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!