So, I know I haven't been the best blogger. It's just... ever since I lost my last entry, the one that finally made me just switch here, I've been so uninspired. It was the long, intricate dialog that I spend so much time and effort on. I had to THINK about it, man! And then my blog site goes and deletes it... it's not good for morale.

While I can't recreate the dialog, nor do I have the energy at the moment to do so, I will go ahead and just describe, in layman's terms, what I had written.

So there we were (as any good story should start out), we had just returned from a sojourn to the US, and we stumble blindly into a crowded, pushy, outright crazy atmosphere of music and comedy and literature and dancing and theater and, of course, traditional Scottish ales. It's festival season in Edinburgh, and it's just as wild, even in this "preview" time, as everyone said it would be. It's fun to think that every hotel and hostel room in the city is currently sold out, and we live just steps away.

So we head down to the Grassmarket, a lowly market area below the Castle that, incidentally, was also used as a public arena for hangings. You know, but your wheat, watch the show, all at once. No inconvenience necessary. But today, it's a thriving scene of bars and students and construction (for the much lamented tram system, which I have plenty to say about at another date). And last Saturday, it was the thriving scene of the Edinburgh Jazz and Blues Festival opening day celebrations, meaning a short parade followed by the filling up of the streets to catch glimpses of any acts you might want to see for real (and for mucho pounds) later. Me being a student, "free" is always a plus, so we decided to make a day of it.This dancer, part of a New Orleans-style marching Big Band, was tapping her foot with impatience at her companions, who were taking their time packing up. I guess she had somewhere to go.


These are the lamps that guide you to the Last Drop, cleverly named for the gallows that graced the space right outside the front door.

This is what the crowd looked like. Not as push-and-shove as New Year's, probably due to the amount of mature adults mulling around.

Regardless, I had found a nice bar that had students specials: 1.95 students beers. This being approximately $3 cheaper than any other beer around, I quickly pounced on the opportunity. Now here's the part where I got all poetic and teary-eyed and existential, and where I haven't the muster to do so again.

I met this guy, while waiting to order my drinks. An older gentlemen, who looked older in that way that fishermen look older, leathered and weathered and white. He made doubly sure that I was served in proper order, and then stuck around to chat. He seemed very concerned that I be having a good time here, and made sure that I was enjoying the festival and my student-friendly beer. He asked where I was from, and when I answered the States, followed by an unsure "Montana" and a questioning raised eyebrow (because really, most people I have met have no concept that there are people that live in the 3000 miles between New York and LA, or even that there ARE 3000 miles between New York and LA), I got an enthusiastic "Ahhh Big Sky Country! Beautiful!" and a raised beer glass in a toast to how awesome I am.

He asked where, but was unfamiliar with Gardiner, though knew of Yellowstone. "Ah I never got down that way. But I have been to all the important battlefields!"

At this moment Jonmikel, looking dully concerned, for I had been waiting in line at this crowded little bar for nigh on 20 minutes, strode in and joined us. "This guys here, he's from Montana, too, and he's a big battlefield guy!" I reached out and patted my companion on the chest.

My new friend barrel laughed in welcome, and the two of them proceeded to speak in tongues about the implications of new research and what a shame it was that no one really survived to write or rewrite history. Something was said about switching plane tickets with him, and we could live in his house while he visited Montana again, and then it suddenly came out that he was, in fact, a card-carrying member of the Custer Association of the United Kingdom. "There were a lot of our boys over there, you know."

After a few more minutes of this conversation, we decided that fresh air was called for and took our leave. I never did catch his name...

Look for a new and improved version of this lively story to come out in my book of travel stories... coming soon... ish.

Slang

So, I was chatting online with a Scottish friend of mine, and I used the words "rock on" in response to a conversation about us meeting up before we head back across the pond. And then it occurred to me as I washed my face later: does that even make sense? I know much Scottish slang makes absolutely no sense to me. How does "rock on" compute? And when I use the word "uber" (as I am known to do) to put emphasis on something, does that connotation get translated?

I have determined that Scotland is a land full of kind of American things.
They all speak an English kind of like they do in the US.
They have "sweet meal digestives" which are kind of like graham crackers.
They have emo kids kind of like they do in the States, only here, everybody under the age of 20 is an emo kid.
They stand in lines kind of like they do in the States, only here, EVERYTHING is a line.
The drive small Fords which are kind of like Focuses.
They have Highlands which are kind of like real mountains.

See what I mean? And this list goes on. Sometimes it's easier to communicate across languages than it is to do so across international English; sometimes the Scottish are way more different from Americans than anybody else I've ever met.

The yellow is gone from Scotland.

When we left, Arthur's Seat was covered in thick, spiny gorse, with yellow blooms that had been doing so since September. Hardy and weed-like in its determination to survive, gorse kept the wilds of Scotland in various shades of dull and fiery yellow all winter and through the climately-depressing spring. We watched the yellow drift away as we flew across the Atlantic in June.

When we returned, the yellow had all gone, replaced by shades of brown and green and the wispy, wheat-like flutters of wild grasses. Though upon second glance, gotten during a hike up Arthur's Seat to reclaim our place as neighbor's of the volcanic plug, we noticed another color: purple. Patches of bright purple flowers cropped up along marshy paths or the heads of springs. And the dull purple of thistle peeked out from underneath grass seeds and slumbering gorse. It gives our mini-mountain a whole new look, a little wilder and rugged than what the pretty yellow could have done. It feels like spring all over again, with new flowers, and beautiful weather, and thistles that smell like lilac nostalgia.

