Portugal is a wonderful place. How do I know? Well, there are about 10 times as many dogs wandering the streets (to their credit, a vast majority are collared) there than in Scotland (I think I’ve seen one in 9 months), and yet there is NO dog shit on the sidewalks (background note: NOBODY cleans up after their dogs in Scotland). I find that to be a sign of a truly superior people.
And speaking of shit, I was attacked by seagull excrement this morning. Above our balcony is a seagull nest, and the mother is none too happy that we’ve moved in downstairs. She caws and caws and finally this morning she made a couple of swooping gestures at as, gloriously accompanied by a large amount of falling, liquid bird poop. At first, I thought someone had tossed a glass of water out a window above us, such was the *splat* it made. This was followed by some more angry cawing, before our feathered harasser finally went back to her nest to settle on her eggs.
Thus, we started our day. We woke up rather early to enjoy some sleep out on our balcony while still in the Portuguese early-morning sun. Jonmikel took himself on a mission to find take-away coffee, which doesn’t exist at all here (at least it exists in Scotland, even if to-go cups are wussy, and the coffee is watered-down espresso). So after a fruitless effort, he just had a somewhat bemused girl pour espresso into plastic cups. This way we had at least a little coffee to go with our early morning relaxation regimen.
As the late morning showers rolled in, we headed out for a nice meander around town. We had explored the caves and crevices on the east side of town yesterday, so today we decided to head to the west, out to the marina, where we hoped to book a boat tour for tomorrow. So we… meandered. We walked along the coast until we hit fisherman territory, big signs that said “Professional Fisherman Only,” only in Portuguese, so it was something about “pescadors” or something. We also managed to find a fascinating sign showing a car falling off a cliff into the ocean inside a large red circle with a line through it. I felt that “No Driving Your Car Into the Ocean” would have been a given, but I guess it never helps to have a handy informational sign. Tourists, you know.
We ate lunch over-looking the ocean and watching people play with cats, and dinner over-looking parts of old town and watching girls in stilettos navigate the cobblestone streets. Our waiter for dinner was keen on practicing his English, and explained to us that he’s even learned a bit of German, but that Dutch is a killer. He was also, incidentally, very proud of his scooter, which he let a girl friend of his borrow the other day. Like a true woman, and much to our waiter’s chagrin, she crashed it into a wall. He spent the whole dinner lamenting his decision to loan it out and declaring “Never Again.”
The rest of the night was calm. We booked a trip tomorrow on a pirate ship. So rock on with that. We also had desert at a place right on the street, a very large and very good-looking (I think the reason we had to eat on the street: nothing brings in customers like good-looking sweets) banana split. We also managed to hit up some GIANT cocktails from a bar with street seating. They love their tall drinks here. I had a tasty Blue Lagoon (I’m having a continuous love affair with Blue Curacao) and Jonmikel went with a traditional pina colada, all served in foot-and-a-half long glasses with plenty of flair decorating the top. We even saw a couple get some drinks with sparklers in them. Rock on alcoholic beverages with fireworks. They seem to be a perfect match, things on fire and booze. Indeed.
We also sat for a while and listened to the music in town. Apparently, the big thing here is professional karaoke. All the bands/singers just do covers of good, old fashioned college-bar songs (you know, old stuff you can sing to while drunk, like the “Summer of 69” kind of genre). It’s fun, because you can tell none of them actually speak English; they just mimic sounds they hear, like the guy last night. So basically, professional karaoke. Some of them are fairly talented singers, if they could only get the words right. Though nobody seems to care much. Sun shine, sea air, and plenty of cheap wine will do that, I suppose. Everybody just sings along appropriately.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Friday, May 30, 2008
I forgot to mention our encounter! At the bus station in Faro, a guy comes up, asks if we speak English, and asks if we could spare a Euro. Because he seemed polite and rugged and he had a specific amount of money in mind, we agreed. He was very grateful, and asked where we were from. We said “The States,” knowing that such a statement inevitably leads to political discussions, especially with the presidential campaigns now in full swing. He laughed heartily, and said, “Hey I come from another former British colony! Rhodesia!” Then, like he had experience with blanks stares (which we were not, in fact, giving him on this particular point), he informed us that Rhodesia is now Zimbabwe. We chatted for a while, and I totally believe him that he’s from southern Africa: he had that great not-quite-Aussie accent that many South Africans have. I’ve never met anybody from Zimbabwe, so I was pretty stoked.
Anyway, we slept in today, as the mornings in Albufeira were created to make up for the late nights. They were cool and still, with the exception of relaxing morning noises: the shuffle of opening shops and unrolling tarps (it seems to rain here during the night every night), quiet morning conversation that drifts up to our room as unintelligible musings in muted tones, the clink of coffee cups and the rustle of newspapers. We eventually woke up and meandered downstairs, happily clothed in shorts and light sweatshirts to ward off the late morning rains. It seems to be the norm here: early mornings are clear and sunny; in the late morning, the warm inland air crashes against the cool sea air and creates dark, stormy clouds that never really amount to anything except light showers and the necessity for a sweater. By 2 or 3, the clouds have rolled back inland, still looming ominously as an empty threat to the north, while the sun beats down luxuriously on the bathers below. When the late morning sprinkles come in. outdoor shops dutifully close up and go elsewhere for their mid-day siesta (as common here as it is in Spain), and sunbathers walk the 20 feet to the covered and heated bars that line the beach for a pile of fries and a beer.
As for Jonmikel and myself, we wandered out to find a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, finding a “real” cup of coffee is as impossible here as it is in Scotland. Everything is made with an espresso machine, and if you want anything resembling a large cup of coffee, you have to ask for an espresso watered down. All for the horrendous price of about $4. For a TINY little thing. We really should introduce bottomless cups of coffee made in a pot, as opposed to this expensive espresso stuff.
When the day cleared up, we slapped on our bathing suits and hit the beach. We walked down about a mile to explore some of the pretty wild-looking sandstone cliffs that surround the whole coast of the city. They’re craggy and cavey and moderately dangerous looking, but inside are small tide pools, cool crevices, and all manner of fun. We climbed around a while, poking our heads into small caves, climbing onto the rocks in the middle of the ocean, playing in the water. We even managed to get disapproving glares from a woman whose wonderfully red-headed and curious son was taking a cue from our antics and climbing all over the rocks and poking at tide pools, as well. She was refusing to give in to his youthful enthusiasm for cool sea life, standing back on the beach looking irritated. What bad influences we are. Or rather, what a boring mother.
After shredding our hands and feet on the rough rock, and laying out to soak up some much needed sun (we've been suffering from the fairly common British ailment of vitamin D deficiency...), we headed back to our balcony for a relaxing game of UNO while sipping at some of the famous Portuguese wine we bought earlier, which can be had for about $3 a bottle.
It was a calm night for us, meaning a late dinner, a couple of drinks at an interesting bar featuring a grungy looking cover band, the lead singer of which didn’t actually speak English. He just mimicked the sounds he heard in the songs. I wonder if I sound that bad when I sing Spanish songs?
Anyway, we slept in today, as the mornings in Albufeira were created to make up for the late nights. They were cool and still, with the exception of relaxing morning noises: the shuffle of opening shops and unrolling tarps (it seems to rain here during the night every night), quiet morning conversation that drifts up to our room as unintelligible musings in muted tones, the clink of coffee cups and the rustle of newspapers. We eventually woke up and meandered downstairs, happily clothed in shorts and light sweatshirts to ward off the late morning rains. It seems to be the norm here: early mornings are clear and sunny; in the late morning, the warm inland air crashes against the cool sea air and creates dark, stormy clouds that never really amount to anything except light showers and the necessity for a sweater. By 2 or 3, the clouds have rolled back inland, still looming ominously as an empty threat to the north, while the sun beats down luxuriously on the bathers below. When the late morning sprinkles come in. outdoor shops dutifully close up and go elsewhere for their mid-day siesta (as common here as it is in Spain), and sunbathers walk the 20 feet to the covered and heated bars that line the beach for a pile of fries and a beer.
As for Jonmikel and myself, we wandered out to find a cup of coffee. Unfortunately, finding a “real” cup of coffee is as impossible here as it is in Scotland. Everything is made with an espresso machine, and if you want anything resembling a large cup of coffee, you have to ask for an espresso watered down. All for the horrendous price of about $4. For a TINY little thing. We really should introduce bottomless cups of coffee made in a pot, as opposed to this expensive espresso stuff.
When the day cleared up, we slapped on our bathing suits and hit the beach. We walked down about a mile to explore some of the pretty wild-looking sandstone cliffs that surround the whole coast of the city. They’re craggy and cavey and moderately dangerous looking, but inside are small tide pools, cool crevices, and all manner of fun. We climbed around a while, poking our heads into small caves, climbing onto the rocks in the middle of the ocean, playing in the water. We even managed to get disapproving glares from a woman whose wonderfully red-headed and curious son was taking a cue from our antics and climbing all over the rocks and poking at tide pools, as well. She was refusing to give in to his youthful enthusiasm for cool sea life, standing back on the beach looking irritated. What bad influences we are. Or rather, what a boring mother.
