I just finalized the logistics of my return, mostly the part between the bus ride and the plane ride. I feel terrific as a result. Now I've just got a few hours and half a suitcase to fill. I already had my fortification meal, the rest of my various viands thrown together with pasta. That was done early to give it a chance to settle before I drag bags. And the bus station is only two blocks away, the bus leaves me two blocks from the Tube, which takes me directly to Heathrow for three pound fifty—oh, oh, it’s so great to have this all figured out. I hope nothing horribly derails it, but even if it does, I’ve got a several hour buffer.
Alright, calm down, tell stories. I made my final forays into Edinburgh today. First I spent several hours in the National Museum, mostly just wandering. It’s a heck of a museum, but I had taken some decongestant (just to be clear) that made me feel kind of spacey. That cleared up by the time I got to the fourth floor. “For my safety” they closed the rooftop garden, which was alright, since I’ve gotten some great views of the city already.
I looked hard for an exhibit or sign or note about the college kids who stole the Stone of Scone from Westminster, but couldn’t find anything (but it’s a big museum). Looking for the name of the stone just now on Wikipedia, I found what I was essentially looking for.
After the big museum, I walked up near the castle to visit the Scotch Whisky Experience. I’ve tried a few Scotch whiskies while I’ve been in the UK, and a couple were like nothing I’d ever tasted before, so my curiosity about them carried me to this quasi-museum. The normal exhibit, which is like an over-21 It’s A Small World (you ride along in a barrel), was closed for renovation, so all I and my four fellow tourists got was a PowerPoint in their corporate meeting room. This was good enough for me: We got to hold some peat, see pictures of distilleries at work, and have it all explained to us by a charming Scottish girl. Then she led us through a brief tasting. I know others have done this with wine, but I got to do the whole swirling-and-smelling-and-sipping thing. I tried to stifle my smile when she described noticing about ten different flavors in the two whiskies we tried. (I have a hard time taking that so seriously as some do. Only one flavor had affected me greatly in my few tastings prior to this: campfire. A few of the distilleries on the island of Islay [“eye-la”] go all out with the drying of the malt over peat, and the final product seriously tastes like a peaty, earthy campfire.) Anyway, they gave each of us a free glass that I will try to bring back in one piece.
That was the end of my tourism for the day (the first museum was a long time). I finished my Christmas shopping (oh! no, don’t get too excited), then came back to the hostel and did the rest of the stuff I already told you about.
I guess this is the end of my trip. Many of you helped make it happen, either through financial or moral support, and I am very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very grateful. So grateful that I actually typed out each of those twenty veries. I hope my connections are all successful so I can come back and thank you in person.
Thanks for reading this blog. I might write on it a few more times if I have more to say about my trip, and I’ll probably keep the username and password just in case I get lost abroad again.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
View from the Top
It was a little colder today, but that didn’t stop me from accomplishing that task which I set myself in the blog yesterday; to scale the large hill in the Holyrood Park. The little map I’ve been using, which labels forty-odd places at which to shop, eat, or be entertained, shows only a sliver of the edge of the park before it ends in a border of ads. So I had a general direction, but no sense of the place.
First I climbed another hill, a smaller one, that I had seen rising between buildings on my regular walk into the busy district. This is Carlton Hill, which features a staircase and paved pathway to the top, where one can look at a few monuments and oversee the city—or look south toward the great crag and all 251m of Andrew’s Seat, rocks which would tower over the city if they weren’t set in the midst of comfortable acreage of grassy highlandish terrain. Once I got to the top of Carlton and saw this, I thought, the heck with this hill, I want THAT one.
It was some job finding it, because as you may know (or will soon learn as I harp on it continuously upon my return) none of the streets here are straight. Grids were invented after Europe was invented. When I see the city maps of Oxford, London, or Edinburgh, I see no sense behind it, in other words, nonsense. Try it, see for yourself. (Let alone the fact that street names change every block. I’m used to that now, and it really couldn’t bring any more order into the system if it were otherwise.)
Once I had traversed the web of street between the two hills, I could clearly see the crag rising above me, but I saw no signs that said, Park Entrance This Way, or any such thing. I stopped to ask some policemen if I was headed correctly and they said yes, just keep going, on up into the hills if I liked. I guess I expected a sign-in/sign-out thing, or a stop-to-make-sure-you’ve-got-what-you-need station, or a ranger, or something. Nope. I could hardly find the park bathroom, but I did. That was the extent of my preparation.
