing with the group of boys.
• 5:45 am - I put my foot down, and tell Anne we need to go, despite the fact that yes, we had been having a good time. Reluctantly, she accompanied me out.
• 6:00 am - walking back, met a group of Erasmus students, who asked where we were from. Chatted briefly.
• 6:10 am - were called to by a group of men; I ignored them; Anne, laughing, called, "Sorry, we only speak English!" over her shoulder but instead of deterring them, one of them ran up to us. He asked where we were from as well, and that conversation lasted a little while, while I kept interjecting, "Okay... okay, ... okay... OKAY, we have to GO!"  while the Spaniards laughed. 
• 6:25 am - bed at last. Brilliant night. 

We left lovely San Sebastian the next morning, munching on pastries and staring gloomily at the canal and the buildings, whistful and disgruntled at having to leave. The seven hour bus ride under grey skies was made even more mournful by the thought of what we were leaving behind: sun and sky and a little Basque paradise. 

Barcelona Notes

This is a rough, soon to be filled-in sketch of my time in Barcelona. Rapid-fire notes so I don't forget too much. Come back for a few more details, and proper sentence structure, in a week or two. :)

SATURDAY, MARCH 26

• EPIC BANKING – back and forth to three different Royal bank of Scotland branches. The main one was gorgeous, (thank goodness for one redeeming factor – they were no help, but their ceiling was astoundingly beautiful) (mental note to self – go back with a camera) and useless, but I got it sorted in the end.
• Lovely Indian dinner at Red Fort, our new favorite. So much curry.
• We attempted to go dancing. Clubs closed. Slightly disappointed at the failure. I decided to pack instead.
• I realized that Ryanair really means it when they say one bag. This means no “personal item” – my purse and computer bag also have to fit in my duffle. Brief dispair.
• Later-I had ice cream and Belle and Sebastian with Karen. Angsting to Mom via skype. Still despairing.
• Still later – I accepted that I do not need my sleeping bag, reluctantly removed said security blanket from my duffle, and can fit other, more important things. Like my computer. And my wallet. Finish the icecream. Despair over, replaced by mild anxiety.

SUNDAY, MARCH 27

• Pack all morning, except for a brief visit to the ATM and a hostel – Theo is a month too young, darn it all. Steely determination to overcome my own stress, planning for the summer, then packing completed.
• Pie for lunch, with Alice and Karen!
• Airlink bus to the airport. It was really interesting to see the outskirts of Edinburgh, the way city blends with suburd, and how different (and similar) those suburbs are to our own in the states.
• Ryanair security line for 40 minutes. A total pain. Easy in the end however.
• Somehow I managed to let my stamped boarding pass fall into the trash slot when I threw away my water bottle, after it was checked but before going through security. Looked incredibly sketchy fishing around, making faces with one arm all the way inside the trash bin, up to the armpit. Got it out eventually, and only got a few odd looks. Did not die of shame. This was a success.
• Had to walk out of the airport building, across the tarmac and up a very wobbly, very creaky set of stairs which felt as though they were going to pitch me over backwards at any minute to get into the plane. Sat next to a lovely American girl, a University of Edinburgh exchange student as well, who was also going to Barcelona for her break, and had a lovely chat. Anxiety starting to wear off.
• ARRIVED. OH MY.
• Bus, then taxi to the hostel. Anne was not there yet, waited around for a while, upstairs in our room, then later downstairs. The anxiety was starting to return when I discovered that our room had a balcony, and I pulled the curtain aside, tugged the sliding glass door a little wider, and all anxiety fell away as I stepped out into the night. The hostel is on a broad sandstone terrace, bright and sunwashed in the day and glowing softly golden at night, full of palm-trees, pigeons, street musicians, and the scent of flowers and cigarettes. The edges were lined with tables full of restaurant patrons laughing loudly over their late dinners, and two different groups were playing music. A collection of kapoira dancers were flipping and kicking in one corner, surrounded by a group of admirers, and an accordion player in another area sauntered behind the rose- and glowstick-vendors hopefully pushing their wares at potential customers who lounged at the fountain’s base. Some of my fellow hostel-goers in a different room had bought a thing of bubble mix, and the bubbles wafted up past the sandstone balcony where I lent then rose to get lost among the brilliant stars. I braced myself against the heavy wrought-iron railing, and breathed deep, feeling as though I was breathing in Spain just a little with every breath.
• Anne arrived; massive amounts of hugging and I’m-so-sorry-where-were-you and no-I-am-sorry-where-were-you? And then we set to drinking and catching up and reminiscing, and the night got infinitely better. We met our roommates – two Brazilian girls, one of whom spoke a little English and a lot of Spanish, so we muddled through with some Spanglish and managed to communicate fairly well. My Spanish no es muerto! Puedo comunicar mucho mejor que pensé sería posible! Y puedo intentar más! He tenido conversaciones más o menos functionados totalmente en Español!  Ah. Makes me so happy. The girls were lovely, of course, totally gorgeous and very sweet.
• Anne’s friend Greg, a Sophomore at Stanford and a total sweetheart, exhibited his relative youth and inexperience by getting totally smashed then getting sick. On our bed. And in our hall. Despite the fact that he does not stay here. Mopped with paper towels, real towels, sawdust and a broom, (when he heard, the Janitor said, - Es su amigo, no voy a limpiar right before he  handed me the sawdust) put Greg into a taxi, no longer felt like going out and went for a wander instead. Got catcalled a bit more than Anne was comfortable with, though mostly it just made me laugh. We also had pushy vendors trying to sell us roses, beer, flashing lights and noise makers, with varying levels of respect for espacio personal and of persistence. The beauty of the place made up for the pushiness though.
• Listened to one of our roommates, Jackie, a Berkeley student, gripe about one of the cute Hostel workers and the skinniness of Spanish women (true, but it doesn’t stop them from being gorgeous) before drifting off.
• Slept. Finally.