After shredding our hands and feet on the rough rock, and laying out to soak up some much needed sun (we've been suffering from the fairly common British ailment of vitamin D deficiency...), we headed back to our balcony for a relaxing game of UNO while sipping at some of the famous Portuguese wine we bought earlier, which can be had for about $3 a bottle.
It was a calm night for us, meaning a late dinner, a couple of drinks at an interesting bar featuring a grungy looking cover band, the lead singer of which didn’t actually speak English. He just mimicked the sounds he heard in the songs. I wonder if I sound that bad when I sing Spanish songs?
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Highlight of the day:
We're sitting at a wonderfully touristy restaurant in Albufeira, Portugal, right on the ocean. It's a little chilly as the sun goes down, so heaters are going at the outdoor dining area. Jonmikel and I are relaxing after a day of traveling, sipping some wine and enjoying a large pot of stewed shellfish called a cataplana (extremely tasty, if you’re ever in Portugal!). There is am English couple sitting next to us, older, perhaps 70, fresh off the boat, if you would. They are friendly enough to their server, a young black man, mid-20s, swarthy and handsome, and he is quite friendly to them in return. He chats them up a bit, and we all know how I can't help but listen in on conversations. They laugh some, and then the woman says, "Well, it's obvious you're not from Portugal," referring to his dark skin. He laughs, as if he's gotten it before, and says, "Sure I am. I was born here!"
It's fascinating that English people assume that if you're not white, you're not European. This young black man MUST be African, NOT Portuguese (ignoring the fact that here in Edinburgh there are plenty of African, Asian, etc. people who are actually British)! Incidentally, my first impression of Portugal is that it is incredibly multi-ethnic (not only is it close to the African/Arab/Berber populations of northern Africa but all citizens of Brazil are eligible for Portuguese citizenship). That's not to say that there is no ethnic tension; multi-cultural and non-discriminatory are two different things. But there are so many people in this small beach city of all kinds of ethnic backgrounds all speaking Portuguese, all locals. All from up North somewhere, all Portuguese citizens. And then a bunch of crazy British people running around.
We flew into Faro, Portugal earlier in the day, getting up at 5 am to make our morning flight. We got a good deal on the flights, hence the ridiculous time. But no worries, because this was going to be a vacation of sun and sand and ocean breezes and frozen cocktails and all those things that come with them. As per my good luck on planes, I get stuck in front of a family who lets their young daughter kick the back of my seat. They got it when I glared at them, but every time they would tell the girl to stop, she would start screaming and crying, and they would try to explain to her that this was MY seat and she couldn't kick it. All I'm thinking is... she's too young to care about why she shouldn't kick my seat, just stop her! Spoiled brat. So the parents moved her one seat over so she could kick the seat next to mine, which was empty. So instead of teaching her not to do that, they just moved her. I hate stupid parents.
The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful. Faro was a neat little city, very Morocco-ish, complete with a maze-like and meandering old Medina within the confines of an old, Moorish, 13th century wall. There was also a neat castle inside that looks very modern now because it has been in continuous use (mostly as a military post) since the 1100s. How rockin’ is that? You can definitely see all the Berber influence there, in addition to all the influence Americans generally think of as Spanish as seen in Central and South America. You know, the big public squares surrounded by fruit trees and churches… that kinds thing. It’s funny, ‘cause it’s all Muslim. The coastal areas, mostly fishing ports and small marshy enclaves for fishing boats around the city, all reminded me of Asilah, Morocco, minus the rain (I was there in the winter… NOT the time to go). It just had the same feel.
But eventually, we decided we had to get to our destination: Albufeira (I should really look that up; it’s an Arabic word), about 35 km down the coast. We had read many complaints about the bus system but didn't want to shell out the 45 Euros for a taxi, so we chanced it. Aside from us not being able to read the bus signs (in English, I might add) and missing our first bus, we both found the system to be easy and cheap and well within the spirit of foreign adventure travel. Our hotel was exactly what we thought it was going to be: basic but clean, and right in the center of old town. For about $40 a night, it was brilliant. Our GIANT balcony (appreciative shout-out to EasyJet for that one!) overlooked part of the main drag of the old town, onto stone, almost mosaic-like sidewalks, street stalls, and rowdy bars and restaurants that partied until about 4am, festivities in which we dutifully partook.
We're sitting at a wonderfully touristy restaurant in Albufeira, Portugal, right on the ocean. It's a little chilly as the sun goes down, so heaters are going at the outdoor dining area. Jonmikel and I are relaxing after a day of traveling, sipping some wine and enjoying a large pot of stewed shellfish called a cataplana (extremely tasty, if you’re ever in Portugal!). There is am English couple sitting next to us, older, perhaps 70, fresh off the boat, if you would. They are friendly enough to their server, a young black man, mid-20s, swarthy and handsome, and he is quite friendly to them in return. He chats them up a bit, and we all know how I can't help but listen in on conversations. They laugh some, and then the woman says, "Well, it's obvious you're not from Portugal," referring to his dark skin. He laughs, as if he's gotten it before, and says, "Sure I am. I was born here!"
It's fascinating that English people assume that if you're not white, you're not European. This young black man MUST be African, NOT Portuguese (ignoring the fact that here in Edinburgh there are plenty of African, Asian, etc. people who are actually British)! Incidentally, my first impression of Portugal is that it is incredibly multi-ethnic (not only is it close to the African/Arab/Berber populations of northern Africa but all citizens of Brazil are eligible for Portuguese citizenship). That's not to say that there is no ethnic tension; multi-cultural and non-discriminatory are two different things. But there are so many people in this small beach city of all kinds of ethnic backgrounds all speaking Portuguese, all locals. All from up North somewhere, all Portuguese citizens. And then a bunch of crazy British people running around.
We flew into Faro, Portugal earlier in the day, getting up at 5 am to make our morning flight. We got a good deal on the flights, hence the ridiculous time. But no worries, because this was going to be a vacation of sun and sand and ocean breezes and frozen cocktails and all those things that come with them. As per my good luck on planes, I get stuck in front of a family who lets their young daughter kick the back of my seat. They got it when I glared at them, but every time they would tell the girl to stop, she would start screaming and crying, and they would try to explain to her that this was MY seat and she couldn't kick it. All I'm thinking is... she's too young to care about why she shouldn't kick my seat, just stop her! Spoiled brat. So the parents moved her one seat over so she could kick the seat next to mine, which was empty. So instead of teaching her not to do that, they just moved her. I hate stupid parents.
The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful. Faro was a neat little city, very Morocco-ish, complete with a maze-like and meandering old Medina within the confines of an old, Moorish, 13th century wall. There was also a neat castle inside that looks very modern now because it has been in continuous use (mostly as a military post) since the 1100s. How rockin’ is that? You can definitely see all the Berber influence there, in addition to all the influence Americans generally think of as Spanish as seen in Central and South America. You know, the big public squares surrounded by fruit trees and churches… that kinds thing. It’s funny, ‘cause it’s all Muslim. The coastal areas, mostly fishing ports and small marshy enclaves for fishing boats around the city, all reminded me of Asilah, Morocco, minus the rain (I was there in the winter… NOT the time to go). It just had the same feel.
But eventually, we decided we had to get to our destination: Albufeira (I should really look that up; it’s an Arabic word), about 35 km down the coast. We had read many complaints about the bus system but didn't want to shell out the 45 Euros for a taxi, so we chanced it. Aside from us not being able to read the bus signs (in English, I might add) and missing our first bus, we both found the system to be easy and cheap and well within the spirit of foreign adventure travel. Our hotel was exactly what we thought it was going to be: basic but clean, and right in the center of old town. For about $40 a night, it was brilliant. Our GIANT balcony (appreciative shout-out to EasyJet for that one!) overlooked part of the main drag of the old town, onto stone, almost mosaic-like sidewalks, street stalls, and rowdy bars and restaurants that partied until about 4am, festivities in which we dutifully partook.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Bluegrass in Scotland
Last night we managed to have a nice night out at the Village Pub with the Leith Folk Club. We had seen an advertisement for this roots music festival while having a drink at the Tass (an interesting pub in itself: it's right on the Royal Mile, prime tourist real estate, but on most nights there is live music played by local musicians who just know each other and want to get together and sing old Folk/Scottish diddies. What they play depends on who shows up, sometimes a banjo, sometimes a fiddle, sometimes a pianist, who oddly doesn't bring his own piano... you get the idea. But it also attracts a bunch of locals on these nights, too, as opposed to merely passing tourists. It's quite nice). I noticed that the festival featured many American bluegrass stuff, and since it had been AGES since we heard stuff that reminded us of home in the mountains, we decided to just go. I emailed the dude who runs the non-profit, volunteer Managed LFC, and he reserved us a couple of tickets for the night.
The couple we were seeing was Dana and Susan Robinson, from Asheville, North Carolina. A couple of interesting, friendly, granola "New Age Hippies," as I like to call them. They would fit in great in a place like Gardiner, or in a group of my brother's friends. Not quite hippies, because they drink too much bottled water and go to yoga classes, but very environmentally and socially conscience, so not quite yuppy. He played an acoustic guitar and the harmonica (and sometimes both at once, a la Bob Dylan) and the fiddle, and she played various percussion instruments as well as the banjo in an amazingly effortless and way cool style. Their voices were rough, like an self-respecting folk singer's should be, and they played a decent mix of old timey stuff, from both Appalachia and early 20th century "Out West" kind of songs, as well as a lot of their own music. It was all very nostalgic and paid tribute to the Hobo in all of us, well at least us Yanks. I'm sure who else there would have been an American, but there were definitely some people singing songs that most non-Yanks would never hear.
