Celebrating Themeless Discontinuity: I'm on Fire... no really, I'm on fire!

Opening ceremonies of Edinburgh's Hogmanay 2007 (8?): the Torchlight Procession. This was actually way cooler than I imagined. It was also something that could never ever happen in the States. 20,000 people (the estimated attendance for this little event) marching a couple of miles through the downtown streets of Edinburgh in close quarters carrying giant torches on fire. Public officials opening the ceremonies with shots of whisky. People carrying flaming objects in one hand and beers in the other, snaking their way through trees and trucks and trying desperately not to light up their neighbors' silly, Christmastime-cheer hats. Giant bonfires on top of a hill where the only firemen there were security guards carrying one mini-fire extinguisher a piece. A whole list of liability issues and other dangerous and worrisome things that would never fly in the US, for oh-so-many reasons. And it was utterly fabulous.

We began by picking up our standard 3-foot long wax torches (please note, that a 3-foot person should NOT, contrary to Scottish belief, be carrying a 3-foot, flaming torch) and our standard Scottish-flag beenies. The crowd, taking up most of the Royal Mile, became a blue sea of white St. Andrew's crosses and pointy wax swords. A fabulous Scottish drum group was providing a Battlestar Galactica-like soundtrack to our waiting, and important-looking city officials announced the official start of the 4-day Hogmanay with group shots of Scotch. You can't start off a Scottish holiday with anything less.

Slowly, torch by torch, the Royal Mile caught flame, and St. Giles Cathedral flickered in all it's gruesome glory. Fitting for a place known for it's hangings of blasphemers. Then we started to march. Imagine at least a mile of shoulder-to-shoulder people meandering casually on the narrow streets of a capital city, carrying fire. Imagine that some of those people are under the age of 10 and struggle to keep from lighting their neighbors on fire. Imagine the look on Jonmikel's face when he feels his jacket become awfully hot and remembers that there is a small child carrying fire just behind him... ah yes, good times. Surprisingly, I don't see anybody actually go up in flames, though I did see some awfully close calls due to either the inability of young children to be able to handle torches or the stupidity of people who just stop suddenly in a mass of people surging forward with fire in their hands.

The ultimate goal of this venture is to climb Calton Hill and, in the name of the Holiday Season, set a Viking ship and a giant stag on fire. Nothing symbolizes the New Year like forest fire! It seems they have taken precautions, however, and doused the entire area with water. Scotland is so wet, anyway, that it seems fire doesn't spread so fast, despite our earlier incident on Arthur's Seat. A samba band, complete with women dressed in a warm essence of Carnival, shaking everything they've got (or not got), greet us upon our ascent of Calton Hill, and we reach the top in time to see the lighting of the stag (the Viking Ship is already a mass of flames blazing over the impressive cityscape), followed by a wonderful (yet short and unimpressive compared to Razzi's show in Cincinnati during Labor Day) display of fireworks, which seems to be the Scottish people's way of celebrating, well, everything. The backdrop of the imitation-and-incomplete Parthenon atop the hill provided a unique and quite dramatic backdrop for both the fireworks and the sea of lit torches surrounding it.

And here's the part where I catch on fire. We head over to the remains of the ship (the pyro in me just loves bonfires) to watch people attempt to toss the remains of their torches (so many fail miserably and embarrassingly) into the mess. We take in the warmth: even from 30 feet away the scene is hot. While I'm not paying attention, a wayward spark lifts off from the fire and makes a bee-line for me, hitting my scarf at first. I'm not too worried, as I figured it would just go out, so I move to brush it off. Somehow (it still boggles my mind as to how), it manages to fall underneath my scarf (which is tightly wrapped around my neck to ward off the clear-night chill), underneath my fully and tightly buttoned coat (which reaches up to my throat) under the corduroy jacket I'm wearing beneath the coat, and into my cleavage, which promptly begins to burn. I make a fabulous screech, and jump up and down in a wonderfully soap-operatic rendition of physical-comedy pain. I almost decide to strip down my to scivvies and stop, drop and roll, but stop at removing my coat to reveal the culprit of the invasion. I have a small hole burned through my shirt at the neckline, and, though I don't realize this until we stop for dinner, the small, fiery piece of ship skipped it's way down my chest, leaving a short trail of small burns leading right in between my boobs. No worries: I'm fine. Today's blisters are a testament to a night's worth of fiery fun. I caught on fire at Hogmanay; how many people can say that? :-)