An American Girl in London – Day 1
Or:
How London Chewed Me Up Like a Game Day Tortilla Chip and Threw Me Up Like a Frat Boy’s Friday Night Dinner
My body woke me up extraordinarily early again on my first official day in London, as it has on pretty much every morning since I got back from Edinburgh. Have come to the conclusion that my body doesn’t care what time it is when it wakes me up – it responds instinctively to the sun’s appearance in and disappearance from the sky. That would explain why I’m getting tired later and waking up earlier now that the sun is rising at frakking 4 o’clock in the morning. Crazy British sun. I can only hope that my body will still want to get up so early two weeks from now.
I showered at about 7, using the soap I bought at ASDA when I went with Ali and washing my hair with the hotel’s provided shampoo (I was leery about using it but it did the job well enough). I have come to the unhappy conclusion that Scottish life has been harder on my hair much more than American life ever was, and that I will probably have to put my dream of growing my hair long on hold and have several inches cut when I get back home. Or probably after my internship, so that I can wear it curly over the summer without it looking poofy.
I had myself ready for breakfast at exactly 8:30, and descended the 98 hotel steps to the Barry House’s small dining room. It was not buffet-style as I had expected – there was toast and jam set out on the table for me and a wee menu to order from. The staff was quiet but obliging, and the food (except the odd-tasting sausage) was very good.
My first impression of London, in the warm sunshiny-ness, was that it seems like a very academic place - all of the streets I walked on that morning felt like they could be right outside a university ("uni") campus. Later on I simply got an impression of absolute massiveness. The buildings are bigger than the ones in Edinburgh, and there are a lot more of them.
My first stop in the morning was the Sherlock Holmes Museum on Baker Street. I got there at roughly 20 past 9 and was dismayed to find that it was closed. However, I soon realized that the museum doesn’t open until 9:30, so I was contented to wait. Two women showed up right after me, and one of them took a picture of me knocking on Sherlock Holmes’s door. I was surprised when in a matter of minutes there were suddenly a dozen people waiting around with us to get in.
The souvenir shop was amazing, and I saw so many things that I may have bought if I had unlimited money and unlimited space in my suitcases. They had Masterpiece: Sherlock on DVD (which I couldn’t buy even if I had talked myself into it, because I’m not sure how UK DVDs differ from American DVDs), little Sherlock teddy bears (which I would have gotten Mom if, again, I had money and space, but they were £25 and in an awkward-to-pack box), all kinds of keychains (one of which I did buy), handcuffs (both full-sized and keychain-sized), tiny hand(or rather finger)-cranked music boxes (including one that plays “Love Me Tender”), chess sets featuring famous characters (3 different sizes, painted and unpainted), a test tube with a cigarette and a match inside (“In case of emergency, break glass”), tiny compasses (which later in the day I wished I had bought), etched whiskey bottles, many many books and trinkets and pens and all manner of other things.
I bought my ticket for the museum and went next door, past the constable and up the (17) steps to the famous Baker Street sitting room, with Dr. Watson’s room adjoining. Up the stairs on the third floor were two rooms that held plenty of late 19th century items as well as artifacts from Holmes’s various cases, while the fourth floor had life-sized characters from the Holmes canon with brief descriptions of the scenes depicted. It really freaked me out at first to walk into one of the rooms and find the lifeless faces and motionless bodies of Sir Grimesby Roylott, James Moriarty, Neville St Claire, Violet Hunter, and others. The massive, mounted head of the Hound of the Baskervilles hung over a book that held several amusing real-life letters written by people, mostly children, just to say hello to their favorite consulting detective and/or ask for his help with some weird mysteries that were stumping them, or, in at least one case, to offer consulting services of their own.
As everyone is well aware, I cannot think ahead or strategically remember anything to save my life, so of course my camera battery died before I had taken all the pictures I wanted in the museum. I made for the exit, speaking to the constable at the door about whether I would be allowed to return without buying a new ticket as long as I came back before they closed. He said yes, so I started back toward my hotel ( a half an hour walk) with the intention of charging my camera for two hours or so, returning to the museum, then making my way toward the Thames to see the many touristy places there. When I got back to my room, however, I discovered to my dismay that I had brought the wrong converter with me… and the 1600-watt one was too powerful to use for my battery charger. I worried and hesitated, then decided to go back out with my charger and find a lower-wattage converter. The ones in the States were only a few dollars, after all; I could find a random restaurant that had outlets for customer use and charge it for a while before exploring some more.
*WARNING: RACIST-SOUNDING BUT HONEST SENTENCE APPROACHING*I had wandered the streets around my hotel a bit the day before and found it to be on the edge of a very heavily Lebanese part of the district, so I thought for sure I should be able to find an electronics store that could help me out.
*END OF RACIST-SOUNDING BUT HONEST SENTENCE*
After a bit of searching I found a place called Maplin Electronics that had converters. However, the £14.99, 100-watt ones were out of stock and the 45-watt ones were f%#&ing 25 quid. The girl that helped me was really nice, however, and recommended a few other places I could try. I walked into two SONY stores, a luggage and travel center, a Boots Pharmacy, at least 3 random electronics stores and an Argos (a store that keeps all its stock in warehouses and has you check catalogues in the store, check computers to see if they’re in stock, then pay for them at the registers and have them retrieved from the warehouse. They had like 500 majillion items in their catalogue, and not one of them was a power converter for low-voltage handheld appliances). Alas, Edgeware Street failed me.
I wandered back to Maplin, dejected and frustrated. After staring at their stock (or lack thereof) hoping for some piece of this predicament to miraculously change in my favor, I bought the bloody converter. From there I went across the street to a Café Nero to find an outlet and something to eat for lunch. The sandwich could be called decent, but the frappe thing was like slurping up an almost-coffee-flavored marshmallow puree, but not as sweet. I sat for around 45 minutes, scrutinizing my map and deciding for exactly how long to let my battery charge. I decided to return to Baker Street once more, then make my way toward Kensington Palace and Hyde Park with what battery power I had.
I got very confused when I cut through Hyde Park, as it seemed that the map I had didn’t exactly correspond with what I was seeing. When I thought I was going west to Kensington Palace I was in fact going east toward Buckingham. Very well, then, I thought. I’ll see Buckingham, and maybe go all the way to the Thames if I felt so inclined.
A Boots Pharmacy on Oxford Street had great deals on bottled water, and I got two 750 mL bottles of Evian (only because they were cheapest) for £1.80. That’s a good deal on regular bottled water – on Evian it was darned fantastic (I thought). And, even though I have scoffed at expensive bottled water in the past, I have to say, in all honesty, that I will continue to scoff at expensive bottled water in the future. It didn’t taste like anything special. It just tasted like bottled water. And only one of them was chilled. Slightly.
My battery died around the time I made it to Big Ben, just before Westminster Abbey. I think the last picture I got was of a statue of Abraham Lincoln (I wandered toward Westminster Abbey thinking, “Hey, that looks like Abraham Lincoln!... hey, wait a minute…”).
With my camera once again not playing along, I began mapping a route back to my hotel, expecting to find a random restaurant along the way at which to find dinner. Oh, sweet Chan alive it was a long walk. And I mean a LONG WALK. I don't know how far I walked, but I feel like I could have gone through 3 Eastern European countries in the time I spent walking around London. By the time I was a third of the way back I felt like collapsing, and had to keep looking at the next landmark and thinking, “Just to there, then I’ll be at [blank], then I can turn at [blank] and it’ll be just… oh, GOD IT’S SO FAR!!”
I stopped at a small newsstand-style place for a bite of candy because I suddenly felt like I needed something fruity, and I apparently was entertaining to the cashier there, what with my involuntary head-bobbing to music I didn’t know and taking so long to decide on a candy. I tried something called a Curly-Wurly, which is like a stick of caramel coated in chocolate, and loved it, and I bought some British Starburst. Of course, it tastes nothing like real Starburst.
Later – it’s impossible to tell how much later, as the passage of time was suddenly impossible to guess at – I came upon a Sainsbury’s store (the chain I used in Edinburgh to buy food for a homeless man and his dog) and thought I’d buy some food cheaper there than at a restaurant and just bring it back to my room. It was cheaper, by at least 3 quid, and would have been cheaper had the self-checkout lane honored the “Buy 2 Pastries, Get 1 Free” promotion that was plastered all over the pastry aisle. And before you go thinking I just got junk food, you should know that I also bought a tomato and cheese sandwich, which was pretty good, and a little basket of grapes. So there.
After that it was more walking. Walking, walking, walking, walking. Then after that there was a brief period of sitting, then more walking. And walking. And being tired and achy and frustrated with the events of the day. I felt like London had pushed me in the mud, then pointed and laughed at me and made me walk home without offering a ride. Well, actually there were rides to be had in the form of buses, but they didn’t work the same way Edinburgh buses do and I didn’t want to risk ending up in Wales.
At one point on my trek back I swear to Chan a bug flew up my left nostril.
Also, I am clearly allergic to London; the closer it got to dusk the more I found myself sneezing, which didn't help my loathing and self-pitying one bit. I wonder if I might be allergic to the brown fluffballs littering the sidewalks, which I'm assuming come from some menacing English bush or tree or possibly an urban woodland creature. Whatever it is, it's TRYING TO KILL ME.
And there were SO MANY PEOPLE. Oh, so many people. Most of them paid me no attention, some were blatantly self-centered in either taking up the whole sidewalk and walking like diseased livestock in a peat bog (*snerk* I accidentally spelled it “livestonk” and Microsoft Word got angry) or in walking straight toward you, looking straight at you and not making a single move to avoid a collision, forcing you to quickly sidestep to the right, directly in the path of another pedestrian, who scoffs and rolls her eyes at you like you’re an ignorant street urchin. On the plus side, the cabbies seem to be a more or less polite lot, and there were several times when they stopped to let me cross a street even when they clearly had the right-of-way. Great chaps, those cabbies. Except the ones that poison people for money by offering them poison and then threatening to shoot them with a gun if they don’t take it. But that was just the one.
When I opened my second bottle of Evian in my room, my first sip went straight into my trachea.
I swear London is trying to kill me.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Last day in Edinburgh
Angela called Doug on Saturday evening to ask him if he was going to be over for a cookout, because he’d said the last time he was here that he’d have to grill me some hamburgers before I leave to go back to Oatridge. I went out for a little while to buy something, and wandered about the Royal Mile and Princes Street and George IV Road and Chambers Street. I got back at around 1:30 and Doug was already there. I told Angela that I wished I could go up to Hollyrood again since the weather was beautiful and the sky was crystal clear, and she surprised me by saying, “Sure, we’ll drive up there!”
Angela, Doug, Vanessa and I left for Hollyrood in Doug’s car only to find that the park is off-limits to cars on Sundays. If we wanted to walk we were perfectly welcome to, but I think I was the only one in the group that was up for a little bit of climbing. No way I felt like going all the way to the top due to time and energy and hunger constraints, but I might have taken a stab at it. It really was a beautiful place.
Instead we headed up to a place called Prestonfield, where I got to see a male peacock erotically (if you’re a female peacock) flashing his beautiful tail feathers at us, as well as a pair of Highland cows and a young man in a kilt, with whom Angela insisted I have my picture taken. After that we went to a place called Dobbies (the house elf?), which was like a furniture store, café, deli, produce stand and seasonal shop all rolled into one. It was pretty neat, and all the food looked amazing! We stopped in the café for scones and tarts and juice and lattes and hot chocolate (between the four of us), then headed over to the foodmart area. They had a special area set up to sample various flavored olive oils with bits of bread, and I’m pretty sure I sampled the garlic oil at least 6 times, maybe 7, just to be sure. It was good every time. Angela and Doug each bought two cute little glass vial things full of oil while I took some pictures of the place.