One thing about the Scottish... no dancing. Whenever there is a folk session or a concert like this one, everybody just sits quietly, maybe tapping a shoe or two. If this concert had been in the States, or in a place like Gardiner, everybody would have been up dancing and singing and truly appreciating the music. The Scottish are really missing out on this one.
Afterwards, we made our rounds, chatting with the bar manager, the Folk Club manager, the band. They all seemed excited to have new converts, and its such a shame we didn't find them sooner. It would have been a good spot to meet new people and do some volunteering or something. But they all kind of reminded me of Gardiner people, maybe that's why. We talked baseball shop with Dana and Susan, who got a kick out of our stories of the baseball league here. We bought an album of theirs to pass to Jenny Golding, who runs the Yellowstone Music Festival back in Montana. We think it would be right up her alley, plus the Robinsons expressed an interest in playing at a concert like that, you know, small town, beer, artisans and people dancing. It was nice to get out and about and talk to some people about all kinds of stuff. Turns out the guy who run the Folk Club, Martin, takes his family out west to go skiing every year. They were looking for a new place to go, as Colorado gets old. We suggested Big Sky, and they seemed up for it. Maybe we will have some visitors!
Incidentally, we also ended up winning a bottle of wine and tickets to another concert through a raffle there, so it looks like we're going again next week!
The couple we were seeing was Dana and Susan Robinson, from Asheville, North Carolina. A couple of interesting, friendly, granola "New Age Hippies," as I like to call them. They would fit in great in a place like Gardiner, or in a group of my brother's friends. Not quite hippies, because they drink too much bottled water and go to yoga classes, but very environmentally and socially conscience, so not quite yuppy. He played an acoustic guitar and the harmonica (and sometimes both at once, a la Bob Dylan) and the fiddle, and she played various percussion instruments as well as the banjo in an amazingly effortless and way cool style. Their voices were rough, like an self-respecting folk singer's should be, and they played a decent mix of old timey stuff, from both Appalachia and early 20th century "Out West" kind of songs, as well as a lot of their own music. It was all very nostalgic and paid tribute to the Hobo in all of us, well at least us Yanks. I'm sure who else there would have been an American, but there were definitely some people singing songs that most non-Yanks would never hear.
One thing about the Scottish... no dancing. Whenever there is a folk session or a concert like this one, everybody just sits quietly, maybe tapping a shoe or two. If this concert had been in the States, or in a place like Gardiner, everybody would have been up dancing and singing and truly appreciating the music. The Scottish are really missing out on this one.
Afterwards, we made our rounds, chatting with the bar manager, the Folk Club manager, the band. They all seemed excited to have new converts, and its such a shame we didn't find them sooner. It would have been a good spot to meet new people and do some volunteering or something. But they all kind of reminded me of Gardiner people, maybe that's why. We talked baseball shop with Dana and Susan, who got a kick out of our stories of the baseball league here. We bought an album of theirs to pass to Jenny Golding, who runs the Yellowstone Music Festival back in Montana. We think it would be right up her alley, plus the Robinsons expressed an interest in playing at a concert like that, you know, small town, beer, artisans and people dancing. It was nice to get out and about and talk to some people about all kinds of stuff. Turns out the guy who run the Folk Club, Martin, takes his family out west to go skiing every year. They were looking for a new place to go, as Colorado gets old. We suggested Big Sky, and they seemed up for it. Maybe we will have some visitors!
Incidentally, we also ended up winning a bottle of wine and tickets to another concert through a raffle there, so it looks like we're going again next week!
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Weird British #6
Strange thing about the British #6:
They love calling tasty things by names that make them sound like medical devices: cookies are called "digestives" and a container of yogurt is a "biopot." See what I mean?
Monday, May 26, 2008
Baseball and Beer, but not together
Only in Scotland could you have a day of truly perfect weather - sunny, low-60s, not a cloud in the sky kind of thing - and a wind chill of damn near 40. Really. That was what the last couple of days have been. You look outside and think, "Wow, this is great!" and run down the stairs in a t-shirt only to catch hypothermia as soon as you hit the great outdoors. Brrrrrr.
So on this lovely windy day we decided to trek out to Duddingston for a alleged baseball game. There is ACTUALLY a Scottish Baseball League, and Edinburgh happens to have two teams. They play each other, oddly enough. There were a surprising (or maybe not so surprising if I had thought about it) number of Yanks on the teams, and it seemed odd to hear the American drawl again. My host brother back in Morocco used to tease me and my fellow Americans about our long, drawn out syllables, and after hearing only chipper British and roguish Scottish accents for 9 months, I've come to the conclusion that the teasing was well deserved.
At the game, we were the only spectators who weren't related to any of the players, aside from various drunks/neighborhood kids who stopped by periodically, spent 10 minutes asking questions about how the silly game was played, then 10 minutes wondering how Americans could ever enjoy watching something so droll, and then immediately departing to watch golf (no kidding on that; Scottish teenagers enjoy golf more than baseball!). I really wanted one group of teenagers get beamed by a ball because the only thing they could come up with about baseball was, "Oh, like the Yankees!" Chumps. I think baseball for them is like Rugby for Yanks: all Americans know that there is a sport played in the UK called rugby, but none of us have any idea how it's played, and put it on TV for us and we stare blankly at the screen and even drool a little with disinterest.
BUT the most fascinating thing about Scottish baseball is that the most important (and, indeed, the ONLY) way to score is to steal bases. It was the only way games ever progressed, and Scottish baseball has these complicated rules about who can steal when and how and who can be given a base, etc. There are things like a "Ball rolled into the equipment" rule, and the "Catcher is stuck in the net" rule, and the "Ball didn't actually sail into the home run zone, but they let it roll there on purpose" rule and the ever-popular "Ball just bounced over the wall into busy traffic" rule. Each rule involved some sort of Scottish jig, some wild hand signals, and the advancement of a randomly determined number of base runners. As far as I could tell, anyway. Oh, and they used wooden bats, which is kind of wild.
But it was entertaining, though FREEZING. When we couldn't take the cold anymore, we bundled up and made our way back to the Sheep's Heid Inn, where they were having a Beginning of Spring International Beer Festival. We'd been there on a Sunday afternoon before, but it has NEVER been as crowded as it was yesterday. The place was packed with tourists and locals and Just-Out-of-Churchers drinking happily in the beer garden, which was thankfully shielded from much of the arctic blast. I had a tasty little chocolate stout from Orkny while Jonmikel enjoyed an excellent amber WildCat Ale. It has been a long time since I'd had an actual stout, and I reveled in the fact that stouts are great sources of antioxidants not found in most other beers. Seriously.
So on this lovely windy day we decided to trek out to Duddingston for a alleged baseball game. There is ACTUALLY a Scottish Baseball League, and Edinburgh happens to have two teams. They play each other, oddly enough. There were a surprising (or maybe not so surprising if I had thought about it) number of Yanks on the teams, and it seemed odd to hear the American drawl again. My host brother back in Morocco used to tease me and my fellow Americans about our long, drawn out syllables, and after hearing only chipper British and roguish Scottish accents for 9 months, I've come to the conclusion that the teasing was well deserved.
At the game, we were the only spectators who weren't related to any of the players, aside from various drunks/neighborhood kids who stopped by periodically, spent 10 minutes asking questions about how the silly game was played, then 10 minutes wondering how Americans could ever enjoy watching something so droll, and then immediately departing to watch golf (no kidding on that; Scottish teenagers enjoy golf more than baseball!). I really wanted one group of teenagers get beamed by a ball because the only thing they could come up with about baseball was, "Oh, like the Yankees!" Chumps. I think baseball for them is like Rugby for Yanks: all Americans know that there is a sport played in the UK called rugby, but none of us have any idea how it's played, and put it on TV for us and we stare blankly at the screen and even drool a little with disinterest.
BUT the most fascinating thing about Scottish baseball is that the most important (and, indeed, the ONLY) way to score is to steal bases. It was the only way games ever progressed, and Scottish baseball has these complicated rules about who can steal when and how and who can be given a base, etc. There are things like a "Ball rolled into the equipment" rule, and the "Catcher is stuck in the net" rule, and the "Ball didn't actually sail into the home run zone, but they let it roll there on purpose" rule and the ever-popular "Ball just bounced over the wall into busy traffic" rule. Each rule involved some sort of Scottish jig, some wild hand signals, and the advancement of a randomly determined number of base runners. As far as I could tell, anyway. Oh, and they used wooden bats, which is kind of wild.
But it was entertaining, though FREEZING. When we couldn't take the cold anymore, we bundled up and made our way back to the Sheep's Heid Inn, where they were having a Beginning of Spring International Beer Festival. We'd been there on a Sunday afternoon before, but it has NEVER been as crowded as it was yesterday. The place was packed with tourists and locals and Just-Out-of-Churchers drinking happily in the beer garden, which was thankfully shielded from much of the arctic blast. I had a tasty little chocolate stout from Orkny while Jonmikel enjoyed an excellent amber WildCat Ale. It has been a long time since I'd had an actual stout, and I reveled in the fact that stouts are great sources of antioxidants not found in most other beers. Seriously.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Midnight Showing of Indy!
