Scott Skips to Scotland (Pt. 1)

Cheers!

This October, I had a very special visitor. Scott came to visit and the whole time he was here, I couldn't believe he was here. Once he got off the plane and I finished poking him to make sure he was real, we crammed a lot of touristy things in that I wouldn't have done otherwise, and I got a little piece of home to hang out with across the pond. I would say I feel bad he travelled all that way, but he had a row of three seats all to himself and made a bed, so I don't feel that bad.

The first week we spent walking around Edinburgh, getting used to the time difference, and getting over a little stomach trouble. That first weekend, we travelled to Dublin. Dublin is an interesting city. Love the accents, though. The city is a mixture of old, beautiful, historic buildings and modern, heinous ones that replaced the old ones before they were protected. There's a block in the center of Dublin that used to hold the largest number of Georgian style houses. Fifteen were knocked down around the 1960s to build an office building that is now for sale. The city is filled with historic and remarkable buildings, but they are cluttered among architecture from the 60s.

We took a "Viking" tour with a vibrant Irish guide. We hopped in one of the cars, which eventually turned into a boat, threw on a couple of ponchos and viking helmets, and we were off. The tour guide frequently plagued the pedestrians of Dublin with "ARGGG"s and encouraged us to join along. I pitied those that jumped out of their boots at the sound, and admired those who yelled back, even louder. The tour guide talked about Bono ("What's the difference between Bono and God? God doesn't think he's Bono!") and Vikings, of course. Apparently they built over a lot of Viking grave sites, as well as knocking down historic architecture. I would not want those ghosts haunting my office building.

We were able to visit one of my friends from my Ultimate Frisbee team back home, Tori, who is studying at Trinity for the semester. It was so good to see a friendly face and commiserate about home (and Kenyon)-sickness. We walked around the park that I believe the Guinness family donated to Dublin. Once Scott and I parted ways with Tori, we stumbled across a man feeding blades of grass to swans. After observing for a few moments, we decided to try for ourselves. They're greedy little bastards! You don't even need to get near them, they'll paddle right on over as soon as you extend your hand. One nipped me a little and it was very shocking. I'm not sure I'll recover. It's beak was smooth but very hard and could definitely do some damage, if given the chance.

Later on, we visited the Jameson Whiskey distillery, which is a rather small operations since they moved their main operation to another city in Ireland. The Dublin location was purely a tourist attraction. They started off by showing us maybe the worst film I've ever seen in my life. The accents, the "special effects", and the acting all seemed like a joke. But they were serious. They really thought we would be impressed. This depressed me for the rest of the tour. Luckily, I'd already had a tour of a functioning distillery in the Highlands so I knew the stuff. I felt bad that Scott didn't get a real tour, though.

That evening, we went to a dinner that is one of my favorite memories from Dublin. It was a storytelling dinner. We sat down at a table of strangers that were mainly American and mainly embarrassing. One woman stole another's chicken because she didn't want the dressing. Chaos. Scott and I split a Guinness because we weren't sure if we would like it. Between the courses, the man who designed the event would get up and I would sprain my neck trying to turn around to look at him. He told us about the history of Ireland, the potato, and mostly, about storytelling. He explained that their villages were all people had, and they yearned to imagine what more there could be, as well as explain the unexplainable facts of life; why some people got rich and some got poor or why some babies died and others lived. There are fairy hills and fairy trees all over Ireland that roads have been built around to prevent upsetting the fairies. The dinner was held in the oldest pub in Ireland, which was an added bonus!

Another one of our dinners was in a beautiful restaurant on the main street of Dublin. We took a taxi to get there, and our driver might have been my favorite person we met in Dublin. I think he was a little hard of hearing, but that didn't stop him from telling us all about how he was in a clan. They reenact battles using real weapons. He didn't hesitate to tell us that he was in Braveheart (which was filmed in Ireland. The one thing I thought I knew about Scotland, a lie!). He yelled to us in the backseat all about how he spoke Gaelic. Whenever I would respond he seemed to hear me just fine, but when Scott chimed in, he suddenly couldn't hear a thing. Maybe it's more of a selective kind of hearing...

