The Night 'Afore, or how to do the Monster Mash

I have to start with a disclaimer: I had an entire entry all lined up and ready to go, but the website conveniently decided to delete it all in a fit of techno-revenge. Bad karma? At any rate, nothing I write for the second time is as inspired as it was at first, so I am now forced to piece together what I can remember from that lost entry and fill it in with more sub-par material. I hate electronics. I have a hex.

Date Night! It had been a long time since Jonmikel and I did the real date thing, so we decided that to celebrate the quiet between a family Christmas success and a wild Scottish Hogmanay, we would have ourselves a real night out. It’s not often that I get to play dress-up, but I so enjoy trying on nice dresses, laying them all out on the bed with various combinations of jewelry, pondering and rearranging and pondering some more until I find the exact costume array that will evoke the right sense of class and confidence I’m looking for. Living first in Montana, and then as a post-grad (and trying to live as such, what with the no-income thing), I haven’t found much opportunity to do the fancy dating.

So we decide on the first (only?) Jamaican restaurant in Scotland, Coyaba. The tiny, delightfully atmospheric place is tucked neatly in the typical college-town ethnic eatery district, which also houses a Brazilian café, the Mosque Kitchen, The Buffalo Grill (complete with pictures of Chief Joseph on the walls), and various Mediterranean/Middle Eastern (I know, I wouldn’t really put these two things into one category, either, but it seems to be the norm, here) eateries. It had been a long time since I had eaten Jamaican food, since last I visited my brother’s family in Kingston. I was aiming for the jerk chicken, which I fondly remember eating from paper bags that Annie (my brother’s mother) picked up from the side of the road. I am a firm believer that the best way to really get to know a country is to eat its street food, stomach be damned. But I digress. Coyaba is a cozy restaurant, tables tucked neatly in every corner for maximum efficiency (in Europe, you learn to use small spaces as effectively as possible), the walls painted a soothing rusted red color, the décor uniquely Rastafarian. The ambiance and a pitcher of pina colada was just what we needed to escape the dank chill of a 40-degree-and-raining Scottish winter night. I did, in fact, go for the jerk chicken, much to the distress of the server who didn’t believe me when I said that I had had it before and I really did know how spicy it was. We also sampled the acci and saltfish, which was strange for me because it was what I normally ate for breakfast during my stay in Jamaica. Tasty, nonetheless.

After dinner, I convince Jonmikel to head up to George Street for a peek at the Night ‘Afore celebrations, all part of the multi-day Hogmanay (New Year's) here in town. What we found was patently un-Scottish, at least as far as bagpipes and haggis were concerned. There were multiple stages set up, mostly playing a fun, danceable mix of bluegrass music (the only bagpipe we saw was on stage along with a dance/rap troupe of hip-hop artists). Jonmikel, the previously dancing-shy gentleman, worked up his courage, and we spirited around the street as if back at the Yellowstone Music Festival. Even in my 3-inch, knee-high boots I managed to keep up. When we needed a breather, we headed down the cobblestoned street to check out the inflated, fighting dragons that filled the skies and devoured out the rooftops of George Street. Very Chinese New Year. This was the beginning of the Monster Mash parade, full of mythical/monsterish characters dressed up for maximum audience participation. Pan characters painted in silver and dancing acrobatically on stilts pranced in between laughing on-lookers, and Starship Trooper bugs attacked the audience with faux aggression, eliciting mock shrieks of terror from elderly women to the amusement of all involved. Even Jonmikel and I failed to avoid (not unwilling) participation in the jovial harassment.

Promptly at 11, the entire affair shut down. I mean, very Promptly. If the Scottish are good at one thing, it is closing times. Much of the time, pubs offer a preemptive strike against possible late closings and close two hours early, because, well, you just never know. At this point, we decided to head to our original destination, the Jazz Bar. This basement joint, dimly lit and highlighted with a red glow for extra atmosphere, was free on that night, and the DJ belted out various 50s, 80s and hippy tunes. Completely danceable, and soon the small bar was throbbing with 20- and 30-somethings enjoying a Sunday night out in true Open Doors at Casa style (for those of you who are Bobcats or of the Hocking variety). Drinks were a little on the pricey side, but that’s the cost of ambience (that does not include the cheap-gambling-machine lights of the local pubs). Here we dance the night away (literally, as we meandered home around 3:30 in the morning) with a crowd of curious Scots who thought it was fabulous that we were Americans. It’s the accent. And so the Night ‘Afore turns into the Morning of the Eve, and we prepare to do it all again the next night.