Warning: some minor spoilers for Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull!
The growing popularity of artsy European-style film festivals means that Hollywood celebrities and critics have forgotten how to enjoy fun movies. If it's not existential or over-the-top witty or just downright depressing, movies are deemed childish, droll, uninteresting. Admittedly, there was less fanfare at Cannes coming out of the premier of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (horrendous name aside) than going in, which proves my point.
George Lucas told people not to expect the greatest movie of all time. He told people to expect an Indiana Jones movie. On this point, LucasFilms delivers once again.
Right down to the classic Paramount logo that graces the beginning of the film, fading into a scene of the movie in characteristic Indy fashion, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is 100% Indiana Jones. There's whip swinging and chases done with vintage-era cars. There are hat-saving enterprises and wonderfully foreign bad-guys. This time, our beloved Indy is a decorated Colonel, having done his patriotic duty in World World II as a spy in Germany (reminiscent of his comments in previous movies: "Nazis, I hate these guys") only to be captured by his comrades, the affable Russians, in their search for paranormal power. They are led by the ever-outstanding Cate Blanchett, playing a believable Russian who, like the Walter Donovans and Nazis before her, is driven not so much by the search for world domination (though it doesn't hurt), but by the almost academic need for knowledge of and control over the otherworldly, this time secrets held in Area 51 and ancient Peruvian temples.
Harrison Ford once again thrusts himself readily into the role of Professor Indy, and the drive of academic curiosity that got Karen Allen, reprising her role as the sassy Marion Ravenwood, into trouble in Raiders of the Lost Ark, hits home for all those who hang out with any real archaeologists. Discovery wins out over personal safety every time, and Ford embodies this drive with gusto. The nostalgic nods to Dr. Henri Jones and the late Marcus Brody are well deserved and well placed, bringing a tear to the eyes of longtime fans.
The dialog and sometimes over-the-top acting is right out of the 80s action film genre, as it should be as a revival of the Indiana Jones series (it feels odd not to say "Trilogy" doesn't it?), and even the clever dusty cinematography screams classic Indy. Unfortunately, Lucas can't help but to insert his mastery of his own paranormal nemesis: computer animation. The only time this really becomes a problem (aside from all of the new and redone Star Wars movies), is a deplorable toast to Tarzan, which adds nothing to the plot or the action sequence except to make fans squirm uncomfortably at the fallacy. Anthropologically speaking, one of the greatest shortcomings of the movie is not the complete lack of historical and archaeological feasibility (I mean, really, are any of the movies honest in this respect?), but instead the whole idea put forward that aliens landed and taught the native Peruvians agriculture and irrigation techniques. While this theory was popular during the mid-20th century, it was invented only because Europeans simply could not believe that Native Americans were mentally capable of independently developing agriculture or "civilization"; aliens were said to be the only explanation. It's taken real anthropologists YEARS to begin to dispel this insulting notion and undo the damage, and Indy has managed to break that down in a single sentence. Needless to say, the slight could have, and should have, been easily covered up. A benign alien temple in the middle of the jungle is not nearly as insulting as aliens being the only reason Native Americans could build temples in the first place.
But otherwise, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a glorious romp through the nostalgic Indy in all of us, and is delightfully the first time most worshipers of my generation can remember seeing him on the big screen. The alien line is done no less believably than a 1000-year-old Crusader, or an Ark full of skin-melting divine will, or heart-eating cults, and the tempo remains fast-paced, leaving no time to think about how unrealistic it all is. Ford looks fit and capable, Blanchett is diabolical and slightly unhinged, Allen is refreshing, and Shia LeBeouf, as Indy's rebellious young sidekick, is endearing (though perhaps not yet experienced enough to base a new set of movies on: producers take note and don't ruin it!). But remember: don't expect brilliant philosophical exercises. Have fun!
The growing popularity of artsy European-style film festivals means that Hollywood celebrities and critics have forgotten how to enjoy fun movies. If it's not existential or over-the-top witty or just downright depressing, movies are deemed childish, droll, uninteresting. Admittedly, there was less fanfare at Cannes coming out of the premier of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (horrendous name aside) than going in, which proves my point.
George Lucas told people not to expect the greatest movie of all time. He told people to expect an Indiana Jones movie. On this point, LucasFilms delivers once again.
Right down to the classic Paramount logo that graces the beginning of the film, fading into a scene of the movie in characteristic Indy fashion, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is 100% Indiana Jones. There's whip swinging and chases done with vintage-era cars. There are hat-saving enterprises and wonderfully foreign bad-guys. This time, our beloved Indy is a decorated Colonel, having done his patriotic duty in World World II as a spy in Germany (reminiscent of his comments in previous movies: "Nazis, I hate these guys") only to be captured by his comrades, the affable Russians, in their search for paranormal power. They are led by the ever-outstanding Cate Blanchett, playing a believable Russian who, like the Walter Donovans and Nazis before her, is driven not so much by the search for world domination (though it doesn't hurt), but by the almost academic need for knowledge of and control over the otherworldly, this time secrets held in Area 51 and ancient Peruvian temples.
Harrison Ford once again thrusts himself readily into the role of Professor Indy, and the drive of academic curiosity that got Karen Allen, reprising her role as the sassy Marion Ravenwood, into trouble in Raiders of the Lost Ark, hits home for all those who hang out with any real archaeologists. Discovery wins out over personal safety every time, and Ford embodies this drive with gusto. The nostalgic nods to Dr. Henri Jones and the late Marcus Brody are well deserved and well placed, bringing a tear to the eyes of longtime fans.
The dialog and sometimes over-the-top acting is right out of the 80s action film genre, as it should be as a revival of the Indiana Jones series (it feels odd not to say "Trilogy" doesn't it?), and even the clever dusty cinematography screams classic Indy. Unfortunately, Lucas can't help but to insert his mastery of his own paranormal nemesis: computer animation. The only time this really becomes a problem (aside from all of the new and redone Star Wars movies), is a deplorable toast to Tarzan, which adds nothing to the plot or the action sequence except to make fans squirm uncomfortably at the fallacy. Anthropologically speaking, one of the greatest shortcomings of the movie is not the complete lack of historical and archaeological feasibility (I mean, really, are any of the movies honest in this respect?), but instead the whole idea put forward that aliens landed and taught the native Peruvians agriculture and irrigation techniques. While this theory was popular during the mid-20th century, it was invented only because Europeans simply could not believe that Native Americans were mentally capable of independently developing agriculture or "civilization"; aliens were said to be the only explanation. It's taken real anthropologists YEARS to begin to dispel this insulting notion and undo the damage, and Indy has managed to break that down in a single sentence. Needless to say, the slight could have, and should have, been easily covered up. A benign alien temple in the middle of the jungle is not nearly as insulting as aliens being the only reason Native Americans could build temples in the first place.
But otherwise, The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is a glorious romp through the nostalgic Indy in all of us, and is delightfully the first time most worshipers of my generation can remember seeing him on the big screen. The alien line is done no less believably than a 1000-year-old Crusader, or an Ark full of skin-melting divine will, or heart-eating cults, and the tempo remains fast-paced, leaving no time to think about how unrealistic it all is. Ford looks fit and capable, Blanchett is diabolical and slightly unhinged, Allen is refreshing, and Shia LeBeouf, as Indy's rebellious young sidekick, is endearing (though perhaps not yet experienced enough to base a new set of movies on: producers take note and don't ruin it!). But remember: don't expect brilliant philosophical exercises. Have fun!
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Strange British #5
Odd thing about the British #5:
The biggest complaint from guys about girls' kissing styles is that too often, girls lean to the left when going in for the kiss. Seriously. I read it in the Guardian.
The biggest complaint from guys about girls' kissing styles is that too often, girls lean to the left when going in for the kiss. Seriously. I read it in the Guardian.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Scottish Weather
Good news: we traveled to the beach at exactly the right time! We hit up the hot weather, missed the Tuesday showers on the return train, and got home just in time for the weather to return to normal: dull, gray, low 50s, rainy. You know, miserable. I have an odd temperature range: I hate anything between 40 and 65 degrees. I want my winters freezing and my summer smoldering. Is that too much to ask?
Also, Jonmikel has an interview with the Nature Conservancy coming up next week; this could be the job he's been looking for for year! It's in Lander, Wyoming, near mountains. So wish him luck!
I also thing I forgot to mention our first brush with thunderstorms. Last week as we sat outside a Royal Mile pub, being touristy yet native and enjoying the brief warm stint, we heard thunder! Real, live, LOUD thunder! I don't know if storms are rare here, but this is the first time we had heard any since we arrived, and the tourists lining the cobblestone walkways ooed and ahhed appropriately, then ran for cover. This was followed by some drizzle, so Jonmikel and I remained outside with our beers and propped up under our little umbrella when it got a little too heavy. This voracious downpour only last a few minutes, but we did get some fun looks from passersby. What can I say, we're incredibly cute. :-)
Also, Jonmikel has an interview with the Nature Conservancy coming up next week; this could be the job he's been looking for for year! It's in Lander, Wyoming, near mountains. So wish him luck!