We dropped Vanessa off at her friend Sadie’s house, then stopped at Tesco for some ingredients Doug needed for couscous and burgers, plus some Bailey’s (nom nom nom) for me. After that we went off to a place called B&Q, which I suppose is kind of like a Lowe’s or a DIY sort of place, and got a small grill, some charcoal and lighter fluid (we were apparently not nearly as prepared for barbecue-ness as I had imagined we were). After we got back and I changed, I brought my laptop down to the dining room to play some Irish tunes and helped Doug put the grill together (unlike a lot of men, he both welcomed my help AND followed the directions).
I worked on a blog (this one, as a matter of fact) while listening to Irish music colored by the sounds of Angela and Doug bickering like best friends in the kitchen. I giggled more than once.
We had a delightful dinner – Doug’s couscous were way better than the stuff that LEC gives us – and I spent some time sharing pictures with Angela and Courtney, mostly from my laptop’s “Hawtness” folder, because I figured we could all use a boost in morale, you know?
After Courtney and Angela went to bed (it was only 9:30 or so) I stayed up and talked to Doug about being an American in Scotland and finding cheap transportation. I also filled him in on what the Hanson brothers have been up to since their “disappearance” from the “scene” in 2000. He needed to know.
I miss the softness of the bed, and the fact that it’s a real mattress and not a plastic one, the awesome shower (it’s amazing compared to what I’ve been dealing with at Oatridge) complete with detachable shower head, the full-length mirror, the feeling of having a surrogate family, the convenient buses, the beautiful views, the plethora of nooks and closes to explore, the ease of locating a T-Mobile, and, more than anything else, the AMAZING home-cooked meals.
I missed my Heritage peeps, but otherwise I did NOT want to come back to college.
WAAAAAAH!!!
♥
SM
Angela called Doug on Saturday evening to ask him if he was going to be over for a cookout, because he’d said the last time he was here that he’d have to grill me some hamburgers before I leave to go back to Oatridge. I went out for a little while to buy something, and wandered about the Royal Mile and Princes Street and George IV Road and Chambers Street. I got back at around 1:30 and Doug was already there. I told Angela that I wished I could go up to Hollyrood again since the weather was beautiful and the sky was crystal clear, and she surprised me by saying, “Sure, we’ll drive up there!”
Angela, Doug, Vanessa and I left for Hollyrood in Doug’s car only to find that the park is off-limits to cars on Sundays. If we wanted to walk we were perfectly welcome to, but I think I was the only one in the group that was up for a little bit of climbing. No way I felt like going all the way to the top due to time and energy and hunger constraints, but I might have taken a stab at it. It really was a beautiful place.
Instead we headed up to a place called Prestonfield, where I got to see a male peacock erotically (if you’re a female peacock) flashing his beautiful tail feathers at us, as well as a pair of Highland cows and a young man in a kilt, with whom Angela insisted I have my picture taken. After that we went to a place called Dobbies (the house elf?), which was like a furniture store, café, deli, produce stand and seasonal shop all rolled into one. It was pretty neat, and all the food looked amazing! We stopped in the café for scones and tarts and juice and lattes and hot chocolate (between the four of us), then headed over to the foodmart area. They had a special area set up to sample various flavored olive oils with bits of bread, and I’m pretty sure I sampled the garlic oil at least 6 times, maybe 7, just to be sure. It was good every time. Angela and Doug each bought two cute little glass vial things full of oil while I took some pictures of the place.
We dropped Vanessa off at her friend Sadie’s house, then stopped at Tesco for some ingredients Doug needed for couscous and burgers, plus some Bailey’s (nom nom nom) for me. After that we went off to a place called B&Q, which I suppose is kind of like a Lowe’s or a DIY sort of place, and got a small grill, some charcoal and lighter fluid (we were apparently not nearly as prepared for barbecue-ness as I had imagined we were). After we got back and I changed, I brought my laptop down to the dining room to play some Irish tunes and helped Doug put the grill together (unlike a lot of men, he both welcomed my help AND followed the directions).
I worked on a blog (this one, as a matter of fact) while listening to Irish music colored by the sounds of Angela and Doug bickering like best friends in the kitchen. I giggled more than once.
We had a delightful dinner – Doug’s couscous were way better than the stuff that LEC gives us – and I spent some time sharing pictures with Angela and Courtney, mostly from my laptop’s “Hawtness” folder, because I figured we could all use a boost in morale, you know?
After Courtney and Angela went to bed (it was only 9:30 or so) I stayed up and talked to Doug about being an American in Scotland and finding cheap transportation. I also filled him in on what the Hanson brothers have been up to since their “disappearance” from the “scene” in 2000. He needed to know.
I miss the softness of the bed, and the fact that it’s a real mattress and not a plastic one, the awesome shower (it’s amazing compared to what I’ve been dealing with at Oatridge) complete with detachable shower head, the full-length mirror, the feeling of having a surrogate family, the convenient buses, the beautiful views, the plethora of nooks and closes to explore, the ease of locating a T-Mobile, and, more than anything else, the AMAZING home-cooked meals.
I missed my Heritage peeps, but otherwise I did NOT want to come back to college.
WAAAAAAH!!!
♥
SM
Friday, April 29, 2011
Out and About in Edinburgh – A Selection of AttractionsEdinburgh Castle (Thursday April 21, 2011)I wanted to get to the castle early (they open at 9:30) to beat the waves of tourists I’d seen streaming in there the day before. As it was I ended up getting there around ten and had to wait in line for about fifteen minutes for my ticket. On Sunday afternoon, however, when I went back to the castle esplanade for one last look at the view, the line was about 4 times as long as it had been for me, judging by the number of head-tops I could see.
My camera, of course, died less than halfway through my visit, so I didn’t get a huge number of pictures. Me being me, I had forgotten to plug in the battery the night before, and on the day of I thought, “Oh, my battery will live for a little while!” ha… I should know better by now.
Luckily for me, there were several places where we couldn’t take pictures anyway. A few of the buildings, such as the one that housed the Crown Jewels, prohibited photo-taking of any kind. The rather extensive exhibit consists of the history of Scotland’s Crown Jewels and the Stone of Destiny. The models are creepy but otherwise it’s quite an interesting story.
Asymmetrical structure and presence of vehicles (for Chan’s sake) made it difficult for me to picture the castle as it used to be. I’m so used to seeing castles with their walls all lining up and everything, and with all of the resident stone looking square or flat or at least like it was at one point fondled by a mason. Instead, a lot of the original mountain face is still visible within the castle grounds, which I thought was interesting. It’s like when you see a marble statue that’s only been half-chiseled. There’s a (relatively) smooth wall meeting a (relatively) smooth stone floor, then POW a huge uncut area of natural rock. It gave the place a very rugged and unique look.
St. Margaret’s is a wee tiny itty bitty chapel in the middle of the castle. It’s quite cute and, ironically, positioned just behind Mons Meg, the monstrously huge cannon and one of the oldest in the world. The cannonballs it shot weighed as much as 400 pounds and the farthest shot was found almost 2 miles away. After a salute in 1681 caused the barrel to burst, the cannon was never used again.
In one little garden area that has been made into a cemetery for “mascots” and dogs belonging to officers. You can’t see it from the lower courtyards – it just looks like another rocky outcropping from below), and can’t actually get into it, so you have to view it from above.
The Queen Anne Café is a beautiful place that smells of fresh baked goods, flavored coffees and fruit, depending on where you stand. Those baked goods, flavored coffees and fruit are quite expensive, however, and I didn’t see anything that tickled my fancy enough to pay whatever they wanted for it. I was getting hungry by this time, however, so shortly before I left I wandered back down to the Argyle Battery, one of the first things you see upon entering the portcullis. I noticed two things: 1) there were people climbing and sitting on the Argyle cannons and were not being scolded by castle staff, and 2) the cannon on the far left was not being molested at all. Of course, that meant that I would have to be the one to do so. So I mounted the cannon as I would a horse and sat there eating a Nutri-Grain bar and letting my eyes roam over the view across the city to the north of the castle. I want to note that whenever I am sitting rider-style on top of something, such as a horse or this cannon or a saddle at Valley Tack, I experience an automatic postural improvement that I find intriguing because it just kind of happens on its own. At one point a man moseyed over with two children and stood nearby, talking on his cell in a foreign language. He must have been standing close enough for people to assume that we were at the castle together, because a guy approached us and asked if he could take a picture of us. Weird.
There was a small museum dedicated to the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards – the mounted cavalry regiment that saw active duty for about 2 ½ centuries. Another, much larger museum was dedicated to the military history of Scotland, its amalgamation with Britain, the romanticism of the Highland warrior, the importance of the regimental bagpipe player and Scotland’s past and present place on the world stage. There were spotlights on the evolution of armor and weaponry, well-known military heroes, specific battles and wars, etc.
A lot of place within the castle are off-limits to visitors *sadface* The underground stuff (prisons of war and the ruins of David’s Tower), for example, was so cool! However, there were a lot of places that were blocked off that I wanted to slip into SO BADLY but I knew I’d be in real trouble if I got caught. In one place within David’s Tower there was a random hole in the path that was protected by an iron fence. From the top I could see down into a lower level – there was a small flight of stairs leading to a doorway on one side, but that was all I could see. It made me wish that I had a string to tie around my camera (with battery power, of course) so that I could lower it into the hole and take a video of what was down there. There was also a place in the Prisons of War exhibit where a staircase led down into an open doorway, and the only thing between me and it was a rope that had been hung with a sheet. The sheet was clearly for decoration rather than to mark off a “No Admittance” zone, but I still chickened out.
And I can’t write about anything that happened during that week without mentioning… the FOG! Of course I couldn’t have picked a clear day to go up to the castle, but in my defense we didn’t have very many clear days that week. It actually ended up getting worse by Friday, which turned out to be the day I finally got to go to Holyrood Park…
Holyrood Park (Friday April 22, 2011)After Michael and I went up Calton Hill I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to take a stab at Holyrood – it looked very intimidating, and Evil Bob had pounced on me that morning, so I was already exhausted by lunchtime and really didn’t think I’d make it. The first quarter mile or so of hill was quite steep, but after that it was like hiking in any hilly terrain, with ups and downs and places where the path was really narrow and places where there were deteriorated stone steps and you felt like you were wandering around Tibet. I couldn’t help but think that it looked the way Scotland ought to… all craggy and green and hilly and beautiful. It’s so easy to fall in love with the landscape here!
The important thing to note is that we made it the top. And after wandering around a bit and (because I have to) poking around everything that looked even remotely interesting, we promptly got lost, as it was so foggy that it was like we were the only people in the world – white as far as you could see, and in some places it rolled in close enough to touch.
We wandered back and forth between the two major peaks. One side was covered in brambly-looking plants, and another was far too sheer to have hoped to get down by. Of course it would have been a trifle easier if we could have seen more than 30 feet ahead at any one point due to the exceptional fog, since Scotland wanted to be chilly that day and nature was concerned about Michael getting a sunburn. After about 15 minutes of following the guy I began to get seriously worried. I ended up picking the right direction to get us back the way we’d come… and as soon as we saw a familiar spit of path Michael declared “See, I knew I’d get us out of that!”
Trust the guy to take all the credit.
Between the two peaks we found a plethora of what I would describe as Druid-style graffiti. Names, words, pictures, birthday wishes, declarations of love etc. were laid out with stones that must have been carted there from elsewhere on the mountainside. I think my favorite one was the picture of the bekilted bagpipe player.
On our way back we came across St. Anthony’s Chapel, or rather what’s left of St. Anthony’s Chapel. The building is at least 600 years old and was mostly gone by the time we got to see it. I took a lot of pictures of it, though, because I thought it looked really neat.
On our way out we discovered that doing down the hill was actually more painful than going up. Even though going against gravity wreaks havoc on the knees of the relatively unfit, going with gravity actually wreaks a bit more on the feet. I would like to note, though, that at any point in the adventure where we had to pick our way down a rocky expanse, I seemed to have an easier time than Michael, probably courtesy of my experience in nature with Dad and my comparatively short legs.