The rest was just hiking. I don’t know how long it took, probably an hour and some altogether. I aimed for the higher peak first, and wound around on various branching paths until I got there. Since it was all uphill, I steamed on up, and at the top, sweaty under my six layers, I didn’t stick around in the wind. Plus, there were a lot of people there with me. I tried to figure out how to get to the crag, a lower area with a better view and less people, and took a more direct route than was probably advisable. I did a little slipping and sliding (it was cold enough that where there hadn’t been sun very long, there was frost, which makes rocks slippery), some sitting on my hands and lowering myself down—stuff that I did that time I was lost in the Cascades. But I wasn’t lost, found a better path eventually and made the crag in short order. I took some pictures, a few panorama movies. From these peaks, one can see all of Edinburgh’s old stuff, like the castle and the churches and generally all of what I would call ‘old town’, which in a place like Europe can be very old. But to the opposite direction, one can see the Firth of Forth, the water which Edinburgh fronts. From the big hill, you can even make out one of the Isle of May, which I believe is one of the Hebrides. It reminded me of Chicago, it reminded me of San Francisco, it reminded me of Port Townsend. It was some view.
Then I climbed down and walked to High Street, where I (finally) bought a scarf from a very jovial shopkeeper. I asked him how he would recommend wearing it and he said, “There was actually something about scarves in the paper today.” I was a little surprised to see, in the pages turned on our way to the scarf article, some full-page full-frontal nudity. Clearly I wasn’t in Kansas.
As much as I’ve complained about prices here, I was also surprised today by the price of my recovery dinner. I went across the street from the hostel to a little shop and bought, for 56p, a serious amount of Brussels sprouts and some carrots. Sprouts cost too much where I shop in America, so I rarely get them, or I get them frozen. But these were fresh, and best of all, I didn’t need a knife to prepare them. I added them to my recovery meal—as you might imagine, I had a hankering for some pasta after all that walking.
Tomorrow I’ll hit the museums, have one more bigdeliciousexcellent pasta party, and hop on the night bus to London. Then I travel for 24 hours, and then I finally stop traveling. But you’ll hear from me again before that.
First I climbed another hill, a smaller one, that I had seen rising between buildings on my regular walk into the busy district. This is Carlton Hill, which features a staircase and paved pathway to the top, where one can look at a few monuments and oversee the city—or look south toward the great crag and all 251m of Andrew’s Seat, rocks which would tower over the city if they weren’t set in the midst of comfortable acreage of grassy highlandish terrain. Once I got to the top of Carlton and saw this, I thought, the heck with this hill, I want THAT one.
It was some job finding it, because as you may know (or will soon learn as I harp on it continuously upon my return) none of the streets here are straight. Grids were invented after Europe was invented. When I see the city maps of Oxford, London, or Edinburgh, I see no sense behind it, in other words, nonsense. Try it, see for yourself. (Let alone the fact that street names change every block. I’m used to that now, and it really couldn’t bring any more order into the system if it were otherwise.)
Once I had traversed the web of street between the two hills, I could clearly see the crag rising above me, but I saw no signs that said, Park Entrance This Way, or any such thing. I stopped to ask some policemen if I was headed correctly and they said yes, just keep going, on up into the hills if I liked. I guess I expected a sign-in/sign-out thing, or a stop-to-make-sure-you’ve-got-what-you-need station, or a ranger, or something. Nope. I could hardly find the park bathroom, but I did. That was the extent of my preparation.
The rest was just hiking. I don’t know how long it took, probably an hour and some altogether. I aimed for the higher peak first, and wound around on various branching paths until I got there. Since it was all uphill, I steamed on up, and at the top, sweaty under my six layers, I didn’t stick around in the wind. Plus, there were a lot of people there with me. I tried to figure out how to get to the crag, a lower area with a better view and less people, and took a more direct route than was probably advisable. I did a little slipping and sliding (it was cold enough that where there hadn’t been sun very long, there was frost, which makes rocks slippery), some sitting on my hands and lowering myself down—stuff that I did that time I was lost in the Cascades. But I wasn’t lost, found a better path eventually and made the crag in short order. I took some pictures, a few panorama movies. From these peaks, one can see all of Edinburgh’s old stuff, like the castle and the churches and generally all of what I would call ‘old town’, which in a place like Europe can be very old. But to the opposite direction, one can see the Firth of Forth, the water which Edinburgh fronts. From the big hill, you can even make out one of the Isle of May, which I believe is one of the Hebrides. It reminded me of Chicago, it reminded me of San Francisco, it reminded me of Port Townsend. It was some view.