It's amazing how different Arthur's Seat can look after a month in West Virginia.

Edinburgh Two-Step

People in Edinburgh are expert dancers.

The Edinburgh Two-Step starts out easy enough. First, you take two big step forward, briskly and with feeling. Then, you take a quick step to the side (which side is up to your discretion) in order to cut off anybody who may be walking behind you. Then you spread your arms wide and swing them, for maximum area displaced. Then, you look down and quickly side step, shuffle the feet and do a turn to avoid dog poop. Repeat, this time side-stepping to the opposite side. Repeat the previous two steps, getting jiggy with the groove as much as possible, in order to avoid the nest 5 piles of puppy excrement. Do a little stylish turn and Voila! You're doing the Edinburgh Two-Step like a pro!

There is so much dog shit on the sidewalks in this country, that it becomes a mental exercise to simply avoid all of them. Why don't dogs shit in the street????

Where the Buffalo Roam...

I met a girl in Aberdeen, Kathryn from Montana. How funny, to meet someone in Scotland, an anthropologist, studying there, whose name is Kathryn and is from Montana. She'e getting er Ph.D. I asked her if she planned on going back to the States when she was finished.

She looked at me for a moment. Then she expained that there weren't too many jobs for a specialist in Eastern European migration in Montana. "I lived in Montana. Now that I've done that, I can't live anywhere else. And if I can't find a job there, I might as well stay here." And she shrugged. She's staying in Scotland, because she could never live anywhere else in the US. How funny.

I thought that it was an interesting way to look at her future, and it was quite reminiscent about the way I feel. Now that I've experienced all that is Montana, how can I live anywhere else? It's a very Montana State of Mind.

Edinburgh smells like I remember. Not the way it smelled when we left, but the way it smelled when we arrived.

The winter managed to kill off the wafts of beef stew that would seep into your flat and clothing and hair. The brewing hops that had welcomed us to Scotland lay stewing in their own juices during the relentless 50-degree-and-raining 9-month winter.

But as soon as we got off the plane, we could smell it. Thick and steamy and brought on by the chill of the warm summer breeze. The scent may seem like a small thing, but it has since rekindled the feeling of excitement moving here created last September. It reminds me of staying in a youth hostel. It reminds me of the first time I walked up the Royal Mile, jittery with tourist emotion and the knowledge that really, I wasn't a tourist here. I was just play acting. It reminds me of whipping out my camera at inappropriate times to get that perfect photo. It reminds me of the first gray day in the fall when we meandered out to the Zoo, and we had to bundle up against the chill to watch the otters play. It reminds me of the the Highlands, and the coming winter and the Wildlife Park and yelling "curb!" at appropriate intervals while Jonmikel learned to drive on the wrong side. It reminds me of all the hope and promise of the coming year and the coming classes at a university as old as the oldest city in the US.

But in the last year, some of the drudgery has gotten to me. I've become used to the surroundings, used to the accent, used to the conversion rate, used to looking right when crossing the road. I've become grouchy about the size of my flat, grouchy about how the pubs close at midnight, grouchy about the price of movie tickets, grouchy about the banks and bureaucracy and education. I stopped taking my camera out because that's what tourists do, and besides, I'd seen it all before, right? I became the quintessential, all knowing, condescending expatriate. And the beef stew smell disappeared.

I'm not saying there's some kind of symbolic or spiritual connection between the smell of Scotland and some existential need for excitement. But I am saying that in my imagination, the smell I first caught wind of as soon as I stepped off the plane in Edinburgh has returned, and with it a renewed sense of how much fun it is to be a tourist. How much fun it is to see new things in your own hometown.

It's a shame that feeling has taken this long to return. Bad-Autumn-Day-Like winters will do that to you. But as much as Scotland has NOT smelled like brewing hops, it will forever smell like it in my mind.

Home Again...

There's something about the Newark airport that makes me intolerably queesy. Maybe it's the $8 beers. Maybe it's the concrete walls. Maybe it's the rude and/or confused people pushing their ways through other just as rude and confused people. Maybe it's the no-less-than 1 hour delays on EVERY flight. Maybe it's the fact that after your 1-hour delay, you get on a plane with broken air conditioning. Maybe it's that after your 1-hour delay and after you get on your boiling-hot plane, you sit on the tarmak for another hour, just to let yourself stew in your neighbor's juices.

Or maybe that it's just in New Jersey.

Regardless, I'm back in Scotland after a month traipsing around the eastern US. I have a lot to say about this month, but I'm in the process of writing an entire novel about it all, and I wouldn't want to spoil it for you (this is a corporate eupamism for, I'm so far behind that I'm just starting anew). But there are some important things I should write down, as a starting point for my novel:


Some aiport experiences, notably 3 lovely hours on the tarmak (in Newark, in case you were wondering, though this time with a/c) with several very drunk and very funny business travelers.

Driving around being hippies in a WV microbus. And the hippies we picked up.

Rockin' out with Victoria Vox.

Front row at a Red's game.

Getting my ass kicked in an interview for the job I really wanted and was 100% qualified for.

Meeting with old friends on Ohio and Washington, DC.



And then, of course, returning to absolutely PERFECT weather in Scotland (think: high 60s and sunny) and a white fridge turned black with mold. How fun is that?