I also thing I forgot to mention our first brush with thunderstorms. Last week as we sat outside a Royal Mile pub, being touristy yet native and enjoying the brief warm stint, we heard thunder! Real, live, LOUD thunder! I don't know if storms are rare here, but this is the first time we had heard any since we arrived, and the tourists lining the cobblestone walkways ooed and ahhed appropriately, then ran for cover. This was followed by some drizzle, so Jonmikel and I remained outside with our beers and propped up under our little umbrella when it got a little too heavy. This voracious downpour only last a few minutes, but we did get some fun looks from passersby. What can I say, we're incredibly cute. :-)
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
I bet you didn't know that in Brighton they collect recycling at 5 am? Oh wait, I guess you did. Well, they do. Everyday, apparently. Next time, we get a room away from the recycling bins.
Today was our return trip; it's always depressing when you have to watch the beach and the sun and the ocean slip away. Not that Edinburgh isn't on the ocean or doesn't have a beach, because it is and it does. Hmmmm. The upside is that we ganked a role of toilet paper from the hotel room so that we wouldn't have to run to the store as soon as we got home. How's that for economical?
Also, despite the sunburn on my arms and shoulders, I have noticed that even a day of sun will bring my freckles out in force! I'm stoked, because last summer they barely came out at all. I do, however, chalk that up to them just being so confused because they all came out in Morocco, and then had to go away again when reentering Montana spring, which is like winter. I thought maybe the distress would send them packing for good, but it appears they just went on sabbatical. Fair enough, I say. I only hope we can get some sun back in Edinburgh so they don't go away again. It's not looking good... I love my freckles.
And I am rather burned on my arms, though the rest of me saw SPF 8 sunscreen (all I need, even in the tropics) before seeing the sun. The train ride was wonderfully uneventful, and we stopped to grab a few more fun shots at platform 9 3/4. No crazy old men on the train, just light rain and naps and thesis work. How unappealing is this real world thing, huh?
Today was our return trip; it's always depressing when you have to watch the beach and the sun and the ocean slip away. Not that Edinburgh isn't on the ocean or doesn't have a beach, because it is and it does. Hmmmm. The upside is that we ganked a role of toilet paper from the hotel room so that we wouldn't have to run to the store as soon as we got home. How's that for economical?
Also, despite the sunburn on my arms and shoulders, I have noticed that even a day of sun will bring my freckles out in force! I'm stoked, because last summer they barely came out at all. I do, however, chalk that up to them just being so confused because they all came out in Morocco, and then had to go away again when reentering Montana spring, which is like winter. I thought maybe the distress would send them packing for good, but it appears they just went on sabbatical. Fair enough, I say. I only hope we can get some sun back in Edinburgh so they don't go away again. It's not looking good... I love my freckles.
And I am rather burned on my arms, though the rest of me saw SPF 8 sunscreen (all I need, even in the tropics) before seeing the sun. The train ride was wonderfully uneventful, and we stopped to grab a few more fun shots at platform 9 3/4. No crazy old men on the train, just light rain and naps and thesis work. How unappealing is this real world thing, huh?
Monday, May 12, 2008
Life on Brighton Beach
I bet you didn't know that in Brighton, recycling collection begins at 5 am. I didn't either. But now I do. It came right after a gaggle of giggling girls swept by our room doing that drunkenly thoughtful "SHHHHHHH" really loudly to each other. Which of course came right after the sun came up, because 5 am is when it gets light here. Ridiculous. At any rate, I was already awake and drifting peacefully back to sleep when my poor brain was slammed awake by the crash bash smash of oodles upon oodles of glass bottles from the giant inflatable cow bar across the street being hurled unceremoniously from large metal bins into large metal garbage trucks. Not the best morning in the world.
But we do get up and leisurely mosey down to the breakfast room to partake in what is widely considered the best part of this hotel: the buffet (well, okay, the location directly across from the world famous Brighton Palace Pier I guess would be the best). But the breakfast was certainly nothing to be scoffed at, so after my fill of toast, baked beans, and bacon, we headed off to enjoy the summer sun.
Already hot at 10 in the morning, we stepped out onto the pier to see if we could spot the buildings in this picture I have of me in very attractive pink rain boots (very in style in England today!), a pink umbrella and a little-boy bowl haircut. It was taken probably 20 years ago (ha! I can actually say that now!) during a Christmas vacation in London. Our mission for the day was to find that spot again. However, the city is so much more built up today, plus the British have this great habit of tearing down pretty old buildings to replace them with ugly new ones, that we totally failed in this mission. We walked up and down the beach and the main drag to no avail. We couldn't even find equivalent hills. I really think the place has changed that much.
We were totally disappointed, but we did manage to scope out a few bars and seafood shacks that we wanted to patronize for dinner. Many bars are located right down on the beach, which is where my ideal bar should be. It's all pebble beaches here, so no running sand through my toes as I sip a pina colada and peal shrimp (think: Key West), but the ocean (the English Channel, actually) is always calming, and the sun saw fit to bust through the notoriously lackluster and dreary British weather to bring us clear skies and sunburns galore.
So we picked up some sunscreen, too. A little late for me.
We make our way from one side of town to the other, stopping by the famous Royal Pavilion on the way. I'm not sure what George IV was thinking; more like he just wasn't. It's big and gaudy and surrounded by big and gaudy gardens filled with tourists lazing about and sneaking pictures of street musicians so they don't have to pay them (one of my biggest pet peeves actually). The soft gray stone would look soft and cool and caringly worked if not for the total lack of consideration for good taste the building was built with. It has towers sprouting from every orifice, octopusing their ways upward in a hurry to reach the heavens like worried evangelists. Turrets crowd the rooftops in imitation of Mosques Gone Wild, in a very non-Halal way. The basic design comes from "The Orient," I suppose, during a time when everything non-Western was considered high culture in very stereotypical form and function.
It being gaudy and exotic and eccentric and slightly ADD in nature, I loved it.
We then hit up the beach for some much needed sun bathing. By "much needed" I mean that I had already burnt the crap out of my arms, so really didn't need any more sun at all. But that has never stopped me before! So we headed out, armed with our brand new, 2 pound beach mats (very posh), a giant bottle of water, and out bathing suits. I even tried jumping in the water, just to say I had been in English Channel. This was immediately followed by an emphatic and totally unavoidable, "Oh SHIT, that's cold." And indeed it was quite cold.
After a stint on the beach, we began a sojourn back to the main drag (we had found the furthest beach I could comfortably walk to with my bum ankle), stopping for a rousing game of putt-putt, which, as per usual, I lost by about 10000 strokes. Seriously. The boy used to play real golf with business compatriots. How can I compare? On top of that, while beach hopping in my bathing suit, I managed to lose my shirt, which prompted me to improvise using a scarf I happened to bring with me. Fortunately, it seemed to work out rather well. I have a taste for beach wear.
This excitement was then followed by a stop-by-stop journey backwards. We stopped in at a couple of bars, accompanied by pots of various kinds of shellfish served in ocean-side stands. We watched table umbrellas attack unsuspecting tourists. We observed a fight between rakishly trashy teenagers/young adults arguing over who stole whose cell phones and who was pressing charges and who should go home with the various men that were involved. It was kind of like being back in Kentucky (ahem).
And of course, we had to stop by the Pier in order to utilize the vast assortment of video games. I promptly schooled Jonmikel in the fine art of shooting games, and even tried my hand at this ghetto horse racing game. Real horseback riding is waaaay easier than that thing, unless there's something about British horses I don't know. Then JM schooled me in car racing, which is completely unfair because I am the better real-life driver. :-P
Between the beach and the spa, I have never been so relaxed. Recently, anyway.
But we do get up and leisurely mosey down to the breakfast room to partake in what is widely considered the best part of this hotel: the buffet (well, okay, the location directly across from the world famous Brighton Palace Pier I guess would be the best). But the breakfast was certainly nothing to be scoffed at, so after my fill of toast, baked beans, and bacon, we headed off to enjoy the summer sun.
Already hot at 10 in the morning, we stepped out onto the pier to see if we could spot the buildings in this picture I have of me in very attractive pink rain boots (very in style in England today!), a pink umbrella and a little-boy bowl haircut. It was taken probably 20 years ago (ha! I can actually say that now!) during a Christmas vacation in London. Our mission for the day was to find that spot again. However, the city is so much more built up today, plus the British have this great habit of tearing down pretty old buildings to replace them with ugly new ones, that we totally failed in this mission. We walked up and down the beach and the main drag to no avail. We couldn't even find equivalent hills. I really think the place has changed that much.
We were totally disappointed, but we did manage to scope out a few bars and seafood shacks that we wanted to patronize for dinner. Many bars are located right down on the beach, which is where my ideal bar should be. It's all pebble beaches here, so no running sand through my toes as I sip a pina colada and peal shrimp (think: Key West), but the ocean (the English Channel, actually) is always calming, and the sun saw fit to bust through the notoriously lackluster and dreary British weather to bring us clear skies and sunburns galore.
So we picked up some sunscreen, too. A little late for me.