I learned a few things about Wild Hairy Haggis, a population of which apparently still hangs on within Holyrood Park despite the development of the city around the site. We didn’t see any, but the place had a lot of rabbit poop all over it, so I imagine that’s what they eat up there. Also, we found places where the ground was soft and spongy, and holes where they might have burrowed. I tried to get Michael to play documentary and tell us all about the Wild Haggis – where it lives, what it eats, what to look out for to keep yourself safe if you’re going jogging on a random mountain in Scotland – but he went all camera shy on me.
Speaking of being in danger of meeting a Wild Haggis, in addition to hikers like ourselves we saw several joggers (and when I say “joggers” I of course mean “lunatics with a death wish”) gamboling about the place, rushing up and down slopes that I had to work hard to get up and be alert going down. If one of them disappears, you can bet he or she tripped, fell and was eaten by a Haggis.
I also didn’t see any Haggis at…
The Edinburgh Zoo (Wednesday, April 20, 2011)Edinburgh’s zoo is much smaller than the Cleveland Zoo. I’d expected it to be larger; Edinburgh is the second largest city in Scotland, after all.
Being Scotland, the zoo was quite hilly. Lots and lots of ups and downs and windy paths. The trek to the zebra paddock was tiring, and I felt bad for all the parents that had to push strollers up the hill. Also being Scotland, occasionally the trees would fail in their ever-eager task of covering up all the scenery, resulting in a few spots where you could actually stand and admire the view. And finally, being Scotland, the buildings were all stone, including the mansion. That’s right, I said mansion. There is a mansion right in the frakking middle of the zoo. At one side of the building there was a sign saying, basically, “This way to the mansion” with a little gate that was wide open, but it didn’t look like it was open to visitors because it was kind of randomly placed and surrounded by plant life. I should have wandered in innocently anyway. After all, there WAS a sign…
I got quite hungry when the afternoon came around and made a beeline for the Jungle Café. You would think that I would know better by now, but I still ordered the cheeseburger (the choices were somewhat limited). It was disgusting. I actually complained about food for the first time in my life (Mom would be so proud!) and got a refund. The chips I ate, because they weren’t bad despite the lack of dipping sauce, but the hamburger was absolutely completely inedible. *hurk*
I didn’t see any sousliks, otters or tigers in the enclosures where they were reputed to be. The sousliks were likely still hibernating, according to the informational sign (I saw one scurry along the ground and disappear, but that was it), and the tiger could have been hiding, but the otters were rather inexplicable in their absence. Souslik is fun to say. Say it out loud. Souslik. It’s the perfect word for such an adorable little rodent. It’s like someone crossed a prairie dog with a squirrel. Souslik. Say it plurally – it’s even cuter… Sousliks.
As a child, the sea lion enclosure was my favorite part of the Cleveland Zoo. The one here was nothing to write home about, and only had two lazy Patagonian sea lions in it, but the penguin area was relatively vast. There was a fenced path through the middle for visitors to use, and at one point a penguin came right up to the fence and started pecking at the dandelions that were growing there (I don’t think those are natural in the penguin’s environment, which made me wonder about the logic of such an enclosure. I wisely elected to restrain myself from reaching out and petting the bird, which probably would have resulted in me getting pecked as well as the dandelions.
Other random bits:
They had a tiny habitat with a few bush babies in it that just tickled me. However, it was all covered over with wood, with just little peepholes to look into to see the animals (they are night-dwellers). I tried to get pictures through the little holes, but they didn’t come out great.
A lot of the enclosures weren’t labeled very well, so when I upload the pictures I won’t be able to label them all.
There was a place called the “Lemur Walk-Through” where you’re supposed to be able to walk on a path that is allegedly open to lemurs, similar to the one at the Baltimore Zoo where you can walk through a waterfowl habitat. This excited me because I love lemurs, but I didn’t actually see any. *sadface*
The porcupines lived in a cute little tree house type thing that I really wanted to see into.
They had a little herd of Red River (African) Hogs that were incredibly adorable and ugly at the same time. I got to their pen right around feeding time and ended up watching them for several minutes. I loved the sounds they made, snorting and grunting and squeaking and crunching on their veggies and the clopping sounds of their hooves.
I saw two sun bears, smallish Southeast Asian bears, with dark fur but bright yellow faces and chests and über-long tongues. They had two enclosures that they could wander between, and I got to them just in time for one of them to wander into the larger enclosure (where there wasn’t a crowd to jostle through), stand up on its hind legs, look around, then drop back to all fours and wander back to its buddy. Great photo op. Couldn’t have trained the bear better.
I took a couple videos of monkeys playing, including one for Cindy of some spastic young squirrel monkeys. Also, there were several pairs of mated gibbons and howler monkeys that were sitting with their little arms wrapped around each other, and it touched my heart a little. They’re some of a very small number of animals that mate for life in the wild.
The vicunas were impossibly cute. I got to see one standing right by the fence watching people walk by, and its eyes were huge and soft and dark. It looked very soft and fluffy, and it probably is. I wonder if Jennie has seen any in Peru.
On the information sign for the sea eagles it said something like, “The sea eagle tarnishes its image by feeding on the offal thrown out by butcher shops.” When I read this I thought, “The Scottish people feed on the offal from butcher shops. It’s like, their national dish!”
I took an inordinate number of pictures of the black panther, but few of them were all that great. It was close to feeding time, and it was hanging around outside the door the keepers use to get into the habitat as well as prowling through the vegetation in anticipation. By the time I got over to the Amur leopard enclosure, a woman was walking by with a bucket of meat and was throwing bits into each habitat as a treat, and possibly so the visitors could see the animals actually doing something. I thought it was interesting.
There was an enclosure with Homo sapien specimens in it of all ages and colors, including quite a number of juveniles. I was disturbed to find that while the other animals in the park were secured behind glass walls, fences, moats and cages of all sorts, the zoo had clearly made no attempt to ensure the safety of its guests by putting up a barrier around this exhibit. Someone should fashion a strongly-worded letter harshly criticizing the zoo’s blatant lack of forethought in this matter.
♥
SM
My camera, of course, died less than halfway through my visit, so I didn’t get a huge number of pictures. Me being me, I had forgotten to plug in the battery the night before, and on the day of I thought, “Oh, my battery will live for a little while!” ha… I should know better by now.
Luckily for me, there were several places where we couldn’t take pictures anyway. A few of the buildings, such as the one that housed the Crown Jewels, prohibited photo-taking of any kind. The rather extensive exhibit consists of the history of Scotland’s Crown Jewels and the Stone of Destiny. The models are creepy but otherwise it’s quite an interesting story.
Asymmetrical structure and presence of vehicles (for Chan’s sake) made it difficult for me to picture the castle as it used to be. I’m so used to seeing castles with their walls all lining up and everything, and with all of the resident stone looking square or flat or at least like it was at one point fondled by a mason. Instead, a lot of the original mountain face is still visible within the castle grounds, which I thought was interesting. It’s like when you see a marble statue that’s only been half-chiseled. There’s a (relatively) smooth wall meeting a (relatively) smooth stone floor, then POW a huge uncut area of natural rock. It gave the place a very rugged and unique look.
St. Margaret’s is a wee tiny itty bitty chapel in the middle of the castle. It’s quite cute and, ironically, positioned just behind Mons Meg, the monstrously huge cannon and one of the oldest in the world. The cannonballs it shot weighed as much as 400 pounds and the farthest shot was found almost 2 miles away. After a salute in 1681 caused the barrel to burst, the cannon was never used again.
In one little garden area that has been made into a cemetery for “mascots” and dogs belonging to officers. You can’t see it from the lower courtyards – it just looks like another rocky outcropping from below), and can’t actually get into it, so you have to view it from above.
The Queen Anne Café is a beautiful place that smells of fresh baked goods, flavored coffees and fruit, depending on where you stand. Those baked goods, flavored coffees and fruit are quite expensive, however, and I didn’t see anything that tickled my fancy enough to pay whatever they wanted for it. I was getting hungry by this time, however, so shortly before I left I wandered back down to the Argyle Battery, one of the first things you see upon entering the portcullis. I noticed two things: 1) there were people climbing and sitting on the Argyle cannons and were not being scolded by castle staff, and 2) the cannon on the far left was not being molested at all. Of course, that meant that I would have to be the one to do so. So I mounted the cannon as I would a horse and sat there eating a Nutri-Grain bar and letting my eyes roam over the view across the city to the north of the castle. I want to note that whenever I am sitting rider-style on top of something, such as a horse or this cannon or a saddle at Valley Tack, I experience an automatic postural improvement that I find intriguing because it just kind of happens on its own. At one point a man moseyed over with two children and stood nearby, talking on his cell in a foreign language. He must have been standing close enough for people to assume that we were at the castle together, because a guy approached us and asked if he could take a picture of us. Weird.
There was a small museum dedicated to the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards – the mounted cavalry regiment that saw active duty for about 2 ½ centuries. Another, much larger museum was dedicated to the military history of Scotland, its amalgamation with Britain, the romanticism of the Highland warrior, the importance of the regimental bagpipe player and Scotland’s past and present place on the world stage. There were spotlights on the evolution of armor and weaponry, well-known military heroes, specific battles and wars, etc.
A lot of place within the castle are off-limits to visitors *sadface* The underground stuff (prisons of war and the ruins of David’s Tower), for example, was so cool! However, there were a lot of places that were blocked off that I wanted to slip into SO BADLY but I knew I’d be in real trouble if I got caught. In one place within David’s Tower there was a random hole in the path that was protected by an iron fence. From the top I could see down into a lower level – there was a small flight of stairs leading to a doorway on one side, but that was all I could see. It made me wish that I had a string to tie around my camera (with battery power, of course) so that I could lower it into the hole and take a video of what was down there. There was also a place in the Prisons of War exhibit where a staircase led down into an open doorway, and the only thing between me and it was a rope that had been hung with a sheet. The sheet was clearly for decoration rather than to mark off a “No Admittance” zone, but I still chickened out.
And I can’t write about anything that happened during that week without mentioning… the FOG! Of course I couldn’t have picked a clear day to go up to the castle, but in my defense we didn’t have very many clear days that week. It actually ended up getting worse by Friday, which turned out to be the day I finally got to go to Holyrood Park…
Holyrood Park (Friday April 22, 2011)After Michael and I went up Calton Hill I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to take a stab at Holyrood – it looked very intimidating, and Evil Bob had pounced on me that morning, so I was already exhausted by lunchtime and really didn’t think I’d make it. The first quarter mile or so of hill was quite steep, but after that it was like hiking in any hilly terrain, with ups and downs and places where the path was really narrow and places where there were deteriorated stone steps and you felt like you were wandering around Tibet. I couldn’t help but think that it looked the way Scotland ought to… all craggy and green and hilly and beautiful. It’s so easy to fall in love with the landscape here!
The important thing to note is that we made it the top. And after wandering around a bit and (because I have to) poking around everything that looked even remotely interesting, we promptly got lost, as it was so foggy that it was like we were the only people in the world – white as far as you could see, and in some places it rolled in close enough to touch.
We wandered back and forth between the two major peaks. One side was covered in brambly-looking plants, and another was far too sheer to have hoped to get down by. Of course it would have been a trifle easier if we could have seen more than 30 feet ahead at any one point due to the exceptional fog, since Scotland wanted to be chilly that day and nature was concerned about Michael getting a sunburn. After about 15 minutes of following the guy I began to get seriously worried. I ended up picking the right direction to get us back the way we’d come… and as soon as we saw a familiar spit of path Michael declared “See, I knew I’d get us out of that!”
Trust the guy to take all the credit.
Between the two peaks we found a plethora of what I would describe as Druid-style graffiti. Names, words, pictures, birthday wishes, declarations of love etc. were laid out with stones that must have been carted there from elsewhere on the mountainside. I think my favorite one was the picture of the bekilted bagpipe player.
On our way back we came across St. Anthony’s Chapel, or rather what’s left of St. Anthony’s Chapel. The building is at least 600 years old and was mostly gone by the time we got to see it. I took a lot of pictures of it, though, because I thought it looked really neat.