Then I climbed down and walked to High Street, where I (finally) bought a scarf from a very jovial shopkeeper. I asked him how he would recommend wearing it and he said, “There was actually something about scarves in the paper today.” I was a little surprised to see, in the pages turned on our way to the scarf article, some full-page full-frontal nudity. Clearly I wasn’t in Kansas.
As much as I’ve complained about prices here, I was also surprised today by the price of my recovery dinner. I went across the street from the hostel to a little shop and bought, for 56p, a serious amount of Brussels sprouts and some carrots. Sprouts cost too much where I shop in America, so I rarely get them, or I get them frozen. But these were fresh, and best of all, I didn’t need a knife to prepare them. I added them to my recovery meal—as you might imagine, I had a hankering for some pasta after all that walking.
Tomorrow I’ll hit the museums, have one more bigdeliciousexcellent pasta party, and hop on the night bus to London. Then I travel for 24 hours, and then I finally stop traveling. But you’ll hear from me again before that.
Monday, December 8, 2008
The People Speak (in people-speak)
True to predictions, a pair of Americans came through Edinburgh yesterday. We went to pub last night, and found a dark joint with live jazz. Today, one of them went home early, and the other and I went to see the Scottish National Gallery, which comes in three flavors: New, old, and portraits. We skipped portraits, and went to the other two. I was quite moved by one of Rembrandt’s self-portraits. Aside from that, I had a great time reading the signs about the religious paintings. Saint stories and symbolism are things I should learn more about.
Talking to the visitors about their plans made me more excited to make my own. I hear there’s a really cool park here with a big hill—I plan on climbing that tomorrow with my camera. (I remember that I’ve forgotten my camera every time I see a beautiful building, which is pretty often—so you’d think I’d remember soon enough.) That climb will also give me some reason to have eaten as much pasta as I ate today. YUM.
The kitchen saw more use today. Most people just heat stuff up from cans. One guy insisted on eating his dinner out of the pot he cooked it in. The hostel provides many plates, I don’t know what he has against them.
I’m using my computer in the dining room outside the kitchen, which features a vending machine. (Actually, it features two, and the second is another thing I can’t forget to take a picture of: A pop machine, it says on the front, Thirst for Knowledge, and pasted over that is an 8x11 that says, Out of Order. OK, maybe I don’t have to take a picture of it now.) I think there’s a youth soccer team staying here now, maybe more than one, and their players keep coming in and buying many bags of chips (known here as ‘crisps’--’chips’ are fries). I’m glad I’m old enough to know to ask where the grocery store is. Go away, children!
Oh, my latest visitor in this room is one of the chaps from Leeds. He says he’s just been in ‘West End’: “I don’t know where that is, but it’s where we’ve been.” Also, “Very dear drinking there”--has anyone heard this expression in the States, ‘dear’ for ‘expensive’? I’ve heard it a lot here, first in the mouths of my hosts in Gloucester. That meaning comes naturally from the etymology of the word as we use it, that’s why I ask.
He’s been joined by the old man who sleeps a lot. It’s like a room party. I’ll liveblog their conversation, if possible.
I says to my mate, I’m gonna get fish and chips if it kills me.
Where’d you get ‘em?
Just round the corner. Five pound fifty. [He told me, “At ‘ome; two pound fifty.”]
Well, I’d liveblog this if I could understand it. They’re talking about where the best fish and chips are found. Northern Scotland, one says. The other says he’s had great shark and chips. “The shark are lovely.” Now they’ve moved on to fishwives. I think the sleeper is an old Scot. He’s eating sausage and chips, and talking about how once he was in some place where he and mates couldn’t get into some pubs, because the men of the place wanted to kill the strangers, but the fishwives didn’t mind them.
The Leeds fellow comes back from pub and has coffee, and then goes to bed. This is his ritual, as far as I have seen. He and his coworker go home tomorrow, he told me, so maybe tonight was a bigger night out than usual, necessitating the late meal. “I’m about to go home to kids and wife tomorrow,” he just now said.
I guess my company is leaving. I hope you’ve enjoyed this scene from Edinburgh. It’s what I’m here to bring you, my fair readers and four followers.
Talking to the visitors about their plans made me more excited to make my own. I hear there’s a really cool park here with a big hill—I plan on climbing that tomorrow with my camera. (I remember that I’ve forgotten my camera every time I see a beautiful building, which is pretty often—so you’d think I’d remember soon enough.) That climb will also give me some reason to have eaten as much pasta as I ate today. YUM.