MONDAY, MARCH 28

• Woke up in time for breakfast – green apples, a little on the soft side, delicious aromatic mint tea, swiftly soggy cereal and baguettes both with butter and jam and also with baloney. Missed having water - thank goodness the tap water in Scotland is delicious, but now I am so spoiled! I am used to being able to drink from the tap. It's perfectly safe is Barcelona, but... not at all tasty. 
• Anne went back to sleep for a little while, and I showered (pressing the water button on every 25 seconds, trying not to freeze or be scalded in the changeable temperature) then we went for a walk.
• BARCELONA IS GORGEOUS. Words simply fail me. I cannot appropriately describe the beauty of it. Sunshine on worn sandstone facades and broad patios, alleys so narrow that the moisture dripping from the fern- and ivy-covered balconies lingers on golden flags for hours without the sun, statues of titanic proportions and equal beauty, capitols and moldings curling in intricate spirals and florets, flowers everywhere, wide ambling boulevards lined with barely-leafing sycamores and restaurant tables, street artists and musicians and vendors all convinced that your experience of the city will not be complete unless you have paid them, artartart everywhere! Then there is the ocean, cradled by the massive docks and the rocky outcroppings on either end of the bay, and the cathedrals, tall and ancient and crusted with carvings and decorations, and the churches, and the ROMAN WALL which we walked past (oh my goodness gracious. I touched something that was shaped and hewn and placed not just centuries but MILLENNIUMS ago. Just about died with nerd-happy-overload). I was in a state of overwhelmed euphoria. 
• We went to a market, which was also beautiful, and also absolutely overwhelming. Stalls literally overflowing with anything and everything you could ever want to eat were crammed next to each other and were crowded by tons of shouting, waving, bag-toting shoppers, and we passed piles of fruits, of chocolates, of nuts, of candies, of peppers, of fish and meats and breads until our heads were spinning. It was kind of like the best farmers' markets you have ever been to, but multiplied by about ten, and as full as every farmer has ever wished their market would be. We eventually purchased baguettes and chorizo, and a flat of divine strawberries - the kind that melt in your mouth and would probably be bad in another day so it's a darn good thing you are eating them now and heaven can not possibly taste this good - !
• Walked with our food to the docks, and sat in the sun and basked, looking at the Mediterranean Ocean. Amazing.
• Toured the city for a few hours - past a cathedral, and up and down alleys. They would be called closes or wynds in Edinburgh, but there they would not be full of balconies, and the stones would be grey rather than a lazy, laconic sandy-gold.
• Siestas. They are wonderful.
• Had dinner at the hostel - baguette (again - going to turn into a baguette!) and an absolutely delicious stew: chorizo and garbanzo beans in a spicy red sauce, served by a very nice Irishman with pretty eyes and amazing cheekbones.
• People in Barcelona are all secretly zombies. Or vampires. Or simply nocturnal. The club took a group of people out, every night, with cover paid (AMAZING, since cover at clubs is something approaching 10 euros - bleeeaagh) but they did not leave the hostel until 1:45 am. ...!!!! The clubs themselves did not close until somewhere around 4 or 5 am. THIS IS MAD. First night, went to a club called Shoko, with questionable music, large bamboo stalks on the floor, and not enough people dancing. But it was quite literally on the beach, and a reasonable walk home - it took us about 35 minutes, but in the warm Barcelona night that was merely a pleasant period in which to sober up. Went to bed later, but pretty pleased with our experience. 