On our way out we discovered that doing down the hill was actually more painful than going up. Even though going against gravity wreaks havoc on the knees of the relatively unfit, going with gravity actually wreaks a bit more on the feet. I would like to note, though, that at any point in the adventure where we had to pick our way down a rocky expanse, I seemed to have an easier time than Michael, probably courtesy of my experience in nature with Dad and my comparatively short legs.
I learned a few things about Wild Hairy Haggis, a population of which apparently still hangs on within Holyrood Park despite the development of the city around the site. We didn’t see any, but the place had a lot of rabbit poop all over it, so I imagine that’s what they eat up there. Also, we found places where the ground was soft and spongy, and holes where they might have burrowed. I tried to get Michael to play documentary and tell us all about the Wild Haggis – where it lives, what it eats, what to look out for to keep yourself safe if you’re going jogging on a random mountain in Scotland – but he went all camera shy on me.
Speaking of being in danger of meeting a Wild Haggis, in addition to hikers like ourselves we saw several joggers (and when I say “joggers” I of course mean “lunatics with a death wish”) gamboling about the place, rushing up and down slopes that I had to work hard to get up and be alert going down. If one of them disappears, you can bet he or she tripped, fell and was eaten by a Haggis.
I also didn’t see any Haggis at…
The Edinburgh Zoo (Wednesday, April 20, 2011)Edinburgh’s zoo is much smaller than the Cleveland Zoo. I’d expected it to be larger; Edinburgh is the second largest city in Scotland, after all.
Being Scotland, the zoo was quite hilly. Lots and lots of ups and downs and windy paths. The trek to the zebra paddock was tiring, and I felt bad for all the parents that had to push strollers up the hill. Also being Scotland, occasionally the trees would fail in their ever-eager task of covering up all the scenery, resulting in a few spots where you could actually stand and admire the view. And finally, being Scotland, the buildings were all stone, including the mansion. That’s right, I said mansion. There is a mansion right in the frakking middle of the zoo. At one side of the building there was a sign saying, basically, “This way to the mansion” with a little gate that was wide open, but it didn’t look like it was open to visitors because it was kind of randomly placed and surrounded by plant life. I should have wandered in innocently anyway. After all, there WAS a sign…
I got quite hungry when the afternoon came around and made a beeline for the Jungle Café. You would think that I would know better by now, but I still ordered the cheeseburger (the choices were somewhat limited). It was disgusting. I actually complained about food for the first time in my life (Mom would be so proud!) and got a refund. The chips I ate, because they weren’t bad despite the lack of dipping sauce, but the hamburger was absolutely completely inedible. *hurk*
I didn’t see any sousliks, otters or tigers in the enclosures where they were reputed to be. The sousliks were likely still hibernating, according to the informational sign (I saw one scurry along the ground and disappear, but that was it), and the tiger could have been hiding, but the otters were rather inexplicable in their absence. Souslik is fun to say. Say it out loud. Souslik. It’s the perfect word for such an adorable little rodent. It’s like someone crossed a prairie dog with a squirrel. Souslik. Say it plurally – it’s even cuter… Sousliks.
As a child, the sea lion enclosure was my favorite part of the Cleveland Zoo. The one here was nothing to write home about, and only had two lazy Patagonian sea lions in it, but the penguin area was relatively vast. There was a fenced path through the middle for visitors to use, and at one point a penguin came right up to the fence and started pecking at the dandelions that were growing there (I don’t think those are natural in the penguin’s environment, which made me wonder about the logic of such an enclosure. I wisely elected to restrain myself from reaching out and petting the bird, which probably would have resulted in me getting pecked as well as the dandelions.
Other random bits:
They had a tiny habitat with a few bush babies in it that just tickled me. However, it was all covered over with wood, with just little peepholes to look into to see the animals (they are night-dwellers). I tried to get pictures through the little holes, but they didn’t come out great.
A lot of the enclosures weren’t labeled very well, so when I upload the pictures I won’t be able to label them all.
There was a place called the “Lemur Walk-Through” where you’re supposed to be able to walk on a path that is allegedly open to lemurs, similar to the one at the Baltimore Zoo where you can walk through a waterfowl habitat. This excited me because I love lemurs, but I didn’t actually see any. *sadface*
The porcupines lived in a cute little tree house type thing that I really wanted to see into.
They had a little herd of Red River (African) Hogs that were incredibly adorable and ugly at the same time. I got to their pen right around feeding time and ended up watching them for several minutes. I loved the sounds they made, snorting and grunting and squeaking and crunching on their veggies and the clopping sounds of their hooves.
I saw two sun bears, smallish Southeast Asian bears, with dark fur but bright yellow faces and chests and über-long tongues. They had two enclosures that they could wander between, and I got to them just in time for one of them to wander into the larger enclosure (where there wasn’t a crowd to jostle through), stand up on its hind legs, look around, then drop back to all fours and wander back to its buddy. Great photo op. Couldn’t have trained the bear better.
I took a couple videos of monkeys playing, including one for Cindy of some spastic young squirrel monkeys. Also, there were several pairs of mated gibbons and howler monkeys that were sitting with their little arms wrapped around each other, and it touched my heart a little. They’re some of a very small number of animals that mate for life in the wild.
The vicunas were impossibly cute. I got to see one standing right by the fence watching people walk by, and its eyes were huge and soft and dark. It looked very soft and fluffy, and it probably is. I wonder if Jennie has seen any in Peru.
On the information sign for the sea eagles it said something like, “The sea eagle tarnishes its image by feeding on the offal thrown out by butcher shops.” When I read this I thought, “The Scottish people feed on the offal from butcher shops. It’s like, their national dish!”
I took an inordinate number of pictures of the black panther, but few of them were all that great. It was close to feeding time, and it was hanging around outside the door the keepers use to get into the habitat as well as prowling through the vegetation in anticipation. By the time I got over to the Amur leopard enclosure, a woman was walking by with a bucket of meat and was throwing bits into each habitat as a treat, and possibly so the visitors could see the animals actually doing something. I thought it was interesting.
There was an enclosure with Homo sapien specimens in it of all ages and colors, including quite a number of juveniles. I was disturbed to find that while the other animals in the park were secured behind glass walls, fences, moats and cages of all sorts, the zoo had clearly made no attempt to ensure the safety of its guests by putting up a barrier around this exhibit. Someone should fashion a strongly-worded letter harshly criticizing the zoo’s blatant lack of forethought in this matter.
♥
SM
Monday, April 11, 2011
Weekend in Glasgow Day 3
I felt extremely groggy when I got up in the morning; I had Skyped with Dad and Cindy until past 2, hadn’t fallen asleep until at least 3 and my body had awakened me around 7:30. I didn’t get down to breakfast until after 9 am. Breakfast was better than the day before – I picked myself out a good-looking piece of Canadian bacon (the only kind of bacon they have here, I suspect) and had it with egg on a piece of flatbread, and the sausage and potato sandwich was much better than the tomato and egg one had been. When girl behind the counter asked me what kind of coffee I wanted, I told her that I just needed something sweet. She offered to make me a mocha hot chocolate thing, which was better than the coffee of the day before, but still nothing to write home about. Also, the people that sat down next to me took my sugar before I got a chance to use it, and they didn’t put it back. Meanies.
I thought about taking Harriet’s advice and using the subway to get to the city’s west side, but instead I ended up strolling a bit more through the shopping area I had already frequented, with the goal of taking in a wider geographical range, going as far as the Clyde River to the south and the Provand’s Lordship and Glasgow Necropolis in the east.
On my first trip out I made it to the Clyde River, although I only saw a small stretch of it. I was excited about it, and with the weather being as lovely as it was I wished I’d brought something to read or write because I would not have minded sitting in the shade by the river and doing something of that nature. I wish I had more to day about it. Also wish I could have seen more of it.
Off of Argyle St there was a singular little marketplace called Sloan’s, which consisted of a few back alleys with stalls run by small business owners selling mostly homemade trinkets. There were handbags and jewelry, incense, key chains, a Tarot card reader and one guy that made one-of-a-kind clocks with movie and album memorabilia.
The only other new place I recall actually going into was an art store similar in scope to the one Dad and I stopped at in Columbus when we were there to see The Eagles (although I realize that this description means nothing to anyone but Dad).
On my way back from the Clyde, via a moderately-sized road I hadn’t used before, I went through Buchanan Galleries again, on the prowl for the strawberry smoothie I was hankering for. I found a place selling them just inside the doors and was ecstatic, although it was slightly bland, flavor-wise. It was good enough, though, to serve my purposes. From there I went to an obsequious store called Boots, which is a pharmacy chain over here, and bought a pretty photo album that I’d seen there the day before. Actually, I was forced by circumstance to buy two photo albums. But it’s not my fault! I swear! There was a BOGO sale, so I could hardly do otherwise!
I returned to my room to stow my purchase (s) and stayed to rest for 45 minutes or so. Cindy was online, so I Skyped with her for a wee while. When I left I headed for the Queen Street Rail Station to get my Edinburgh train ticket purchasing needs taken care of, watched Clanadonia do a few numbers again, then made my way eastward. I knew that I would have to make an effort to do something cultural while I was in Glasgow, partly because it’s my assigned region in Heritage Studies but also because they have several very old and very nifty buildings that you can explore for free.
The first on my list to visit was Provand’s Lordship, a historical building that I found while researching Glaswegian (a legitimate word, although I think it may be strictly a linguistic term, so I may be using it wrong) history. It’s the oldest building in Glasgow, and it’s specific original purpose is unknown (I’m taking this info from the sheet I got there). It is “a very rare example of 15th century Scottish domestic architecture” and one of many ecclesiastical buildings that made up the Diocese of Glasgow.
The rooms are interesting – fairly low ceilings but not too small, and with little nooks, fireplaces all over the place and stone seating at most of the windows. The wooden floors on the upper levers are unbelievably creakity, and the Provand’s Lordship Society, whose duty it is to look after the place, has a clear monopoly on “Do Not Touch” and Do Not Sit Here” signs. The neat spiral stone staircase was added in 1670 to replace a wooden staircase when additional rooms were added, and provided access to all three floors without the need for external balconies (if I understand the info sheet correctly).
The petite St Nicholas Garden at the back of the building was quite relaxing. At the center is a fountain surrounded by hedges, and along the outer walls there are cloisters (arched covered walks) with wooden benches set into the stone every several feet.
I next went to Glasgow Cathedral, which I believe is the first cathedral I’ve been in since the National Cathedral in DC my senior year of high school. As you all know, I am by no means a Christian, but shoot, I’m in SCOTLAND, for crying out loud, and I’ll be gol-darned if I’m not going to wander about every single really old building that I can get into for free! The place is as imposing as you’d expect it to be, all stained glassy and stone arch-y and massive pillars-y and echoing halls-y. The place is apparently still used for congregations, so it’s fortunate that it was late afternoon when I got there. There is a lower level that is almost completely open to the public, is undergoing renovations and quite frankly had the look of the clandestine meeting place of some weird cult. In this lower level was supposedly the tomb of someone called St Mungo (seriously – Mungo), about whom I should know something. Maybe I’ll add him to my Outcome 2 assignment for Heritage Studies, simply by virtue of his goofy name.
From the cathedral yard I could see the Glasgow Necropolis through a thin screen of trees. I took a picture but didn’t get to actually go there, however, because as I said, I was exhausted by that point and knew that once I got back to my room I wouldn’t want to go out again. I did get a pamphlet on the place.
St. Mungo’s Museum of Religious Life and Art is across the street from Provand’s Lordship, but they were only 15 minutes from closing time when I got there so I didn’t see much besides a statue of Shiva and a hall that happened to contain a bit on Buddhism. The art gallery was upstairs but I had no time to see it.
I wanted to take a bus back to citizenM (my hotel, for those of you with feeble memories), but I had a spot of bother trying to decipher the time tables at the bus stops I found along the way. The walk ended up being slightly shorter than I remembered, though it was still seemed way too long due to my fatigue.