We make our way from one side of town to the other, stopping by the famous Royal Pavilion on the way. I'm not sure what George IV was thinking; more like he just wasn't. It's big and gaudy and surrounded by big and gaudy gardens filled with tourists lazing about and sneaking pictures of street musicians so they don't have to pay them (one of my biggest pet peeves actually). The soft gray stone would look soft and cool and caringly worked if not for the total lack of consideration for good taste the building was built with. It has towers sprouting from every orifice, octopusing their ways upward in a hurry to reach the heavens like worried evangelists. Turrets crowd the rooftops in imitation of Mosques Gone Wild, in a very non-Halal way. The basic design comes from "The Orient," I suppose, during a time when everything non-Western was considered high culture in very stereotypical form and function.
It being gaudy and exotic and eccentric and slightly ADD in nature, I loved it.
We then hit up the beach for some much needed sun bathing. By "much needed" I mean that I had already burnt the crap out of my arms, so really didn't need any more sun at all. But that has never stopped me before! So we headed out, armed with our brand new, 2 pound beach mats (very posh), a giant bottle of water, and out bathing suits. I even tried jumping in the water, just to say I had been in English Channel. This was immediately followed by an emphatic and totally unavoidable, "Oh SHIT, that's cold." And indeed it was quite cold.
After a stint on the beach, we began a sojourn back to the main drag (we had found the furthest beach I could comfortably walk to with my bum ankle), stopping for a rousing game of putt-putt, which, as per usual, I lost by about 10000 strokes. Seriously. The boy used to play real golf with business compatriots. How can I compare? On top of that, while beach hopping in my bathing suit, I managed to lose my shirt, which prompted me to improvise using a scarf I happened to bring with me. Fortunately, it seemed to work out rather well. I have a taste for beach wear.
This excitement was then followed by a stop-by-stop journey backwards. We stopped in at a couple of bars, accompanied by pots of various kinds of shellfish served in ocean-side stands. We watched table umbrellas attack unsuspecting tourists. We observed a fight between rakishly trashy teenagers/young adults arguing over who stole whose cell phones and who was pressing charges and who should go home with the various men that were involved. It was kind of like being back in Kentucky (ahem).
And of course, we had to stop by the Pier in order to utilize the vast assortment of video games. I promptly schooled Jonmikel in the fine art of shooting games, and even tried my hand at this ghetto horse racing game. Real horseback riding is waaaay easier than that thing, unless there's something about British horses I don't know. Then JM schooled me in car racing, which is completely unfair because I am the better real-life driver. :-P
Between the beach and the spa, I have never been so relaxed. Recently, anyway.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Goin' South
England is a tiny country. I should know; I've now traveled from north to south, from one end to the other in one fell swoop, and then some. It felt more like a Montana commute than a long distance train ride, minus the stunning scenery. Not that England isn't pretty, it's just so... developed. Cities swish by, swarming up around rivers and along coasts and in between the only two trees that can be seen for miles. Sheep cohabit (ahem) with humans outside of cities, where what could be quaint, small farmhouses have fallen victim to the British idea of modern improvement: large, metal and concrete, and rundown like a trailer-park eyesore. With livestock. Sometimes you can get fleeting glimpses of green pasture, especially with our spring rains, sometimes the sea, endless and gray, or even a patch of trees left, probably mistakenly, fallow at the edges of civilization. Mostly, though, its a series of cinder-block tenements which give way to suburbs which give way to traditional tenements which give way to, surprisingly, Ferris wheels at the center of almost every city. I know England has it's countryside, but it's all so... British.
Such was the train ride to Brighton, our East Sussex beach destination. We needed an escape from Edinburgh, and I needed the beach. I get that urge when it starts to warm up, and it's insatiable. We hadn't heard much about Brighton, called the San Francisco of England, a reference to it's gay-friendly nature. But we did know that there was a spa there, Bristol Gardens, the kind of place with hot tubs and plunge pools and saunas and Turkish baths and sun rooms and soap that makes your skin smell like (clean) hippies. So we decided to head south.
On the way, we ended up sitting next to what I would describe as a crazy old man. Crotchety and cantankerous and talkative and opinionated and utterly helpless, he relied to on us (our table-mates were wise and quickly ditched us for a quieter locale) to read his tickets, tell him what stop we just passed, inform him of the time, open his cookies, twist the top off his bottled water, and entertain him with our American accents, which he picked out right away. He gave us that fascinating question: "East coast or west coast?" as if the 3000 miles in between were devoid of any habitable or otherwise useful land. When you get a question like that, there's no explaining that you actually live in the middle, because they look at you as if looking for your third arm or evil eye. If it's not LA or New York, then you aren't American. Following this question, the crazy old man proceeded to express his utter disbelief and disgust that I was attending Edinburgh and not Cambridge, because nothing in Scotland could possibly compare to even the worst England has to offer (he was a bonafide ENGLISH crazy old man). He then explained to us how America was ruining democracy and how everybody, especially the Israelis and Muslim fundamentalists, in the Middle East was crazy. That settled, he promptly yelled at the ticket checker, accusing her of trying to steal his money, then unpacked everything he owned, put it on top of the suitcase and newspaper of the girl sitting across from him, and slowly repacked it all while standing in the aisle from after Newcastle, past York, and most of the way to Peterborough. Thankfully, a jovial, middle-ages gentleman was lucky enough to have a seat next to Crazy Old Man for the rest of the journey, and Jonmikel and I could go about sharing raised eyebrows and knowing glances with one another and the girl opposite.
After navigating Sunday traffic in the London Underground, half of which was under construction for the weekend, and making it to Brighton (via Gatwick, which made for a cramped ride), we immediately hit up a beach bar to recuperate. Of course, we had completely forgotten that in England, they won't take Scottish pounds (talk about discrimination!) and had to plead and convince the bartender to take what she was absolutely convinced was Monopoly money. The Fish-n-Chips guy was much more accepting, responding to our "Do you take Scottish money?" with a nonchalant "As long as it's not fake." In England's defense, some of the newer bills (all printed independently by individual Scottish banks) DO look awfully colorful and fake. But we survived with out play money, and had some time to mosey around the beach before going to couples night at the Spa.
First impression: high strung. This wasn't like the relaxed, beach bum towns in the Caribbean (well, maybe a "flamboyant"Cancun, or a "poor-white-trashy" Nassau), or the sun-worshiping-and-fine-wine-drinking Dubrovnik. It was definitely Western European and, like the countryside, so very British. As in many of the old buildings on the sea front have been either torn down and replaced with hideous Soviet-style concrete monstrosities or, like those wayward trees, have laid fallow for years. In the rich sections, as per usual everywhere in the world, architecture is more chic. There just didn't seem to be enough relaxed people for a beach resort, Jonmikel and myself very much excluded. As soon as I saw the ocean, by brain shut off and I just fell into a state of euphoria. It doesn't take much, does it?
So after our beer, we headed out for a relaxing evening at Bristol Gardens, soaking up every last ounce of cedar and eucalyptus from the saunas and bumming around in the hotubs with out fellow spa-goers. I'm really falling in love with saunas. The smell and the heat and the time to just hang out and talk and think... its great, and something I feel I can't normally do in the middle of the city.
All that detoxifying really works up an appetite, so around 10 we headed off to find some foodage, in the form of a late-night Italian pizzeria right next to the Royal Pavilion, a moderately crazy-looking and utterly gaudy palace that looks more like a mosque that fell victim to idolatry than a royal English beach bungalow. Built by King George IV (he's got a funky bridge here in Edinburgh, too) back in the day (think: 18th century), I'm pretty sure it was his way of sticking it to his conservative dad and creating an exotic world all for himself where he could get on with his drinking and womanizing in peace. I dig that. EverReady's gotta have "their spot" in this world to be themselves. A hideous yet strangely alluring palace on the ocean seems as good a spot as any.
Such was the train ride to Brighton, our East Sussex beach destination. We needed an escape from Edinburgh, and I needed the beach. I get that urge when it starts to warm up, and it's insatiable. We hadn't heard much about Brighton, called the San Francisco of England, a reference to it's gay-friendly nature. But we did know that there was a spa there, Bristol Gardens, the kind of place with hot tubs and plunge pools and saunas and Turkish baths and sun rooms and soap that makes your skin smell like (clean) hippies. So we decided to head south.
On the way, we ended up sitting next to what I would describe as a crazy old man. Crotchety and cantankerous and talkative and opinionated and utterly helpless, he relied to on us (our table-mates were wise and quickly ditched us for a quieter locale) to read his tickets, tell him what stop we just passed, inform him of the time, open his cookies, twist the top off his bottled water, and entertain him with our American accents, which he picked out right away. He gave us that fascinating question: "East coast or west coast?" as if the 3000 miles in between were devoid of any habitable or otherwise useful land. When you get a question like that, there's no explaining that you actually live in the middle, because they look at you as if looking for your third arm or evil eye. If it's not LA or New York, then you aren't American. Following this question, the crazy old man proceeded to express his utter disbelief and disgust that I was attending Edinburgh and not Cambridge, because nothing in Scotland could possibly compare to even the worst England has to offer (he was a bonafide ENGLISH crazy old man). He then explained to us how America was ruining democracy and how everybody, especially the Israelis and Muslim fundamentalists, in the Middle East was crazy. That settled, he promptly yelled at the ticket checker, accusing her of trying to steal his money, then unpacked everything he owned, put it on top of the suitcase and newspaper of the girl sitting across from him, and slowly repacked it all while standing in the aisle from after Newcastle, past York, and most of the way to Peterborough. Thankfully, a jovial, middle-ages gentleman was lucky enough to have a seat next to Crazy Old Man for the rest of the journey, and Jonmikel and I could go about sharing raised eyebrows and knowing glances with one another and the girl opposite.