TUESDAY, MARCH 29

• Somehow, someway, we made it to breakfast by ten. Lots of tea happened, and lots of slow chewing of bread, and general disbelief that we were awake and at least nominally functional. 
• Braved the metro station, which turned out to be quite simple really, and made it to Parc Güell, and marvelled at Gaudi's genius. Really, the man was a wonder. Gaudi originally constructed Parc Güell with the intention of it being an upper class residential area, an apartment complex for wealthy Barcelonians with a keen appreciation for aesthetics. It was never realized, however – in part because of the distance from the city center (laughable today, thanks to the metro, but a significant way to go, back in the early 20^th century) and in part because there was not enough financial backing or interest, I believe. However, what does exist is stunningly beautiful. I had hazy memories of Senior year Architecture with Mr. Seigerson, and remembered squinting hard at the slightly discolored, blurry slides. Even then it was clear that this was a place, and an artist, far out of the ordinary. The real thing was absolutely amazing. There were columns and arches that leaned in casual grace from walkway to walkway, crusted with deceptively organic-looking rocks and clay whose natural appearance belied the meticulous attention to detail that must have gone into their construction. The undulating wall, sparkling with brilliant tiles and flanked by carvings and statues, was at once a thing of beauty and function; the day we were there it was hot enough that the bench was nigh invisible, hidden by hundreds of weary legs as people flocked over to take in the views and to find a seat simultaneously. The buildings twisted up out of their roots like growing things, looking like some mad hybrid of the colored turrets of the Hagia Sofia and the cottage that so tempted Hansel and Gretel, with tile and glass and swelling stone. If ever there was a true union of art and architecture, I think it must be found in Gaudi’s work, since not only is it beautiful and interesting, but it also incorporates nature: the structures in the park enhance rather than dominate the arid, mountainous landscape, and compliment it in shape and color.
• Because one bit of Gaudi was definitely not enough, we went next to the Sagrada Familia, which was absolutely beyond words. The cathedral is unfinished, and won’t be completed for at least another 25 years – and it was begun early in the 20^th century as well. More than 100 years on one building, and who knows how many architects and craftsmen as well. Apparently many retiring architects of the highest caliber like to contribute to the Sagrada as their swan song, meaning that the structure, though still adhering to Gaudi’s basic design, evidences the incredible efforts of many different artists. It is literally impossible for me to do it justice but I will try.

            The largest façade of the church faces the north, and that is the one which was immediately visible as we approached. This was also the only outer façade that was wholly Gaudi’s work. It is a celebration of life, centered around the nativity, and is literally an explosion of art and creativity and beauty. Every inch of the massive face of the building was blooming, growing, nearly breathing with detailed carvings of every type of plant and animal imaginable, so that even the angels and Madonnas paled in comparison, overwhelmed by the palms beneath which they reclined or the oxen, chickens and even turkeys which clustered about their feet. The two columns on either side of the door rested upon the backs of two massive carved turtles, one an aquatic one (on the ocean-side of the door) and one a land-crawling tortoise (on the side of the building which faces the mountains). Any one sculpture would have been lovely and impressive in its own right; when viewed together it was an incredible, overwhelming outburst of gorgeous detail.

The details on the west-facing side that I walked around were similar in style to the sculptures on the front, with gargoyles in the shape of lizards, openmouthed to spit the rain from between their teeth in bad weather, and with walls inscribed with graceful letters. Around the south side, however, the artist and consequently the style changed utterly. If the north was a celebration of nativity, the south, centered around images of the passion and the crucifixion, was a glorification of the starkness of life, and pain, and death, and bare angles sharply shown. The faces of the disciples were square, anguished, and as expressive of their stony nature as were the rib-like columns arching nakedly. It was shocking, in contrast with the lush loveliness of the opposite façade, but strangely beautiful in its own way.

Inside, the cathedral was flooded with light. Stained and unstained glass windows set shafts of sunlight streaming in wide swaths across walls and floors, and the pale grey stone and impossibly high ceilings helped fill the space with cool light. The columns branched like trees, limbs forming geometric patterns against the facetted ceiling, shades of grey and silver and sometimes gold overlapping in complicated shapes like stars, flowers, gemstones. The spiral staircases the curled upwards looked like sealife made large, shaped like shells or coral, the nautilus-sweep of the stair visible through round perforations in the rails. The golden canopy over the altar was bedecked with glass ornaments, grapes and leaves and talks of grain, and within the space of white and soft grey the brilliant yellow seemed almost overwhelming in its intensity.