I checked the menus on a few restaurants on my way back to the hotel, because although I was tired and sore from walking, I was also quite hungry. I wanted either something fancy and seafoody and garlicky or something fish and chippy, and ultimately decided to indulge a bit at an elegant Mediterranean restaurant called Roma. I got something called the Roma Special, which was a pasta dish with salmon and peas in a white wine sauce. It was absolutely delicious – I could have licked the bowl when I was done – although the portion size was not what I had hoped for considering the £9.95 price tag (also I think it did something ugly to my intestines because I was up at 2 am with some monster cramping). I’m pretty sure I was blatantly American in my eating methods, but I doubt anyone was paying attention. There appeared to be only one waiter in the place, an attractive Italian guy that didn’t seem to know what to make of me at first (when I went in with all of my flyers and pamphlets he thought I was there to sell him something).
You know how in the States the waitstaff brings you your bill near the end of your meal without being prompted? Well, they don’t do that here. At least, they didn’t at Roma. I waited at the table for probably near 15 minutes, gendering at my pamphlets and fiddling with my phone, until I finally caught the eye of the waiter and he made his way over to me. That was when I learned that I was expected to beckon him for my bill. I explained that in the States this happens automatically and that I hadn’t realized that I needed to request it. I told him that I had only eaten out twice so far in Scotland, once at TGIFridays (an American restaurant) and once at a pub where I paid first. I think he thought for some reason that I frequent fast food places and thought I was a little weird, but I didn’t have the energy to correct or sass him about that assumption.
It is now 8:35 and I have neither the energy nor the will to get up and move about anymore. Glasgow’s nightlife shall have to go on without me this night. I’m sure this blog is lacking a few places or experiences, but hopefully it does a good enough job of painting a picture for you. As for now, my body is sore and my brain is tired.
Off to the Big City tomorrow.
I thought about taking Harriet’s advice and using the subway to get to the city’s west side, but instead I ended up strolling a bit more through the shopping area I had already frequented, with the goal of taking in a wider geographical range, going as far as the Clyde River to the south and the Provand’s Lordship and Glasgow Necropolis in the east.
On my first trip out I made it to the Clyde River, although I only saw a small stretch of it. I was excited about it, and with the weather being as lovely as it was I wished I’d brought something to read or write because I would not have minded sitting in the shade by the river and doing something of that nature. I wish I had more to day about it. Also wish I could have seen more of it.
Off of Argyle St there was a singular little marketplace called Sloan’s, which consisted of a few back alleys with stalls run by small business owners selling mostly homemade trinkets. There were handbags and jewelry, incense, key chains, a Tarot card reader and one guy that made one-of-a-kind clocks with movie and album memorabilia.
The only other new place I recall actually going into was an art store similar in scope to the one Dad and I stopped at in Columbus when we were there to see The Eagles (although I realize that this description means nothing to anyone but Dad).
On my way back from the Clyde, via a moderately-sized road I hadn’t used before, I went through Buchanan Galleries again, on the prowl for the strawberry smoothie I was hankering for. I found a place selling them just inside the doors and was ecstatic, although it was slightly bland, flavor-wise. It was good enough, though, to serve my purposes. From there I went to an obsequious store called Boots, which is a pharmacy chain over here, and bought a pretty photo album that I’d seen there the day before. Actually, I was forced by circumstance to buy two photo albums. But it’s not my fault! I swear! There was a BOGO sale, so I could hardly do otherwise!
I returned to my room to stow my purchase (s) and stayed to rest for 45 minutes or so. Cindy was online, so I Skyped with her for a wee while. When I left I headed for the Queen Street Rail Station to get my Edinburgh train ticket purchasing needs taken care of, watched Clanadonia do a few numbers again, then made my way eastward. I knew that I would have to make an effort to do something cultural while I was in Glasgow, partly because it’s my assigned region in Heritage Studies but also because they have several very old and very nifty buildings that you can explore for free.
The first on my list to visit was Provand’s Lordship, a historical building that I found while researching Glaswegian (a legitimate word, although I think it may be strictly a linguistic term, so I may be using it wrong) history. It’s the oldest building in Glasgow, and it’s specific original purpose is unknown (I’m taking this info from the sheet I got there). It is “a very rare example of 15th century Scottish domestic architecture” and one of many ecclesiastical buildings that made up the Diocese of Glasgow.
The rooms are interesting – fairly low ceilings but not too small, and with little nooks, fireplaces all over the place and stone seating at most of the windows. The wooden floors on the upper levers are unbelievably creakity, and the Provand’s Lordship Society, whose duty it is to look after the place, has a clear monopoly on “Do Not Touch” and Do Not Sit Here” signs. The neat spiral stone staircase was added in 1670 to replace a wooden staircase when additional rooms were added, and provided access to all three floors without the need for external balconies (if I understand the info sheet correctly).
The petite St Nicholas Garden at the back of the building was quite relaxing. At the center is a fountain surrounded by hedges, and along the outer walls there are cloisters (arched covered walks) with wooden benches set into the stone every several feet.
I next went to Glasgow Cathedral, which I believe is the first cathedral I’ve been in since the National Cathedral in DC my senior year of high school. As you all know, I am by no means a Christian, but shoot, I’m in SCOTLAND, for crying out loud, and I’ll be gol-darned if I’m not going to wander about every single really old building that I can get into for free! The place is as imposing as you’d expect it to be, all stained glassy and stone arch-y and massive pillars-y and echoing halls-y. The place is apparently still used for congregations, so it’s fortunate that it was late afternoon when I got there. There is a lower level that is almost completely open to the public, is undergoing renovations and quite frankly had the look of the clandestine meeting place of some weird cult. In this lower level was supposedly the tomb of someone called St Mungo (seriously – Mungo), about whom I should know something. Maybe I’ll add him to my Outcome 2 assignment for Heritage Studies, simply by virtue of his goofy name.
From the cathedral yard I could see the Glasgow Necropolis through a thin screen of trees. I took a picture but didn’t get to actually go there, however, because as I said, I was exhausted by that point and knew that once I got back to my room I wouldn’t want to go out again. I did get a pamphlet on the place.
St. Mungo’s Museum of Religious Life and Art is across the street from Provand’s Lordship, but they were only 15 minutes from closing time when I got there so I didn’t see much besides a statue of Shiva and a hall that happened to contain a bit on Buddhism. The art gallery was upstairs but I had no time to see it.
I wanted to take a bus back to citizenM (my hotel, for those of you with feeble memories), but I had a spot of bother trying to decipher the time tables at the bus stops I found along the way. The walk ended up being slightly shorter than I remembered, though it was still seemed way too long due to my fatigue.
I checked the menus on a few restaurants on my way back to the hotel, because although I was tired and sore from walking, I was also quite hungry. I wanted either something fancy and seafoody and garlicky or something fish and chippy, and ultimately decided to indulge a bit at an elegant Mediterranean restaurant called Roma. I got something called the Roma Special, which was a pasta dish with salmon and peas in a white wine sauce. It was absolutely delicious – I could have licked the bowl when I was done – although the portion size was not what I had hoped for considering the £9.95 price tag (also I think it did something ugly to my intestines because I was up at 2 am with some monster cramping). I’m pretty sure I was blatantly American in my eating methods, but I doubt anyone was paying attention. There appeared to be only one waiter in the place, an attractive Italian guy that didn’t seem to know what to make of me at first (when I went in with all of my flyers and pamphlets he thought I was there to sell him something).
You know how in the States the waitstaff brings you your bill near the end of your meal without being prompted? Well, they don’t do that here. At least, they didn’t at Roma. I waited at the table for probably near 15 minutes, gendering at my pamphlets and fiddling with my phone, until I finally caught the eye of the waiter and he made his way over to me. That was when I learned that I was expected to beckon him for my bill. I explained that in the States this happens automatically and that I hadn’t realized that I needed to request it. I told him that I had only eaten out twice so far in Scotland, once at TGIFridays (an American restaurant) and once at a pub where I paid first. I think he thought for some reason that I frequent fast food places and thought I was a little weird, but I didn’t have the energy to correct or sass him about that assumption.
It is now 8:35 and I have neither the energy nor the will to get up and move about anymore. Glasgow’s nightlife shall have to go on without me this night. I’m sure this blog is lacking a few places or experiences, but hopefully it does a good enough job of painting a picture for you. As for now, my body is sore and my brain is tired.
Off to the Big City tomorrow.
Weekend in Glasgow: Days 1 and 2
My weekend in Glasgow marks the beginning of my Easter vacation and is the first major trip I’ve made outside the wee confines of the smatter of settlements I’ve poked around in for the past month. In the interest of not overwhelming you all, I will post days 1 and 2 as one post and day 3 as a separate post.
Day 1:
I left campus at around 4:36 or something, taking a video of most of the walk (although I will probably try it again at a later date when I’m not lugging a book bag and a suitcase). The wait at the bus stop seemed interminable. The bus was just over 10 minutes late, plus the bus driver stopped to pee when we got to the bus station halfway through the journey. As a result we ended up getting to my stop (the Howden St by Club Earth) almost 20 minutes late, so it is quite a good thing that I didn’t have to meet my bus to Glasgow right away, or I’d have been screwed.
I wasn’t sure if I got the name of the stop right because of the way the driver had responded to it, but at right about the spot where I thought the stop should have been I made my way forward and showed him the instructions from Traveline that I had written out for myself. As it turns out, I ended up standing up at just the right time – he pointed down the road behind us about 50 feet or so, and lo and behold, there was a bus stop there. Apparently they know it as the Club Earth stop.
A bazillion buses passed by before my X15 showed up. Okay, it was actually only three or four buses, but I was operating on nervous tension punctuated by a little voice in my head (Dad’s or Dr. Swartz’s – they took turns) telling me to calm down.
When the bus stopped and the door opened, I took a look at the 4 steps they expected me to ascend with my huge, heavy suitcase, and I said, quote, “Ohhhhh, yeah. Alright.” Fortunately, a very nice Indian guy took the suitcase and settled it into the seat behind the driver for me while I paid (it costs £5 to get to Glasgow, in case you were wondering). The drive definitely didn’t seem as long as it was supposed to be. There were several great views, but unfortunately a great many of them were obstructed by high banks on either side of the road or by the trees that are invariably planted along most of the roadsides here. I think you can see in some of my pictures how those little trees can obstruct a camera’s duties.
Speaking of pictures, I have decided to keep them in an online album rather than putting all of them into my blog. It’s annoying and tedious to put them into a Blogger post, plus if I use an album I can caption them, which is something that my biggest fan quite enjoys.
Also, while I’m talking in an aside, I want to mention something random that I started really noticing last week among the guys in my Heritage Studies class and that would have gone in my last blog had I noticed it at the time: guys in the UK know how to dress themselves. I have seen very few poorly-dressed men here. That’s not to say that they always wear buttoned and collared shirts or anything, but I have yet to see, for example, baggy sweat pants hanging around knees, sideways baseball caps, awkwardly fitted t-shirts or *cringe* sandals worn with socks. Perhaps they just have a better selection of clothing to choose from or something, but whatever it is, American guys should really be shipped here a few thousand at a time to takes notes on what to wear, because compared to the UK, a large percentage of American guys are blind, as far as fashion is concerned.
The Buchanan Bus Station reminded me very much of an airport… but with buses. All the buses lined up all slanty-like by the station, and when you walked into it, it really was like a mini-airport, lined with gift shops, little eateries and national restaurant chains.
From what I could recall (poorly, as it turns out) from the map I’d seen, the hotel I was looking for (citizenM) was at the corner of Renfield and Renfrew, and appeared to be right down the street from the station. I found Renfield and, in a moment that would have caused audiences to shout “DON’T GO DOWN THAT ROAD!! IT’S THE WRONG ONE!!”… I went down it. Specifically, I went at least a quarter of a mile down it, but couldn’t find the street I needed. Eventually I stopped at a convenience store for directions (the cashier didn’t have a thick Scottish accent, which relieved me a bit) and found that I had passed it about halfway through my “tromp down the sidewalk with really heavy bags in tow”. And so upon thanking him I turned around, sweaty and tired and a little bit annoyed, only to find that the hotel was… right down the road from the bus station. Like, RIGHT FRAKKING THERE. Ah, well. At least I got there.