After navigating Sunday traffic in the London Underground, half of which was under construction for the weekend, and making it to Brighton (via Gatwick, which made for a cramped ride), we immediately hit up a beach bar to recuperate. Of course, we had completely forgotten that in England, they won't take Scottish pounds (talk about discrimination!) and had to plead and convince the bartender to take what she was absolutely convinced was Monopoly money. The Fish-n-Chips guy was much more accepting, responding to our "Do you take Scottish money?" with a nonchalant "As long as it's not fake." In England's defense, some of the newer bills (all printed independently by individual Scottish banks) DO look awfully colorful and fake. But we survived with out play money, and had some time to mosey around the beach before going to couples night at the Spa.
First impression: high strung. This wasn't like the relaxed, beach bum towns in the Caribbean (well, maybe a "flamboyant"Cancun, or a "poor-white-trashy" Nassau), or the sun-worshiping-and-fine-wine-drinking Dubrovnik. It was definitely Western European and, like the countryside, so very British. As in many of the old buildings on the sea front have been either torn down and replaced with hideous Soviet-style concrete monstrosities or, like those wayward trees, have laid fallow for years. In the rich sections, as per usual everywhere in the world, architecture is more chic. There just didn't seem to be enough relaxed people for a beach resort, Jonmikel and myself very much excluded. As soon as I saw the ocean, by brain shut off and I just fell into a state of euphoria. It doesn't take much, does it?
So after our beer, we headed out for a relaxing evening at Bristol Gardens, soaking up every last ounce of cedar and eucalyptus from the saunas and bumming around in the hotubs with out fellow spa-goers. I'm really falling in love with saunas. The smell and the heat and the time to just hang out and talk and think... its great, and something I feel I can't normally do in the middle of the city.
All that detoxifying really works up an appetite, so around 10 we headed off to find some foodage, in the form of a late-night Italian pizzeria right next to the Royal Pavilion, a moderately crazy-looking and utterly gaudy palace that looks more like a mosque that fell victim to idolatry than a royal English beach bungalow. Built by King George IV (he's got a funky bridge here in Edinburgh, too) back in the day (think: 18th century), I'm pretty sure it was his way of sticking it to his conservative dad and creating an exotic world all for himself where he could get on with his drinking and womanizing in peace. I dig that. EverReady's gotta have "their spot" in this world to be themselves. A hideous yet strangely alluring palace on the ocean seems as good a spot as any.
Friday, May 9, 2008
The spring sun brings out the oddest collection of white people in Scotland. The last few days have been exceptional, as far as Isle weather is concerned. According to Rhona, a friend from the ME studies office, this Monday was the warmest day in well over a year, attesting to the fact that the past summer here looked much like all of fall and winter, with perhaps a bit more degrees. She then informed me that it is supposed to be 24 degrees today, to which I smiled, taking a cue from her excited grin. As a Yank, I really have no idea what "24" means, other than an exciting TV drama about the covert operations of a shadow government no one wants you to know about. Supposedly, 24 is a good, warm, summertime temperature (I cheated, I looked up it on my computer's conversion chart... its about 75 real people degrees), which makes everybody in Edinburgh a little frisky.
Someone even gave a box of Popsicles to the homeless man who has claimed the territory outside of Tesco; he seemed quite pleased.
The flat spaces of Holyrood Park have transformed into an oversized college green. Grassy knolls are claimed by noon by 20-somethings studying or lounging in sports bras with their pants pulled up to their thighs for maximum sun exposure. Surprisingly, no bikinis yet, despite the young crowd; at OU, the first sign of any regular sun sparked a campus-wide campaign to be as naked as possible in every public space without being arrested. College kids need sun. Across the Pond, it seems to take a little longer to settle in; something to do with the looming disappointment of that inevitable day when its cold and rainy again?
Families are also taking advantage of the good weather, bringing lounge chairs, small tents, dogs, toys, high-tech baby carriages (not strollers, hard core carriages) and even full dining arrangements, complete with bottles of wine and picnic tables, out onto the green. Groups of kite-fliers claim large swaths of land closer to the mini-mountain of Arthur's Seat, territory well-respected due to the dangerous and often parachute-like nature of the kites. For some, the goal is to actually achieve liftoff while balancing on skateboards; none are very good, hence the respect of their territories: fear of death by kite.
Footballers also claim large flat areas, marked off by contraband street cones, swooning girls, and scrawny youths who didn't get picked for the team again today. Every once in a while, we notice some American culture creeping out in the form of a quick baseball game, or a couple of friends attempting to learn the dynamics of an American football and how to throw one; not at all like a rugby ball. Frisbees, too, zip by our heads as we make our daily pilgrimage across the park to or from Uptown. Sometimes they are caught by the intended person, sometimes by a wayward dog too excited by the prospects of fetching to realize that its not his frisbee. Or sometimes the dog is distracted by one of the many outdoor cats that have found solace in the sun. Shouts of "Gus, come. Gus, no! No Gus, come here!" abound.
And ice cream eaters. Children, grandpas, Japanese tourists, joggers, even policemen partake in the Cadbury (a highly ethical chocolatier, big fan) airy, semi-dairy fluff often mistaken for ice cream (don't get me started on the dynamics of super-premium ice cream, and what that actually means, learned from my former-Ben-and-Jerry's-statistician brother). And where children eat ice cream: ice cream disasters. Avoiding fallen swirls of not-quite-liquid goo and cones sacrificed to the sun gods has become a greater hazard than avoiding dog shit. I can't imagine the countless numbers of crestfallen children there must be every day in this park.
And of course the hippies have come pouring out of all orifices. Finished now with rehearsals for the Beltane Festival, they have settled in small herds scattered throughout the park. Their presence is often announced by the tell-tale signs of hippieness: bongos and pot, occasional singing. Of course, had this been an actual college campus in the US, such enclaves would have been complete with in-depth discussions on the importance of Hari Krishna and trays full of shrooms, free for the public if you listen to their musings on spiritualism, communing with god through hallucinogens, and why The Man sucks.
Maybe the shrooms will come out with the bikinis.
Someone even gave a box of Popsicles to the homeless man who has claimed the territory outside of Tesco; he seemed quite pleased.
The flat spaces of Holyrood Park have transformed into an oversized college green. Grassy knolls are claimed by noon by 20-somethings studying or lounging in sports bras with their pants pulled up to their thighs for maximum sun exposure. Surprisingly, no bikinis yet, despite the young crowd; at OU, the first sign of any regular sun sparked a campus-wide campaign to be as naked as possible in every public space without being arrested. College kids need sun. Across the Pond, it seems to take a little longer to settle in; something to do with the looming disappointment of that inevitable day when its cold and rainy again?
Families are also taking advantage of the good weather, bringing lounge chairs, small tents, dogs, toys, high-tech baby carriages (not strollers, hard core carriages) and even full dining arrangements, complete with bottles of wine and picnic tables, out onto the green. Groups of kite-fliers claim large swaths of land closer to the mini-mountain of Arthur's Seat, territory well-respected due to the dangerous and often parachute-like nature of the kites. For some, the goal is to actually achieve liftoff while balancing on skateboards; none are very good, hence the respect of their territories: fear of death by kite.
Footballers also claim large flat areas, marked off by contraband street cones, swooning girls, and scrawny youths who didn't get picked for the team again today. Every once in a while, we notice some American culture creeping out in the form of a quick baseball game, or a couple of friends attempting to learn the dynamics of an American football and how to throw one; not at all like a rugby ball. Frisbees, too, zip by our heads as we make our daily pilgrimage across the park to or from Uptown. Sometimes they are caught by the intended person, sometimes by a wayward dog too excited by the prospects of fetching to realize that its not his frisbee. Or sometimes the dog is distracted by one of the many outdoor cats that have found solace in the sun. Shouts of "Gus, come. Gus, no! No Gus, come here!" abound.
And ice cream eaters. Children, grandpas, Japanese tourists, joggers, even policemen partake in the Cadbury (a highly ethical chocolatier, big fan) airy, semi-dairy fluff often mistaken for ice cream (don't get me started on the dynamics of super-premium ice cream, and what that actually means, learned from my former-Ben-and-Jerry's-statistician brother). And where children eat ice cream: ice cream disasters. Avoiding fallen swirls of not-quite-liquid goo and cones sacrificed to the sun gods has become a greater hazard than avoiding dog shit. I can't imagine the countless numbers of crestfallen children there must be every day in this park.
And of course the hippies have come pouring out of all orifices. Finished now with rehearsals for the Beltane Festival, they have settled in small herds scattered throughout the park. Their presence is often announced by the tell-tale signs of hippieness: bongos and pot, occasional singing. Of course, had this been an actual college campus in the US, such enclaves would have been complete with in-depth discussions on the importance of Hari Krishna and trays full of shrooms, free for the public if you listen to their musings on spiritualism, communing with god through hallucinogens, and why The Man sucks.