Our next and last day, Scott and I visited the Guinness Storehouse. We weren't sure what to expect, neither of us being terribly fond of Guinness, but were pleasantly surprised. It was five times the size of the Jameson Whiskey Experience. It was actually the size of a small compound. We wound our way through the five or six stories, learning about everything from where they source their water, to how they make the barrels that store and transport the beer (my favorite part). Equipped with the knowledge to start our own brewery, we ascended to the top floor to collect our pints that our admission tickets awarded us. Lo and behold, we liked them! When we got back to Edinburgh, Scott ordered a pint from the first bar we went to. The views were unbelievable. And so were the pictures on the wall of the Queen pouring herself a dram.

We had to hurry after that to make our flight, but it was a great way to end the trip. I didn't love Dublin, but I'm glad I went and learned a little about it. I'm sure there were parts I didn't see, and history I didn't hear, that I would love. If I ever go to Ireland again, it would be to explore the rural areas, which I imagine are a bit like the Highlands. It was wonderful to have Scott to travel with, though, after doing it for so long on my own. Just to have him around felt surreal.

The next post will be about our adventures in Scotland and England!
Now for pictures! (I forgot my camera so these are from my phone)

Highland Extravaganza

Puppy Love

Usually when you think of Scotland you think of Lochs, wide expansive landscapes, and sheep. Lots of sheep. I didn't get to experience that until I went on my 3 day Highland Tour with my abroad program, IFSA Butler. We all packed into three enormous buses, complete with kilted guides, and left the big city. The guides had microphones so I knew it was the real deal.

Amsterdam!

So, my wonderful friend from Kenyon, Alex, proposed a trip to Amsterdam and since it was on my wish list of places to go and also he is great, I was more than happy to agree to book the trip. 

While the rumors are true (there is a lot of weed), there is also a lot of culture to experience in Amsterdam. After leaving our smelly, damp, 12 person hostel room, which our group amazingly filled, our massive clan moved to many cultural destinations. My favorite was the Van Gogh museum. The museum was well laid out and cohesively charted Van Gogh's artistic journey until his mental breakdown and bloody death. Interestingly enough, the stories I heard in school were not true. Van Gogh did not chop off his ear to give to his love. He gave it to a prostitute. Though that romance was falsified, the one Van Gogh had with his brother was not. The artist's brother stood by him and supported him until the end. Their gravestones are even on the same plot. I found this relationship the most moving part of the museum. 

We also visited the Anne Frank House. We waited in line for two hours before we entered the tiny house, which was essentially an extension of the line outside. The museum goers moved at a snail's pace in a twisting ribbon of tourists pressed front to back. The only survivor from Anne Frank's life was her father. Anne died shortly after her sister. A childhood friend of Anne's who was interviewed for the exhibit believes Anne might have fought through if she had known her father still lived. If Anne had survived one month more, she would have been freed. 

We visited the Heineken experience, Pancake houses, other museums, and the Red Light District, which left me conflicted. When I looked at the women standing in the windows, beckoning to the passerby with a bed visible behind them, I felt uncomfortable and a little disgusted. Wasn't this just another example of women being sexualized and mistreated? But then I had a thought. These women were doing what they wanted with their bodies, which is just what we've been asking of governments: the right to decide what we do with our own bodies. Because prostitution is legalized in Amsterdam's Red Light District, there are regulated STI checks, mandated condom use, and young girls can't fall into the business unnoticed. It's safer. So I was left with mixed feelings. Were these women suppressed or liberated? I didn't like seeing women jiggling in windows with men browsing them like store wares, but what right do I have to tell those women what they should be doing with their bodies?

A highlight of my visit was a tour of the canals in a little open-air boat. We had the boat to ourselves since we had so many people in our group. We saw so much of the city and its beautiful architecture, which was perhaps my favorite part of the city. We also got up close and personal with the many houseboats there are along the canals. The city was vermiculated by the canals, which meant that you were never steps away from water. Our tour guide explained to us that the buildings in Amsterdam are tall and narrow, making it hard to get furniture to the higher floors. As a solution, the structures were built tilted slightly forward, with hook at the top, so that you could use a rope slung over the hook to hoist furniture through the top window. The buildings were tilted so that they could withstand such pressure. It gives the city a unique taste that I loved. 