The kitchen saw more use today. Most people just heat stuff up from cans. One guy insisted on eating his dinner out of the pot he cooked it in. The hostel provides many plates, I don’t know what he has against them.
I’m using my computer in the dining room outside the kitchen, which features a vending machine. (Actually, it features two, and the second is another thing I can’t forget to take a picture of: A pop machine, it says on the front, Thirst for Knowledge, and pasted over that is an 8x11 that says, Out of Order. OK, maybe I don’t have to take a picture of it now.) I think there’s a youth soccer team staying here now, maybe more than one, and their players keep coming in and buying many bags of chips (known here as ‘crisps’--’chips’ are fries). I’m glad I’m old enough to know to ask where the grocery store is. Go away, children!
Oh, my latest visitor in this room is one of the chaps from Leeds. He says he’s just been in ‘West End’: “I don’t know where that is, but it’s where we’ve been.” Also, “Very dear drinking there”--has anyone heard this expression in the States, ‘dear’ for ‘expensive’? I’ve heard it a lot here, first in the mouths of my hosts in Gloucester. That meaning comes naturally from the etymology of the word as we use it, that’s why I ask.
He’s been joined by the old man who sleeps a lot. It’s like a room party. I’ll liveblog their conversation, if possible.
I says to my mate, I’m gonna get fish and chips if it kills me.
Where’d you get ‘em?
Just round the corner. Five pound fifty. [He told me, “At ‘ome; two pound fifty.”]
Well, I’d liveblog this if I could understand it. They’re talking about where the best fish and chips are found. Northern Scotland, one says. The other says he’s had great shark and chips. “The shark are lovely.” Now they’ve moved on to fishwives. I think the sleeper is an old Scot. He’s eating sausage and chips, and talking about how once he was in some place where he and mates couldn’t get into some pubs, because the men of the place wanted to kill the strangers, but the fishwives didn’t mind them.
The Leeds fellow comes back from pub and has coffee, and then goes to bed. This is his ritual, as far as I have seen. He and his coworker go home tomorrow, he told me, so maybe tonight was a bigger night out than usual, necessitating the late meal. “I’m about to go home to kids and wife tomorrow,” he just now said.
I guess my company is leaving. I hope you’ve enjoyed this scene from Edinburgh. It’s what I’m here to bring you, my fair readers and four followers.
The People Have Spoken
At least one person asked to read my last two essays, so I've posted them below. I encourage you all to read Lucretius.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Pay No Attention to the Man with the Knife
Well, here I am in Edinburgh. The hostel is nice, and, as the online reviews said, "Not much fun." I wasn't looking for fun then, and I don't so much miss it now.
I went out for Indian food last night because I wanted to treat myself for making all connections and finding the hostel in good time. It was good. I didn't order rice, so they didn't bring any.
Some mental math told me that I couldn't eat out for every meal if I wanted to come home with any money, so I scouted out the kitchen facilities here at the hostel. They have a very clean, nice looking room with four stovetops, three sinks, two fridges, and a set of cubbyholes for keeping dry food in. For all that, the place doesn't seem to get much use. (No, you wouldn't be able to tell, but I've been in there most of today.) I popped over to the local TescoLocal to pick up some goods, and made myself scrambled eggs. And yes, I will be able to get part way to my dream of making a delicious pasta meal at home by making a pretty good pasta meal here.
But during my time in the kitchen, I gradually saw through the veneer of ‘great kitchen’ that first presents itself to the eye. I tried to make some broccoli for lunch, but could find no knife. I looked and looked, and it occurred to me that maybe they didn’t keep sharp knives there for safety. I inquired at the desk about this, and the man there confirmed my guess, and suggested I ask at the little hostel cafe for knife from the kitchen. But those fellows seemed never to have done this before. “Did you check the kitchen?” they asked me. Yes, of course I had, and why would I be anywhere else looking for a knife? They fetched a knife from their kitchen, no doubt deliberately seeking the bluntest knife, and handed me a nine or ten inch blade.
So I walked around the hostel with that for a little while, cut my broccoli, ate it (with the knife at my side, for safety’s sake), and walked back upstairs with it. Strolling into the lobby with a giant blade, I tried not to make any sudden movements or make eye contact. The man in the cafe was different from the men I had borrowed it from, and when I set it on the counter, he was quite shocked. I could tell he was running through every possible comment in his head as I explained why I had this and why I was giving it to him. “No blood on it, at least,” he said.