Maybe the shrooms will come out with the bikinis.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Passport (Dis)Services
I wanted to give everybody an update on my passport situation. For those who may not know, my current passport was, well... full. Entirely. As in, last time I entered the UK they had to stamp over a previous UK entry stamp. I am pretty proud, actually, and my country count, though not my stamp count, is up to 30. So I want to 1) keep my passport as a souvenir; 2) didn't want to have to pay for another passport; and 3) didn't want to go through the hassle of trying get another UK visa for a new passport. Soooo a couple months ago, I sent in my passport to the Consulate here in Edinburgh so that they could put more pages in it (they can do that!!).
I get a friendly email explaining to me that my passport is in such poor condition that they cannot, in fact, put extra pages in it and that I will have to get another one, which will take 2 weeks. Well, I was traveling to Amsterdam in less than 2-weeks time, so I just asked if they could send it back to me as is. They agreed, with the frustrated caveat that "They may not take my passport at the airport" because of its condition. I thought very long and hard about sending them an email in return explaining that I had been using this passport in this condition for years without any problem, before deciding that taunting the customs people may not in my best interest, as someone who would like to return.
I suspect, in all honesty, that it was my fun little stamp from Cuba that raised their hackles at the Consulate, and not actually the condition of the passport. I have misplaced the letter from Semester at Sea explaining that I traveled there legally.
Soooooo, after some more travel, the room situation in my passport became increasingly cramped, so I decided to try again. I began this mission by effectively gluing my photo page back to the rest of the document, which I suppose may have influenced its previous rejection. I'm pretty sure that's not entirely legal, in the technical sense, but I see no harm in emergency passport surgery. Whatever. So I head up to the Consulate, conveniently not including an email address with a further inconvenience of having a US contact number on the application in hopes that they would simply give me the pages without attempting to track me down and bring me in. Well, it seemed to have worked, because this morning there's a buzz at the building door: the postman with a package! It's my passport, wonderfully thicker than it was only 2 days ago. AND to top it off, they inserted the pages right next to my Cuba stamp. Hmmmm.... I feel as if perhaps the Consular officers are trying to tell me something. Oops.
BUT I get to keep the passport, so I suppose I'll have future opportunities to be detained by customs for my illicit stamps.
I get a friendly email explaining to me that my passport is in such poor condition that they cannot, in fact, put extra pages in it and that I will have to get another one, which will take 2 weeks. Well, I was traveling to Amsterdam in less than 2-weeks time, so I just asked if they could send it back to me as is. They agreed, with the frustrated caveat that "They may not take my passport at the airport" because of its condition. I thought very long and hard about sending them an email in return explaining that I had been using this passport in this condition for years without any problem, before deciding that taunting the customs people may not in my best interest, as someone who would like to return.
I suspect, in all honesty, that it was my fun little stamp from Cuba that raised their hackles at the Consulate, and not actually the condition of the passport. I have misplaced the letter from Semester at Sea explaining that I traveled there legally.
Soooooo, after some more travel, the room situation in my passport became increasingly cramped, so I decided to try again. I began this mission by effectively gluing my photo page back to the rest of the document, which I suppose may have influenced its previous rejection. I'm pretty sure that's not entirely legal, in the technical sense, but I see no harm in emergency passport surgery. Whatever. So I head up to the Consulate, conveniently not including an email address with a further inconvenience of having a US contact number on the application in hopes that they would simply give me the pages without attempting to track me down and bring me in. Well, it seemed to have worked, because this morning there's a buzz at the building door: the postman with a package! It's my passport, wonderfully thicker than it was only 2 days ago. AND to top it off, they inserted the pages right next to my Cuba stamp. Hmmmm.... I feel as if perhaps the Consular officers are trying to tell me something. Oops.
BUT I get to keep the passport, so I suppose I'll have future opportunities to be detained by customs for my illicit stamps.
Not Your Parents' Maypole Parade...
Playing with fire is a pretty conspicuous and ubiquitous pastime in Scotland. If it’s not fireworks, it’s torchlight parades; if not that, then full blown fire festivals, such as the annual Beltane Festival, a fun little get-together invented by pagans as a celebration of summer involving drums, body paint, lots of fire and little clothing. Gotta love the pagans.
Of course we couldn’t pass up this premier hippy festival. We can’t afford to go to the expensive long-weekend music festivals that are starting to blossom throughout Europe, entrances starting at 50 pounds a pop, including camping. But a chance to play with fire with a bunch of uninhibited druids for 5 pounds? We just had to go. Plus, with spring actually feeling like it’s on the way in this mono-seasonal country, we needed to celebrate.
Admittedly, there is something very sensual about big drums and constant drum rhythms. I guess that was the point. The “ruins” of the British acropolis on top of Calton Hill provided a fitting backdrop for the pagan festivities, and it lit up eerily as the fire spread. Across the hill were various items of natural green to burn in honor of summer, the air damp and thick and enfolding the audience in a chilly nightgown of fog and smoke. The drums kept a continuous pulse through the rain and chill and huddling masses, and the unconscious swaying of our bodies to the rhythm kept us warm as we waited for the parade of painted, feathered, and mostly naked performers (believers?) that weaved its way from fire to fire, dancing, chanting, riling up emotions and intoxicated revelations. The colder it got, the louder the drums seemed and the greater our urge to dance became. As the rain began to sprinkle, then fall, then pour, the bestiary of actors, dancers, musicians pranced, slithered, danced their way into the circle of onlookers.
The reenactment that followed was something out of Dionysian ravage, women dressed provocatively in white gowns symbolically tearing apart a man, covered in vegetation and green paint and little else, who then rose as a sacrifice to the summer fertility, wine, and nature spirits. The thick torrents tumbling down on the scene left little to the imagination as white became transparent and paint became flesh. Reds, blues, greens, feathers, kettle drums, flowery body emebelishments became a mix of light and dark and fire and rain. The chilly air became a frigid wet, and the skies opened up as the drums culminated in a frantic embodiment of all that is pagan and hippy, and actors and crowd alike scattered back to the recesses from which we escaped for a night in the wild.
All flowery rhetoric aside, the Beltane Festival was dramatically sensual and violent and passionate, everything I would expect from a pagan fire festival in honor of the coming summer. Soaked to the bone and trying in vain to protect our cameras, we sloshed home. On the way, I got stuck in some mud, felt an uncanny and very distinctive ^pop^ in my ankle, and today I am stuck on the couch with an ankle bone that is about 4-times the size of my other, uninjured one. A caution from the gods? Enjoy summer, but remember to do your thesis…. Yes, I’m pretty sure pagan ritual is extremely concerned with my thesis work…
Of course we couldn’t pass up this premier hippy festival. We can’t afford to go to the expensive long-weekend music festivals that are starting to blossom throughout Europe, entrances starting at 50 pounds a pop, including camping. But a chance to play with fire with a bunch of uninhibited druids for 5 pounds? We just had to go. Plus, with spring actually feeling like it’s on the way in this mono-seasonal country, we needed to celebrate.
Admittedly, there is something very sensual about big drums and constant drum rhythms. I guess that was the point. The “ruins” of the British acropolis on top of Calton Hill provided a fitting backdrop for the pagan festivities, and it lit up eerily as the fire spread. Across the hill were various items of natural green to burn in honor of summer, the air damp and thick and enfolding the audience in a chilly nightgown of fog and smoke. The drums kept a continuous pulse through the rain and chill and huddling masses, and the unconscious swaying of our bodies to the rhythm kept us warm as we waited for the parade of painted, feathered, and mostly naked performers (believers?) that weaved its way from fire to fire, dancing, chanting, riling up emotions and intoxicated revelations. The colder it got, the louder the drums seemed and the greater our urge to dance became. As the rain began to sprinkle, then fall, then pour, the bestiary of actors, dancers, musicians pranced, slithered, danced their way into the circle of onlookers.
The reenactment that followed was something out of Dionysian ravage, women dressed provocatively in white gowns symbolically tearing apart a man, covered in vegetation and green paint and little else, who then rose as a sacrifice to the summer fertility, wine, and nature spirits. The thick torrents tumbling down on the scene left little to the imagination as white became transparent and paint became flesh. Reds, blues, greens, feathers, kettle drums, flowery body emebelishments became a mix of light and dark and fire and rain. The chilly air became a frigid wet, and the skies opened up as the drums culminated in a frantic embodiment of all that is pagan and hippy, and actors and crowd alike scattered back to the recesses from which we escaped for a night in the wild.
All flowery rhetoric aside, the Beltane Festival was dramatically sensual and violent and passionate, everything I would expect from a pagan fire festival in honor of the coming summer. Soaked to the bone and trying in vain to protect our cameras, we sloshed home. On the way, I got stuck in some mud, felt an uncanny and very distinctive ^pop^ in my ankle, and today I am stuck on the couch with an ankle bone that is about 4-times the size of my other, uninjured one. A caution from the gods? Enjoy summer, but remember to do your thesis…. Yes, I’m pretty sure pagan ritual is extremely concerned with my thesis work…
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