Bikes might as well be the mascot of the city. Forget cars, bikes are the way of the future. Everyone whizzed around Amsterdam on a bike. Little bits of metal jutted out from the back of bike seats so that an extra passenger could be accommodated. I saw a man riding a bike with a woman sidesaddle behind him with a cat on her lap. Enormous, open wooden crates were slapped on the front of bikes. I saw another man bike past with three kids bouncing around in such an attachment. It doesn't seem safe, but it sure seems convenient, and that's all that matters. Why would anyone have a car when they can transport four humans and a cat with one bike? 

Now pictures!

An English Homestay

Two weekends ago, I boarded a bus for a mandated weekend away. This sounds more like a rehab experience than a family home stay, but it was rehabilitating in its own way. I wasn't sure how to feel about it. I was nervous and slightly hesitant at the idea of staying in a stranger's home. But I'd heard good things, so I was open. 

Arriving in England, I stepped down from the bus with Devon, my assigned fellow home stayer, and we were whisked away to a town called Appleby, Cambria by a friendly couple in their early 50s. On the sheet I received that held every scrap of knowledge I could glean on this couple who I would be alone with for the weekend, I was informed there would be a dog. I was excited about this dog. I was comforted by the idea of this dog. When we drove up the wife asked, "Is anyone allergic to cats?" Dubious, I responded, "I am a little bit, but I pretend I'm not so I can pet them. But I thought you had a dog?" She replied, "We did but he died." 

A moment of silence for the dog.

We plopped down in the sitting room (with the cat that was very much not a dog) and before I knew it I had a glass of wine in my hand and a hot bowl of chili in my lap. It was euphoric. The night was spent watching British TV with me occasionally proclaiming that the chili was the best meal I'd had in weeks, which was all too true. 

My bed was perhaps the best part of my home stay. It was big, white, and fluffy. I slept in a marshmallow and I couldn't have been happier. There was even a sink in the bedroom, which I found strange but convenient.

The next day had homemade jams, a death defying 100 mph drive through the windy English country roads (lined with sheep, no less), a football match, a delightful lemon chicken and risotto, and a little more British TV to cap off the night. I learned a few notable things that day. The first being that at the concessions at the football stadiums, they allow neither beer, nor bottle caps in the stands. Both are precautions against fights. I ordered a coke and, unsurprisingly because I was denied a bottle cap, spilt it everywhere. The second has to do with sheep. The sheep all have spray paint on them, not from some rebellious country boy making a joke, but to identify one farmer's sheep from another's. Some sheep also had another, messier paint marking. Upon inquiry, I found out that the farmer attaches a bag of dye around the rams' necks so that they can keep track of how many sheep he is...ehem...intimate with. From then on, sheep with a surplus mark made me uncomfortable. 

The next day was our last and we spent it driving through their old neighborhood. I learned that if a town name ends in "by" it means that it was originally a viking village. We visited an old castle, as well, and then it was time to get to the bus. I was sad to say goodbye. We said sincere goodbyes to our hosts with promises to try to get together if we could. 

I didn't know it when I left, but a respite from the city was just the medicine I needed. The English countryside was as beautiful and open and filled with sheep as I imagined. I came back from my home stay refreshed and with a new perspective. The clean country air made my mind clearer and swept away the residue cloud of homesickness that might have been hanging over me. I felt more like myself.

And now for pictures! And for those of you who skipped over the text just for the visuals: welcome, you sneaky devils. 

Settling In

 It's my sixth week here in Edinburgh and...no. It's my sixth DAY. How is this possible? All the emotions I've felt and people I've met and pounds I've spent could only be normal if spread out over a course of weeks. But I've been here less than a week. Well, I began my journey here exactly a week ago. This time last week, I was wandering around the airport and now I'm actually here. 