Anyway, that happened.
I’m in a room with four other men, all older than I. Two are in town, up from Leeds, delivering phone books or phone booths or phone boxes, I’m not sure which. The Leeds accent is very strong. And the man of this pair to whom I talked more almost never uses the word ‘the’. He had left the other man “at pub,” they only had enough books/boxes/booths “on van” to do four jobs, despite being contacted about five. When talking with his significant other on the phone, he also said, “I love you and all,” and, “I miss you and all.”
Of the other two guys in the room, one is Australian, and I don’t know why he’s here, and the other is a very strange fellow, and I don’t know why he’s here either. The latter I’ve seen a dozen times today, in the lobby, dining room, kitchen, and we haven’t passed a word between us. The guy from Leeds told me that he sleeps all day and stays up all night watching TV. I did see him watching TV once, and he is now in bed again (it was 4:30p when I saw him there).
I’m not sure what I want to do in this town. I hear there’s a good museum, and there are probably a lot of other old places I could tour. A big castle sits in the middle of the town on a hill, looking down at the rest of us peasants. Maybe I could see that view. But I’m rather enjoying having nothing to do, and I’ve done some reading, writing, and cooking, which could fill all my time here if I so chose. I might hear from two of the Oxford Americans who will be in Edinburgh tonight and tomorrow morning.
This kitchen is only making me more excited to get back to my own kitchen, where I have a VERY sharp knife that I don’t have to wield in any lobbies. If only my kitchen were so clean...
I went out for Indian food last night because I wanted to treat myself for making all connections and finding the hostel in good time. It was good. I didn't order rice, so they didn't bring any.
Some mental math told me that I couldn't eat out for every meal if I wanted to come home with any money, so I scouted out the kitchen facilities here at the hostel. They have a very clean, nice looking room with four stovetops, three sinks, two fridges, and a set of cubbyholes for keeping dry food in. For all that, the place doesn't seem to get much use. (No, you wouldn't be able to tell, but I've been in there most of today.) I popped over to the local TescoLocal to pick up some goods, and made myself scrambled eggs. And yes, I will be able to get part way to my dream of making a delicious pasta meal at home by making a pretty good pasta meal here.
But during my time in the kitchen, I gradually saw through the veneer of ‘great kitchen’ that first presents itself to the eye. I tried to make some broccoli for lunch, but could find no knife. I looked and looked, and it occurred to me that maybe they didn’t keep sharp knives there for safety. I inquired at the desk about this, and the man there confirmed my guess, and suggested I ask at the little hostel cafe for knife from the kitchen. But those fellows seemed never to have done this before. “Did you check the kitchen?” they asked me. Yes, of course I had, and why would I be anywhere else looking for a knife? They fetched a knife from their kitchen, no doubt deliberately seeking the bluntest knife, and handed me a nine or ten inch blade.
So I walked around the hostel with that for a little while, cut my broccoli, ate it (with the knife at my side, for safety’s sake), and walked back upstairs with it. Strolling into the lobby with a giant blade, I tried not to make any sudden movements or make eye contact. The man in the cafe was different from the men I had borrowed it from, and when I set it on the counter, he was quite shocked. I could tell he was running through every possible comment in his head as I explained why I had this and why I was giving it to him. “No blood on it, at least,” he said.
Anyway, that happened.
I’m in a room with four other men, all older than I. Two are in town, up from Leeds, delivering phone books or phone booths or phone boxes, I’m not sure which. The Leeds accent is very strong. And the man of this pair to whom I talked more almost never uses the word ‘the’. He had left the other man “at pub,” they only had enough books/boxes/booths “on van” to do four jobs, despite being contacted about five. When talking with his significant other on the phone, he also said, “I love you and all,” and, “I miss you and all.”
Of the other two guys in the room, one is Australian, and I don’t know why he’s here, and the other is a very strange fellow, and I don’t know why he’s here either. The latter I’ve seen a dozen times today, in the lobby, dining room, kitchen, and we haven’t passed a word between us. The guy from Leeds told me that he sleeps all day and stays up all night watching TV. I did see him watching TV once, and he is now in bed again (it was 4:30p when I saw him there).
I’m not sure what I want to do in this town. I hear there’s a good museum, and there are probably a lot of other old places I could tour. A big castle sits in the middle of the town on a hill, looking down at the rest of us peasants. Maybe I could see that view. But I’m rather enjoying having nothing to do, and I’ve done some reading, writing, and cooking, which could fill all my time here if I so chose. I might hear from two of the Oxford Americans who will be in Edinburgh tonight and tomorrow morning.