Everything about the Sagrada demands that you look up, following the columns in their assent or the windows in their glory, or the light to its skylight source. My psych professor last semester talked about looking up during our discussion of moods in Distress, Dysfunction and Disorder last semester. “I have a project for you,” she said, and instructed us to try walking for a few minutes some time soon, with our eyes on the ground four or five feet ahead, steps short and a little slow. “Don’t smile,” she added - forget smiling, we discovered, walking like that made us want to frown. She next told us to lengthen our stride, to walk with purpose and intention, “And look up, or out into the distance,” she added. The difference was palpable. I could actually feel my spirits rising with my gaze. Since then, looking up has become an intentional thing for me, a way of being present to the moment and to the beauty that surrounds me, be it in the form of tree tops, Edinburghian chimneys against the grey sky, decorative balconies and sculptures, or the incredible heights of an unfinished cathedral, a century in the making. As choir music wafted down from the loft galleries, and as I walked, washed with the colors of the glass windows, it was as close as I have come to a religious experience in quite a while.

• After the high of the Sagrada, Anne and I discovered we were starving, and got pitas at a nearby pita shop after walking the rest of the way back to the hostel. Skyped with Teddi, and wished she were there to join our trio, as she usually does.
• Long siesta, once again. Thank goodness.
• Slept through dinner. Went to a cheap but decent little restaurant around the corner for tapas – patatas bravas, tortilla Española, y ensalada verde. Fueron muy buenos.
• We returned to the hostel, and ended up playing cards with a few of the other residents, including an Argentinian and an fellow from Portugal. Went out dancing, again on the beach, again lots of fun, until we lost each other. Mild worry led to rather serious worry led to very serious concern led to not-quite-panic. But, I learned that I can report someone missing in Spanish, and can deal with a bit of a crisis without completely losing my head, even if I do tend to mildly overreact. Better safe than sorry I suppose. Friend found at long last, we went to sleep somewhere around 6:30 am, and slept until noon.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 30

• We were rather less than functional the next day, but somehow ended up have a truly glorious time anyway. We got pitas again (so tasty) and sat in the courtyard to eat them. Watched the tourists and the vendors and the pigeons, and laughed at the little boy frying to feed/chases them (who ate the bread he was trying to entice them with off the ground eventually). We ended up at the beach, flopped out on the sand with our jeans rolled up to our knees and the sun on our faces, and got very good at turning down masseuses and vendors of all sorts, and at ignoring a rather adventuresome nudist who refused to stay put on his towel but seemed instead determined to share his nudity with the rest of us, wandering further and further up the beach, wholly unconcerned.
• SUNBURN
• We napped for a while, then got an absolutely delicious dinner: paella, with both seafood and chicken (I ate the shrimp with the antennas and the eyes. It was mildly distressing, but so, SO good) and then a plate of grilled asparagus, which tasted particularly lovely after not enough vegetables in days, and because we were treating ourselves, we also each got a glass of rather lovely wine. It was all mouthwateringly good. The only problem was that the restaurant was playing club music – Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, Taio Cruz, etc. – and the flirtatious waiters were dancing as they poured our drinks and served our food (and also as they crumpled up the napkins, receipts and trash and tossed them over their shoulders onto the floor beneath the tables. Considering this was a rather nice place, this was more fascinating than distressing, and also simply quite silly looking). This meant that by the time we left, we were both bobbing our heads and thinking fondly of dancing. The only problem was that we had a bus to catch at 7 the next morning, and we were not 100% sure how to get there, meaning we would need a couple of hours to wake up and pack and get ourselves to the station. So, we decided that it would be almost easier to just stay up, considering we had been virtually nocturnal for the last few days anyway, and subsecuently had a wonderful night out, followed by a sleepy morning packing and metro-ing, and a very, very exhausting 6.5 hour bus ride to lovely San Sebastian in the north of Spain.

San Sebastian up next. :)

Delicate, Indelible

Dearest friends: I am behind. And I am going to write something (hopefully) eloquent and persuasive about the new and rather permanent change to the skin I'm in, and about the accompanying birthday celebrations, but not at the moment. I am writing like mad about Spain, attempting to keep myself on top of things, trying to remember every second, and so my birthday will wait. Sorry you all must as well. Love to you all.

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. :)