CitizenM is just as eccentric and post-modern as it promised to be on the website. Miguel (not Scottish or English, but still a bit hard to understand with his Eastern European accent) helped me with my check-in.
And my 4th floor room is s o a w e s o m e ! ! There’s a king-sized bed, a writing desk, huge, semi-plush towels, a weird-looking little bunny named Marvin (their mascot, I guess) and a “Do Not Disturb” door hanger that says “Don’t come in. There’s a naked person in here.” My favorite thing, hands-down, is the shower. It’s what they call a rain shower, meaning that insteadof a regular shower head, the water comes out of the ceiling, like you’re standing under your own special little rain cloud. There’s also a second, detachable shower head. It. Is. Amazing. And there’s a light in it that tints the whole room, and I get to control the color or (if I choose) colors of it.
Speaking of controlling things, there’s a remote that controls the flat-screen television (over the bed), the blinds, the temperature, the lights and the alarm clock. Several TV channels and a plethora of movies are included in the price of the room, and Rodin Hood, Star Trek, Serenity, Despicable Me, Eagle Eye, Iron Man 2 and Tropic Thunder were among my options. There were also a lot of porn movies to choose from.
I watched Tropic Thunder before going to bed. Jay Baruchel is such a cutie.
Day 2:
I had breakfast in canteenM around 8:30 or so. It was not what I would call spectacular. The sausage tasted like something from a stand at the fair, and the “tomato and egg” sandwich was an oddity. The orange juice had pulp in it but tasted pretty good, and the coffee was, of course, not sweet enough for my tastes. I drank it after I had finished everything else, and took to wandering around and looking at the bar area – they have a special bookshelf set aside for souvenir items you can purchase, including journals, books, the soaps and shampoos that you get in your room, and Marvin bunnies. There are also a bunch of snacks available, from muffins and croissants to fruit and juices and Ben&Jerry’s ice cream.
I went back to my room then and took a shower. The shower in my hotel is phenomenal – could have stayed in there all day! I was on my computer for a little while looking at a map of the area. I talked to Harriet on Skype for a few minutes, then headed out at about 11am.
The weather was absolutely beautiful – 55 or 60 degrees and sunny, with a refreshing wind. It was the first truly warm day I have experienced since last fall, and when added to the thrill of being in a new place and the promise of exploration… it was downright intoxicating. Everything around me looked huge and solid and foreign and by jove, I was ready to see as much of it as I could.
One of the first places I stopped at was called Red 5 and had an array of fascinating gadgets in it. There was a monster-sized metal Predator standing in the shop window with a price of £5,000 on it, so I knew immediately that it must be a cool place. I took pictures of some of the more unique and amusing things I saw (including a real-life Gaydar instrument, which I am apparently in need of), which will of course be in my online album whenever I get that up and moving.
A little ways down from that there was a store called Americandy, which I assumed was supposed to be a store that says “Look at all of the exotic foreign candy! This is what Americans snack on!” However, I was unfamiliar with at least half of the candy and pop available there. And they didn’t even have Skittles. Please.
A few blocks down from the Buchanan Galleries I passed a shop called Forbidden Planet, which deals in geekery of all sorts: anime, comics, Hello Kitty, Twilight, action figures of the likes of Star Trek, Star Wars, Dr. Who, Tron and a host of other nerd-tastic regulars. At the time I was passing the shop, however, I heard live bagpipe music coming from somewhere further down the road. For a few moments I was torn between Star Trek and bagpipes, and decided that the shop wasn’t going anywhere, but the musicians could take to their heels at any minute. I passed by a few young men in kilts (FINALLY! KILTS!) who appeared to be in a pipe and drum band, but they weren’t playing anything. The music was coming from a wild-looking group of men that call themselves Clanadonia. One piper and four drummers. They were two parts crazy for every ten parts awesome, and I bought the album that was being sold. Dad and Kevin will both love it. I chatted with them very briefly after their set, got my CD signed, and made sure that they knew they were the coolest thing I’d seen since I got to Scotland.
There were also two pairs of men playing Native American flute music, a few acoustic guitarists (including one young man that did some rather interesting things with his voice), an African drum player and a blues guitarist. And there was a living statue. He was interesting, as much as a statue that’s actually a person can be. I have pictures.
The buildings, as I have mentioned, were mostly stone and without the labels a foreign traveler would be hard-pressed to identify each one. For example, the TGIFridays I went into had a freakin’ anteroom-type thing with a DOMED CEILING. All we get in the States is two sets of double doors. I mean… dude. There were also a plethora of cafés. The most popular chains here seem to be Starbucks, Costa and an Italian café “NERO”. And there were a LOT of them. At one point, from where I stood, I could look in 2 ½ different directions and see 3 Starbucks. No joke. Also (and this is why I mention them in the paragraph on buildings) in the middle of one of the squares there was a darkish stone building that looked like a small cathedral… but was labeled as a NERO café. Good gracious.
There were, I believe, three kilt-specific stores (perhaps more, but I only got around to three). That had, in addition to kilts, tartans, sporrans, flashes and whiskey, a lot of really cute things for purchase. I almost bought an adorable little fluffball with ears and a tail that was labeled as a “Wild Hairy Haggis” (Google it and you can see some). I may have to buy one before I leave. There were also postcards to be purchased. Fortunately, many of these postcards featured attractive beskirted men (one of the models I saw several times can also be seen… twice… at the top of this page). Unfortunately, these postcards were situated next to – and at a right angle to – the doorway. This meant that you could look at them from across the doorway, but as soon as you stepped closer to grab and/or inspect one (stop thinking dirty things) you would be directly in the path of anyone that wanted to come into the store. Yes, I was bumped into. I won’t tell you how many times.
After looking into a few places, one where the staff wasn’t really friendly and one that was too large and crowded for my self-conscious touristy self to be comfortable with, I had a late lunch at a place called Blane Valley. I imagine it was much like any of the other pub-type places in the area. It was quite crowded and I ended up having to take a seat at the unused end of a table where several middle-aged women were talking animatedly about something or another. I’ve been wanting a cheeseburger really badly since I got to Scotland, so that’s what I ordered. I wasn’t terribly impressed by it. The cheese was shredded cheddar and mozzarella, and there was way too much of it. The onion rings were not true onion rings but were more like the type you see at the Chinese buffets at home – battered rings of onion-flavored stuffing. Tastier than what the buffets offer, but still not onion rings.
I was back in my room before 6. Spent some time talking to Cindy, and at around 8pm I did NOT have a date with a Scottish guy, no matter what Cindy says I did or didn’t do. And we didn’t walk around Glasgow or eat at the aforementioned TGIFridays. And we didn’t have a great time and aren’t making plans to see each other again after I get to Edinburgh.
... And if you can't see completely through that, then you must not know me very well. :->
Day 1:
I left campus at around 4:36 or something, taking a video of most of the walk (although I will probably try it again at a later date when I’m not lugging a book bag and a suitcase). The wait at the bus stop seemed interminable. The bus was just over 10 minutes late, plus the bus driver stopped to pee when we got to the bus station halfway through the journey. As a result we ended up getting to my stop (the Howden St by Club Earth) almost 20 minutes late, so it is quite a good thing that I didn’t have to meet my bus to Glasgow right away, or I’d have been screwed.
I wasn’t sure if I got the name of the stop right because of the way the driver had responded to it, but at right about the spot where I thought the stop should have been I made my way forward and showed him the instructions from Traveline that I had written out for myself. As it turns out, I ended up standing up at just the right time – he pointed down the road behind us about 50 feet or so, and lo and behold, there was a bus stop there. Apparently they know it as the Club Earth stop.
A bazillion buses passed by before my X15 showed up. Okay, it was actually only three or four buses, but I was operating on nervous tension punctuated by a little voice in my head (Dad’s or Dr. Swartz’s – they took turns) telling me to calm down.
When the bus stopped and the door opened, I took a look at the 4 steps they expected me to ascend with my huge, heavy suitcase, and I said, quote, “Ohhhhh, yeah. Alright.” Fortunately, a very nice Indian guy took the suitcase and settled it into the seat behind the driver for me while I paid (it costs £5 to get to Glasgow, in case you were wondering). The drive definitely didn’t seem as long as it was supposed to be. There were several great views, but unfortunately a great many of them were obstructed by high banks on either side of the road or by the trees that are invariably planted along most of the roadsides here. I think you can see in some of my pictures how those little trees can obstruct a camera’s duties.
Speaking of pictures, I have decided to keep them in an online album rather than putting all of them into my blog. It’s annoying and tedious to put them into a Blogger post, plus if I use an album I can caption them, which is something that my biggest fan quite enjoys.
Also, while I’m talking in an aside, I want to mention something random that I started really noticing last week among the guys in my Heritage Studies class and that would have gone in my last blog had I noticed it at the time: guys in the UK know how to dress themselves. I have seen very few poorly-dressed men here. That’s not to say that they always wear buttoned and collared shirts or anything, but I have yet to see, for example, baggy sweat pants hanging around knees, sideways baseball caps, awkwardly fitted t-shirts or *cringe* sandals worn with socks. Perhaps they just have a better selection of clothing to choose from or something, but whatever it is, American guys should really be shipped here a few thousand at a time to takes notes on what to wear, because compared to the UK, a large percentage of American guys are blind, as far as fashion is concerned.
The Buchanan Bus Station reminded me very much of an airport… but with buses. All the buses lined up all slanty-like by the station, and when you walked into it, it really was like a mini-airport, lined with gift shops, little eateries and national restaurant chains.
From what I could recall (poorly, as it turns out) from the map I’d seen, the hotel I was looking for (citizenM) was at the corner of Renfield and Renfrew, and appeared to be right down the street from the station. I found Renfield and, in a moment that would have caused audiences to shout “DON’T GO DOWN THAT ROAD!! IT’S THE WRONG ONE!!”… I went down it. Specifically, I went at least a quarter of a mile down it, but couldn’t find the street I needed. Eventually I stopped at a convenience store for directions (the cashier didn’t have a thick Scottish accent, which relieved me a bit) and found that I had passed it about halfway through my “tromp down the sidewalk with really heavy bags in tow”. And so upon thanking him I turned around, sweaty and tired and a little bit annoyed, only to find that the hotel was… right down the road from the bus station. Like, RIGHT FRAKKING THERE. Ah, well. At least I got there.
CitizenM is just as eccentric and post-modern as it promised to be on the website. Miguel (not Scottish or English, but still a bit hard to understand with his Eastern European accent) helped me with my check-in.
And my 4th floor room is s o a w e s o m e ! ! There’s a king-sized bed, a writing desk, huge, semi-plush towels, a weird-looking little bunny named Marvin (their mascot, I guess) and a “Do Not Disturb” door hanger that says “Don’t come in. There’s a naked person in here.” My favorite thing, hands-down, is the shower. It’s what they call a rain shower, meaning that insteadof a regular shower head, the water comes out of the ceiling, like you’re standing under your own special little rain cloud. There’s also a second, detachable shower head. It. Is. Amazing. And there’s a light in it that tints the whole room, and I get to control the color or (if I choose) colors of it.
Speaking of controlling things, there’s a remote that controls the flat-screen television (over the bed), the blinds, the temperature, the lights and the alarm clock. Several TV channels and a plethora of movies are included in the price of the room, and Rodin Hood, Star Trek, Serenity, Despicable Me, Eagle Eye, Iron Man 2 and Tropic Thunder were among my options. There were also a lot of porn movies to choose from.
I watched Tropic Thunder before going to bed. Jay Baruchel is such a cutie.
Day 2:
I had breakfast in canteenM around 8:30 or so. It was not what I would call spectacular. The sausage tasted like something from a stand at the fair, and the “tomato and egg” sandwich was an oddity. The orange juice had pulp in it but tasted pretty good, and the coffee was, of course, not sweet enough for my tastes. I drank it after I had finished everything else, and took to wandering around and looking at the bar area – they have a special bookshelf set aside for souvenir items you can purchase, including journals, books, the soaps and shampoos that you get in your room, and Marvin bunnies. There are also a bunch of snacks available, from muffins and croissants to fruit and juices and Ben&Jerry’s ice cream.