This kitchen is only making me more excited to get back to my own kitchen, where I have a VERY sharp knife that I don’t have to wield in any lobbies. If only my kitchen were so clean...
Friday, December 5, 2008
Poof (British Baseball Pt. 2)
Just like that, my time in Oxford is over. My roommate and my other mates just left for their Eastern Europe jaunt, aiming for a 00:50 bus to get to another bus to make a 6:15 flight to arrive in Budapest tomorrow afternoon. It was kind of sad, but we've spent quality time together here, and I have honest hope that I will see at least some of them again in the homeland.
Thankfully, my departure will not be at such a forsaken hour--I leave for Edinburgh tomorrow at noon. That's very soon, but the only thing I have to do is pack: Trains are easy to take and I've done it before. Then I walk to a hostel, settle in for four days, see the sights, hear the sounds, and then get on a night bus on Wednesday, arriving London early Thursday morning to catch my flight home.
I will analogize this trip with baseball. All of a sudden, here I am on third, eyeing the plate. When you're on base, you're necessarily in danger (but how would you ever score if you don't put yourself there?). You're in transit even when you're standing still, because there's no staying on base. The prospect of a pick-off, a force-out, a double-up, hang over your head, but all outcomes are braved for the run (on the run). With the fear lives the hope of sweet return--to be safe at home.
And I didn't want to ruin the image with this, but what I'm really eyeing is the plate of spaghetti I'm going to make myself. It will be stacked so tall and wide with semolina, it will be dressed in hot olive oil, herbs, and garlic, and it will all cost me about US$2.50, which is about one pound seventy. I can hardly wait.
But I must. I'm going to decompress in Edinburgh (which I find myself pronouncing two ways, "ed-in-berg" and "edin-bura"--I'll ask when I get there). And I'm going to read calmly.
I spent my last night here with a Welshman and a Kiwi, and then in the JCR playing pool. I gave my friend Ted a great going-away gift--I scratched on the eight-ball with all seven of his balls still on the table. I'm in a gift-giving mood because as term draws to a close, everything here becomes Christmas. There's a tree up in Hall, there's a giant tree on Broad Street, there is a tree in the JCR, there are Christmas lights strung across Cornmarket street, there is caroling on street corners. And it's almost, kind of, sort of, nearly cold. And wet.
Scottish snow will prepare me for my return.
You may or may not read another update on this blog, but I encourage you to check so that I am encouraged to write.
Thankfully, my departure will not be at such a forsaken hour--I leave for Edinburgh tomorrow at noon. That's very soon, but the only thing I have to do is pack: Trains are easy to take and I've done it before. Then I walk to a hostel, settle in for four days, see the sights, hear the sounds, and then get on a night bus on Wednesday, arriving London early Thursday morning to catch my flight home.
I will analogize this trip with baseball. All of a sudden, here I am on third, eyeing the plate. When you're on base, you're necessarily in danger (but how would you ever score if you don't put yourself there?). You're in transit even when you're standing still, because there's no staying on base. The prospect of a pick-off, a force-out, a double-up, hang over your head, but all outcomes are braved for the run (on the run). With the fear lives the hope of sweet return--to be safe at home.
And I didn't want to ruin the image with this, but what I'm really eyeing is the plate of spaghetti I'm going to make myself. It will be stacked so tall and wide with semolina, it will be dressed in hot olive oil, herbs, and garlic, and it will all cost me about US$2.50, which is about one pound seventy. I can hardly wait.
But I must. I'm going to decompress in Edinburgh (which I find myself pronouncing two ways, "ed-in-berg" and "edin-bura"--I'll ask when I get there). And I'm going to read calmly.
I spent my last night here with a Welshman and a Kiwi, and then in the JCR playing pool. I gave my friend Ted a great going-away gift--I scratched on the eight-ball with all seven of his balls still on the table. I'm in a gift-giving mood because as term draws to a close, everything here becomes Christmas. There's a tree up in Hall, there's a giant tree on Broad Street, there is a tree in the JCR, there are Christmas lights strung across Cornmarket street, there is caroling on street corners. And it's almost, kind of, sort of, nearly cold. And wet.
Scottish snow will prepare me for my return.
You may or may not read another update on this blog, but I encourage you to check so that I am encouraged to write.
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