The days go so fast here, it's hard to keep up. There are so many events scheduled for Fresher's Week that it's hard to keep track. In between the major events, like concerts and enormous themed parties (school uniform, beach), there are smaller events hosted by individual societies, which are like clubs in U.S. colleges. The smaller events are uninteresting or at bad times. The large events boast hour long queues (lines). Every University-sponsered event I've tried to participate in so far has been too full and I've been rudely turned away. They don't know what they're missing. Not that I care. I don't. I didn't even want to go...

I tried to go to a ceilidh (pronounced kay-lay. Or maybe kee-lee. You know what, just mumble it and no one will know the difference) dance, which is a traditional Scottish dance that, as I understand it, is a bit like line dancing. I waited outside a building that resembled Hogwarts to a tee to get a band that confirmed I was over 18, then waited on a curved staircase that I half expected to start moving like in the Harry Potter films. We stood there for close to an hour before the fire alarm went off and we were forced to evacuate. No danger, and no fire to my knowledge. Needless to say, I still don't know any ceilidh dances. We went to a friend's dorm instead, and then a pub. Pub versus unique cultural experience-- what's the difference? 

The size of the University of Edinburgh has certainly made itself known. I understand now what being a number feels like. I feel like an infant released from its swaddling cloths. Dates and times of meetings I'd never been informed about get to me through fellow students who barely know what's going on themselves.We're truly on our own here, cutting our way through the jungle of Edinburgh with a machete searching for a tidbit of useful information about our university. Kenyon, swaddle me!

Today, I went to climb King Arthur's Seat with my friend Phoebe, and new friends Olivia and Allie. I wore cords and a typical American plaid shirt as well as some sneaker with such little traction that you could slip on a cheese grater, if you were to ever walk on one. I didn't want to get into hiking gear because I felt self-conscious walking around the city in leggings and a sweat stained t-shirt. My co-hikers, however, looked ready to go to the gym when we met at our redez-vous point. My despair with my fashion choices only increased as we began the trudge up the vertical dirt wall, or walking path, as they called it. I huffed and puffed and wished desperately for my inhaler. I stopped frequently and turned toward the horizon, hand on my hips. "Look at that view," I said, trying to get a breather. "No, seriously stop and enjoy it for a minute...or five would be good to fully appreciate it." I sucked in air and tried to slow my heart rate in these few seconds before setting off again to bring up the back of our little hiking brigade. Of course, the views were unreal, as you can see below, but the thing that really kept me going, that encouraged me to fight on and conquer this hill, was the blackberries lining the trail. I discovered them halfway through our trek, right when my the roof of my mouth and my tongue were like two pieces of putty being pulled apart every time I opened my mouth, and making a similar sound, too. I was so thirsty. I forgot water, too. As well as good shoes, and breathable pants. My cords insulate wonderfully, I now know. I took these little pods of juice as a message from God. "You idiot, please hydrate yourself." My hands were like a machine, shoveling the berries into my pasty mouth, slowly becoming a dark blue. When I exhausted one bush of its bounty, I moved up the hill a little ways to find another bush. In this way, this sad, sad way, I made it up the hill. I won't gush about the views because you can see them for yourself below. I will say, though, that the blackberries were both friend and foe. On the way down the hill, I reached for one particularly juicy blackberry and felt a sharp pain near my elbow. Despite the burning sensation, I held onto my precious treat and ate it before examining the damage. I hadn't been pricked with a thorn, like I thought. There wasn't anything in the skin except the prickly feeling spreading through my elbow. Soon, a rash appeared, followed by several white bumps. They have all since faded away, and I think the cause was a stinging nettle. Phoebe gave this diagnosis and I picture a stinging nettle as a small fairy wearing an acorn cap nipping my elbow to protect his fruit and shaking his fist at me. I'll have to look it up to see if that's what a stinging nettle actually is. 

Overall, I'm feeling my way around the city and get a burst of confidence every time I can find my way without looking it up on Google Maps. I'm looking forward to classes and frisbee starting. I'm craving that structure and playing ultimate. Hopefully I'll meet some cool people too.

Fun scottish facts: 
1) The national animal is a unicorn. 
2) Everyone refuses to cross the road until the sign tells them to walk and not a second sooner.