I went back to my room then and took a shower. The shower in my hotel is phenomenal – could have stayed in there all day! I was on my computer for a little while looking at a map of the area. I talked to Harriet on Skype for a few minutes, then headed out at about 11am.
The weather was absolutely beautiful – 55 or 60 degrees and sunny, with a refreshing wind. It was the first truly warm day I have experienced since last fall, and when added to the thrill of being in a new place and the promise of exploration… it was downright intoxicating. Everything around me looked huge and solid and foreign and by jove, I was ready to see as much of it as I could.
One of the first places I stopped at was called Red 5 and had an array of fascinating gadgets in it. There was a monster-sized metal Predator standing in the shop window with a price of £5,000 on it, so I knew immediately that it must be a cool place. I took pictures of some of the more unique and amusing things I saw (including a real-life Gaydar instrument, which I am apparently in need of), which will of course be in my online album whenever I get that up and moving.
A little ways down from that there was a store called Americandy, which I assumed was supposed to be a store that says “Look at all of the exotic foreign candy! This is what Americans snack on!” However, I was unfamiliar with at least half of the candy and pop available there. And they didn’t even have Skittles. Please.
A few blocks down from the Buchanan Galleries I passed a shop called Forbidden Planet, which deals in geekery of all sorts: anime, comics, Hello Kitty, Twilight, action figures of the likes of Star Trek, Star Wars, Dr. Who, Tron and a host of other nerd-tastic regulars. At the time I was passing the shop, however, I heard live bagpipe music coming from somewhere further down the road. For a few moments I was torn between Star Trek and bagpipes, and decided that the shop wasn’t going anywhere, but the musicians could take to their heels at any minute. I passed by a few young men in kilts (FINALLY! KILTS!) who appeared to be in a pipe and drum band, but they weren’t playing anything. The music was coming from a wild-looking group of men that call themselves Clanadonia. One piper and four drummers. They were two parts crazy for every ten parts awesome, and I bought the album that was being sold. Dad and Kevin will both love it. I chatted with them very briefly after their set, got my CD signed, and made sure that they knew they were the coolest thing I’d seen since I got to Scotland.
There were also two pairs of men playing Native American flute music, a few acoustic guitarists (including one young man that did some rather interesting things with his voice), an African drum player and a blues guitarist. And there was a living statue. He was interesting, as much as a statue that’s actually a person can be. I have pictures.
The buildings, as I have mentioned, were mostly stone and without the labels a foreign traveler would be hard-pressed to identify each one. For example, the TGIFridays I went into had a freakin’ anteroom-type thing with a DOMED CEILING. All we get in the States is two sets of double doors. I mean… dude. There were also a plethora of cafés. The most popular chains here seem to be Starbucks, Costa and an Italian café “NERO”. And there were a LOT of them. At one point, from where I stood, I could look in 2 ½ different directions and see 3 Starbucks. No joke. Also (and this is why I mention them in the paragraph on buildings) in the middle of one of the squares there was a darkish stone building that looked like a small cathedral… but was labeled as a NERO café. Good gracious.
There were, I believe, three kilt-specific stores (perhaps more, but I only got around to three). That had, in addition to kilts, tartans, sporrans, flashes and whiskey, a lot of really cute things for purchase. I almost bought an adorable little fluffball with ears and a tail that was labeled as a “Wild Hairy Haggis” (Google it and you can see some). I may have to buy one before I leave. There were also postcards to be purchased. Fortunately, many of these postcards featured attractive beskirted men (one of the models I saw several times can also be seen… twice… at the top of this page). Unfortunately, these postcards were situated next to – and at a right angle to – the doorway. This meant that you could look at them from across the doorway, but as soon as you stepped closer to grab and/or inspect one (stop thinking dirty things) you would be directly in the path of anyone that wanted to come into the store. Yes, I was bumped into. I won’t tell you how many times.
After looking into a few places, one where the staff wasn’t really friendly and one that was too large and crowded for my self-conscious touristy self to be comfortable with, I had a late lunch at a place called Blane Valley. I imagine it was much like any of the other pub-type places in the area. It was quite crowded and I ended up having to take a seat at the unused end of a table where several middle-aged women were talking animatedly about something or another. I’ve been wanting a cheeseburger really badly since I got to Scotland, so that’s what I ordered. I wasn’t terribly impressed by it. The cheese was shredded cheddar and mozzarella, and there was way too much of it. The onion rings were not true onion rings but were more like the type you see at the Chinese buffets at home – battered rings of onion-flavored stuffing. Tastier than what the buffets offer, but still not onion rings.
I was back in my room before 6. Spent some time talking to Cindy, and at around 8pm I did NOT have a date with a Scottish guy, no matter what Cindy says I did or didn’t do. And we didn’t walk around Glasgow or eat at the aforementioned TGIFridays. And we didn’t have a great time and aren’t making plans to see each other again after I get to Edinburgh.
... And if you can't see completely through that, then you must not know me very well. :->
Monday, March 21, 2011
A Dummy’s Guide to Scotland
(as told by Sarah)
(from a tiny blip of a college campus in the middle of nowhere)
So here is the blog I promised you all. Yes, it’s probably a bit (a lot) overdue in the minds of some of my readers, but, I think, appropriately timed, more or less, for what I need to say in it. I’m feeling a bit melancholy right now, but I’m sure it will pass. Soon, I hope.
Well, the title says it all, so I will disregard the normal opening paragraph, the way I typically disregard the normal closing paragraph when I’m too lazy to write one, and jump right in.
The weather: It’s as changing and bipolar as Ohio’s weather, but, it seems, with a less radical range. Yesterday morning, for example, I was able to go out in just my hoodie, but by evening I had to wear my coat over it and I was still shivering. The day before that it was quite rainy but warm enough that I took a walk with my umbrella. The day before that it was just barely warm enough for the sprinkling rain to turn to snow.
Overall I think I shouldn’t complain about the weather, because it was cool and beautiful for my first few days here, compared to the snow storm (which led to torrential flooding) that was raping Ohio when I left. Sometimes it will be terribly windy for days at a time, but for the most part it seems quite promising. I’m hoping it gets warmer quick, because I’m sick of having to wear my hoodie everywhere.
The land: is beautiful. As I mentioned before, I was worried that the grass would still be brown so early in the year, but when I got here I discovered that these fears were unfounded. It is quite green here, with hills that remind me a bit of Amish Country, although they are substantially less… energetic than Amish Country’s hills, preferring to roll and wave rather than hop around with odd angles and such.
(as told by Sarah)
(from a tiny blip of a college campus in the middle of nowhere)
So here is the blog I promised you all. Yes, it’s probably a bit (a lot) overdue in the minds of some of my readers, but, I think, appropriately timed, more or less, for what I need to say in it. I’m feeling a bit melancholy right now, but I’m sure it will pass. Soon, I hope.
Well, the title says it all, so I will disregard the normal opening paragraph, the way I typically disregard the normal closing paragraph when I’m too lazy to write one, and jump right in.
The weather: It’s as changing and bipolar as Ohio’s weather, but, it seems, with a less radical range. Yesterday morning, for example, I was able to go out in just my hoodie, but by evening I had to wear my coat over it and I was still shivering. The day before that it was quite rainy but warm enough that I took a walk with my umbrella. The day before that it was just barely warm enough for the sprinkling rain to turn to snow.
Overall I think I shouldn’t complain about the weather, because it was cool and beautiful for my first few days here, compared to the snow storm (which led to torrential flooding) that was raping Ohio when I left. Sometimes it will be terribly windy for days at a time, but for the most part it seems quite promising. I’m hoping it gets warmer quick, because I’m sick of having to wear my hoodie everywhere.
The land: is beautiful. As I mentioned before, I was worried that the grass would still be brown so early in the year, but when I got here I discovered that these fears were unfounded. It is quite green here, with hills that remind me a bit of Amish Country, although they are substantially less… energetic than Amish Country’s hills, preferring to roll and wave rather than hop around with odd angles and such.
I really want to see the Highlands before I go – in all of the pictures I’ve seen, they have the aura of a wise and aged grandparent that can both take care of you and provide a challenge that will help you grow. I feel both comforted and intimated by what I see.
That sounds silly, yeah, but think about it the next time you see a picture of the Highlands. You may not think I’m so crazy then.
The food: I haven’t had much outside the school’s food, which is largely sub-par. There have been a few things that were delicious – the “southern fried” chicken, the beef stew, and an Aberdeen dish that was like beef stew but made with the texture of mashed potatoes – but it’s almost like everything has been dusted with the same odd tangy aroma or flavor that I can’t quite get past, like the smell of an old person's house. I definitely feel, if the canteen food is any indication, that American food is much more flavorful. Of course, it would be unfair to make that assumption based strictly on the canteen food; after all, what if someone came to the States and judged American food based on what our cafeteria serves?
I have been forced to relax my rules about how deeply incompatible foods are allowed to become involved with one another, as it often seems that the servers in the cafeteria are actively encouraging my food to fornicate right there on my plate, resulting in mutant cross-bred food particles that cause my palate to react convulsively. Occasionally, if I’m especially wary of fornicating foods, I’ll ask for a separate plate for my French fries (I mean chips) so that they don’t become ensoggened (I just made up that word… I think it’s cute) by baked bean juices or stir fry sauce. Allistair quite quickly took to teasing me about this. His first explanation was “Oh, she’s an American”, but I quickly corrected him. “Oh, heck, that has nothing to do with it. People back home make fun of me too,” I said.
I have recently discovered something terrible. Upon experiencing what the southern yokel would call a “hankerin’” for tacos, I did a search for local Taco Bells… and… there are none. In all of Scotland. Scotland has NO TACO BELLS. In the States we have at least one in EVERY REASONABLY SIZED TOWN. (We are also pretty much the most obese country in the world, so just what does that tell you?) England has 2, but they’re both down south. 340 miles away. Also no Long John Silver’s, but I can live with that since I’m in the Land of Fish and Chips. For all I know theirs are way better than LJS anyway. And no Dunkin’ Donuts, either. They do have Krispy Kremes, but they are all situated in England as well, in a little clot across the Irish Sea from Dublin.
They have something in the cafeteria that comes in a little packet, called, simply, “brown sauce”, that I’ve been using for my French fries (I mean chips). It tastes a little like barbeque sauce, with a bit more of a vinegar-y flavor. There are also these little dessert treats that consist of milk chocolate over a graham cracker crust with marshmallows on top. It is soooooooo gooooood. Don’t forget about my disappointing experience with the “barbeque chicken” at the mall. And there is a beverage called “Irn Bru” that is apparently popular with young people here. It looks like orange soda but I have yet to try it, as I was fortified with a wariness against the stuff by Niall, my Heritage Studies teacher. Also, this paragraph has apparently become a catch-all for the various foods that don’t fit in the “can’t touch on my plate” or “served in the canteen” or “restaurants they don’t have here” categories.
I have not yet tried haggis, although there have been variations on it available in the canteen.
The fashion: Seems to be somewhat similar to what it is in the States, but there is far less variety. However, since I know next to nothing about fashion I couldn’t say for sure. It seems that the H&M styles are fashionable for girls, as are those ugly fluffy boots that girls in the States wear. In a school of horse girls I see a LOT of boots, ranging from downright ugly to uniquely cute, and there are some that look both practical on the yard and fashionable off.
That’s about all I can say about fashion, except for this: they really like their necklaces long. And they have more feather jewelry here. I have a pair of feather earrings (two actually, though one pair has disappeared), and I’ve always thought there was something really cute about feather jewelry. They have a much better selection here than at home, although I probably won’t buy any because I wouldn’t be able to pack them without squishing them and messing up their prettiness. Plus I don’t need them and I have to exercise control over my purchases.