And here are the pictures!

I Have Arrived

After a total 22 hour travel day, I made it. Almost 200 groggy and jet lagged American students were herded into a hotel in Edinburgh for a three day orientation by our program coordinators. I forced myself to stay awake, and even managed to go to a few pubs before collapsing at 11 p.m. The next day, the orienteers delivered a brief introduction to Scottish cultural differences ("'pants' means 'underwear', kids.") and academic differences ("This is harder and more stressful than you think it'll be, kids.") After we were released there was dinner and more pubs. A group of 15+ American 20 year olds walking into a pub is quite conspicuous I realized. The next day was move in day. This meant we were on our own. I dragged my two 55 pound suitcases and duffel up a steep slope of cobblestones and then up seven flights of stairs to my flat. I opened the door. And my stomach dropped. Dark, cramped, narrow halls with door after shut door closed me in on all sides and dread climbed on my back, heavier than all my luggage combined. Once in my room, I dropped my suitcases and put my shaking hands on the desk and let my head sink down. Calming breaths. Deep breaths. It was no use. The room, the flat, the stairs, the four months, the unforgiving academics, the confusing city, the unfamiliar people all closed in on me. I would have stayed in my cell all night if I had bedding and food, but necessities force action. I contacted a new friend, girl from the program, also from my hometown of Buffalo, and together, we ventured into the city. She cried, too. It's normal, we agreed. Everyone I've talked to so far cried the first day in their room. Maybe all the people I associate with are just sissies like me. We bought bedding, hangers, UK phones, and I felt lighter in their presence and with a task at hand. I returned to my flat laden with household supplies later that evening and the bare walls and stripped bed were reminders of my earlier melancholy. I quickly threw the few pictures I brought with me on the walls, made my bed, and opened my suitcases. The room felt a little better. I little less empty. My friend Phoebe had felt the same way, apparently, because she called to tell me she was on her way to my flat. She brought tea, British cookies, mugs, chips (or "crisps") and we sat and commiserated until we were reassured this was a normal part of the process of acclimating. She spent the night and we fell asleep watching my favorite British show from when I was younger, the Mighty Boosh. In the morning, we woke to the noises of a new flatmate moving in. We were brushing our teeth when she came in to introduce herself. "This is my friend, Phoebe. She....came over for breakfast," I said, realizing my friend brushing her teeth after emerging from my room might look like more than a friend to someone who didn't know us. 

All in all, the transition is difficult. But being in this magical city makes it easier. The more time I spend here, the more I can see how it inspired J.K. Rowling to write Harry Potter. The key for me is to settle in, meet people, and be present. It's not all weepy though. Not at all. Before moving in, everything was exciting and fun and the city was magical. I've met loads of people, many of which I've gone out with and befriended. All the Scottish people I've interacted with have been more than kind, and funny! Everyone I've met, however briefly, has cracked a joke.

There is a natural dip in spirits that everyone goes through when they go abroad. Slowly, I am emerging. I adapt quickly in most cases, and I will make sure this case is no different. Now that I've provided the brief summary of the roller coaster of the first three days, I can go into more detail in the future posts. I only wanted to get this one out quickly to show evidence of my survival, but, mostly, to include these pictures!

Abroad

There are so many wonderful things to be excited about when preparing to go abroad. There's the adventure, the new experiences, the travel, the culture, the new people... But for now, let's pay tribute to a few of the disparaging thoughts I have about my impending voyage to the land of the Scots.

Movies

I love going to the movies. It's an experience of escapism that is still unparalleled, even today when you don't have to do much at all to feel alone. I'll even go alone. Just me, the black room, and a bucket of popcorn. In a time when I find myself with the world on a smartphone in my pocket, it's nice to feel like I'm in the pocket of the world. The big screen makes me feel small. It reminds me that I am small. But at the same time, it reminds me how big people can get. For two hours, I watch a world unfold that once was simply a few neurons sparking around in someone's head. And that person turned that weird late-night-sushi dream, or scribble on a napkin, into a immortal story, that could influence millions of people.