The roads: They are frightening. They’re very narrow, at least in this part of the country. There are places on the country roads where they have stone bridges that are only wide enough for one vehicle and are armed with traffic lights so that only one vehicle is on each at any given time. There are roundabouts out the wazoo, although Claire (that’s right – I have a Claire here as well as at home) told me that this specific region is rather eccentric in its number of roundabouts; apparently they’re not so prolific in other parts of Scotland. I think I mentioned that there are a lot of them here, and that they each have special names, but I also want to say that there is an extreme amount of variation between them. Some of them just look like little concrete slabs 10 or 15 feet wide, while others are 25 or 30 feet wide and boast a tiny ecosystem complete with trees and rocks and, in at least one case, a random stone monument, like a tiny landlocked Easter Island of sorts.
There are, however, lots of twisty, turny and loopity roads, and I have discovered that I get easily confused due to my ingrained, and decidedly American, understanding of how roads work. This might seem obvious, given the differences that I’ve mentioned, but I’m talking about something far more subtle. For example, when I was riding the minibus with John last Tuesday and he was preparing to make a right-hand turn into the WalMart parking lot, I instinctively thought “check the lane next to me before I turn to make sure no one’s coming up beside me on the right”. Then I remembered that there wouldn’t be anyone coming up on the right, because the right lane next to us was for oncoming traffic, not turn-only traffic, like it would be in the states. Also, depending on which direction my vehicle is turning, I would automatically scan both ways for a left turn, but focus on my left side when making a right turn because I don’t have to cross a lane to make a right-hand turn. Here, of course, it’s the other way around. And for those of you who were unsure: yes, they do drive on the “wrong” side of the road over here, and all of the cars are made with the driver positioned on the right-hand side of the car rather than the left. Speaking of…
The cars: It’s quite an odd thing, although I haven’t driven any cars or been in the passenger seat of a regular car. I will say, however, that the cars here all have a singular look about them. They are much rounder, more compact and more “efficient”-looking than American cars, and although there is, I discovered this morning, a Ford Escort in the college parking lot (really bizarre to see my dad’s car but in mirror-image), most of the models I see are unfamiliar to me. I recognize Ford, Toyota, Honda, etc., but there are makes and models here that I’ve never seen before. One of the cars at the college is this cute little blue thing, and it’s so compact that it only has one windshield wiper in the front window. It also looks WAY too tiny to be a four-door, yet it is (although it has virtually no trunk, or “boot”). I've seen a few pickup trucks, and every time they make me smile, because they seem so out of place here.
The music: Hard to say. The only music I’ve heard thusfar is that which spews forth from the radios of my flatmate and the ASDA minibus. I can tell you this, though: from what I’ve heard, young people here listen to the same crap that young people at home listen to. Flatmate’s radio was blaring for half the day last weekend, in the kitchen, with no one around to hear it but me, in my room with the door closed. When I walked into the hall it was so loud that it was like stepping into a nightclub. My point, though, is that I had to listen to it for a few hours straight, and from what I noticed, it was the same 15 or so American hip-hop songs played over and over and over and over and over again. *shudder*
As I have mentioned, I have not heard a single bagpipe since I got here, except for those of Gaelic Storm and Slainte Mhath that have come from the speakers of my own laptop. I don’t know yet what post-pubescent people generally listen to.
The buildings: All look very similar. I know that this is likely another cultural thing, like the fact that many of the cars look the same or that many Americans think that all Asians look alike. A vast (VAST) percentage of the buildings (aside from some of the barns and shopping centers) are made of stone. Take a look at any picture of Edinburgh and you can kind of get the idea. There is stone freaking everywhere. As Bud might say, “They’ve got stone comin’ outta their ying-ying!” It is difficult to tell the difference between a church, a house, a post office, a hotel and a pub if there is no sign to help you out, and sometimes the signs are just as confusing when you’re looking at them through the eyes of a foreigner – I know, for example, what to expect when I see an “FYE” sign, but what the heck is “BHS”? As a horse person, “BHS” stands for “British Horse Society”, but what does it mean in a shopping mall? These are things that the average native Scot knows instinctively, the way I know what “FYE” is. But to me it’s very confusing.
Despite never being absolutely sure whether the shop I’m about to step into is going to try to sell me a god or a candy bar, I find the buildings here to be beautiful. Even the ugly ones. They’re not ugly – they’re quaint. Old-worldly. Traditional.
When I went shopping on High Street in Linlithgow on Saturday for my birthday outing, there were gated and sometimes arched doorways open in the buildings or between them, often with short stone staircases leading up to what looked like residences. Quaint. Old-worldly. Traditional. A bit fantastic. Here’s an example of what I mean, although in this case there are no adorable stone steps and it leads to a restaurant, not a home:
After taking this pic I walked into the little alley and took a close-up of the restaurant. Isn't it cute?
The people: Most of the adults I’ve met have been quite nice. Most of the young people I’ve met have been… less so.
I want to say that the older students in my Heritage Studies class are easy to get along with, and after spending so much time with the teenagers that live on campus, I swear I can feel a palpable difference in the maturity level when I enter that classroom. The kids here, on the other hand (I am hesitant to say this, but it’s my honest observation), are kind of rude, and I find it difficult to imagine that they’re going to grow up to be the helpful and mature adults that I see around me. I don’t think I’ve had a single young person open a door for me, and have heard very little gratitude, and seen very little acknowledgement, even, when I do it for others. Many of them don’t make room on the sidewalk or the staircase when I’m walking toward them. Beyond taking up their trays, they don’t clean up after themselves in the canteen unless ordered to do so, nor do they seem to acknowledge the effort of the cafeteria workers or the cleaning ladies. They’re rude to each other, too, so it’s not like I and the college staff get special treatment in that department.
And don’t get me started on my flatmate’s kitchen cleanliness (or lack thereof) or the fact that she’s not done a single thing to make me feel welcome since I got here. Last week I found a skillet in a drawer that had not been washed or even scraped before it was put away. I am not joking.
Allistair told me once that I need to cut them some slack – that they are free from their parents for the first time and it is only natural for them to be a little wild. I have decided that stretching your legs and experimenting with drugs and alcohol, if they really feel it is necessary, should not affect the manners they exhibit toward other students and the college staff.
I don’t know if this is a cultural difference or not. I suspect that it is, and I don’t know how that makes me feel.
Speaking of disconcertingly ambiguous feelings, I took a walk before dinner tonight, and I got to thinking, and I don’t know if I like the ideas I came up with. I have decided that I really feel distanced from a lot of the other students here. Furthermore, I discovered that I am uncomfortable with not knowing how many of my feelings of outcasted-ness are due to natural “American in another country” culture shock, and how much of it is due to being surrounded so often by people who are 5, 6, 7 or in some cases even 8 years younger than me. And I don’t know whether this discomfort is due simply to the seemingly alien nature of the average teenager (it seemed largely alien even when I was a teenager myself) or if it’s due to the fact that, holy shite, when I’m standing with a group of these kids… I am the adult. I am the responsible one. I’m not saying that I think they're all to suddenly look up with wide, expectant eyes and wait for me to spout out my sage wisdom or anything like that. It’s just the thought that I’m the oldest person in this group. Theoretically I am the example-setter here, though I doubt their odds of paying attention to my “example” are any better than the odds that they would actually push their chairs in when they’re done eating (seriously, they need to take a class with Nancy). I am the most experienced one, and should be expected to act like it if it is asked of me.
Except that I’m not sure if I could.
And while I’m worried about it… is this a reflection on my readiness to join the real world? Like, after graduation? I don’t feel any more adult now than I did three years ago when I graduated from LCCC. How can I expect the world to take me seriously? Will it, even if I feel like it shouldn’t? Is real life just about pretending that you know what you’re about and the world accepting you as a competent individual? Is there ANY adult out there that actually feels like he or she has earned adulthood? Or all we all just insecure young adults sporting various stages of wear?
I think that being philosophical about my place in the universe is a great way to end a blog.
What do you say?
♥
SM
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
My First Bus Ride
Happy Birthday, Sister Kristin!!!!! (03/08/1987)
March 7, 2011 (because this lovely excursion happened yesterday)
I know I was supposed to write this blog about my American views of certain things in Scotland, and I’ll still do that… but in another blog. Because for this one I have a new experience to relate – my first real foray into public transportation and shopping in Scotland.
I navigated a local public transportation website, traveline.com, yesterday to figure out where and when I could grab a bus. I’d seen a bus stop right outside Ecclesmachan and figured that ought to be a spot where I could get picked up. After doing a search of local T-Mobile locations I had determined to go to a shopping center called The Gyle, which is at the city limits of Edinburgh. However, when I went to breakfast this morning I saw Rose and Linda, her boss, and when I told them that I was going to try my hand at public transportation they recommended that I try the mall in Livingston instead, as it was bigger and also had a T-Mobile store in it. So When I got back to my room I found myself a new route.
Off to Livingston I shall go!
I stopped in the coffee shop and got a Twix bar, against my better judgment, before I left. Naturally I left my route information on the counter there, and didn’t realize it until I got to the bus stop. Luckily I remembered the important details (be at Stance D at 16:47 for the bus back), so it wasn’t a major deal for me. Someone arrived shortly after me at the Ecclesmachan bus stop, which boosted my confidence a skosh. I didn’t know how much the fare (it’s £1.70 to go between Ecclesmachan and Livingston, in case you’re ever out this way and need to know) would be and didn’t want to waste the bus driver’s time while I dug it out, so I dropped £2 into the change receptacle. I think he was annoyed by it but he didn’t say anything.
The ride to Livingston was relatively uneventful, but I kept myself alert to the road signs, looking out for anything relating to “The Centre” or “Almondvale Avenue”. I do want to mention, however, that the ubiquitous British “roundabout” is spawning healthily out this way. Seriously, they have roundabouts here like we have intersections back home. It’s crazy. And each and every one has a special name. They are really serious about their roundabouts.
The entrance to the mall, which is I believe the main entrance, that the bus dropped us off at was big, and inside it looked absolutely massive. The avenues (I don’t know what we call them) here were large enough for major vehicular traffic to pass through and the glass ceiling was at least 4 stories above my head. Further along it closed in significantly, until it was narrower in width and shorter in height than what I’m used to in the States.
I saw some stores that I recognized, such as H&M and the Disney Store, but most of them were completely foreign to me and some had comical names, like “Cotswold” (sounds like a British word, doesn’t it?), “Aulds”, “Peacocks”, “Schuh” (pronounced, “shoe”, I’m assuming, since that’s what they sold there) and “Jessops”. There was also the British equivalent of a Dollar Tree, affectionately called “Poundland”. Isn’t that just “tickle-your-gut” adorable? I suppose we do have some oddly-christened stores in the States, such as “Babbages” and “Torrid” (the worst name for a plus-size clothing store for women, by the way, that they could have chosen).
The first store I went into was a department store called M&S. I didn’t see much that I liked, but the store was notable because it was a department store… with a grocery store inside of it. Seriously. Imagine going into Sears and you turn a corner and suddenly you feel like you’re at Sparkle market. It was weird. There was even a little bakery in it, which was like a store-within-a-store-within-a-store-within-a-mall. I almost bought a maple pecan thing for 80p or something… it smelled so good! Luckily there wasn’t an attendant at the bakery so I was forced to turn it down. Close call, that one!
I have commented that I haven’t seen a single kilt or heard a single bagpipe since I got here. There is, however, a store at the mall called “Highlander” that specializes in kilts, but I didn’t go in. The sign mentioned “other formalwear”, which made me think it would be like walking into an “American Commodore” and telling the attendants there that you’re just browsing (“Ummm… okay. Sure…”). That balked me, plus the fact that I’d have had to go up a flight of stairs to get to it, where everyone could see me and think I was a weirdo.
On my way back through the mall I found a directory, because I hadn’t seen the T-Mobile store (which was, after all, the focus of my journey), and found that I had passed it up. The girl in the store seemed friendly, but she didn’t offer me much advice or spend a long time chatting with me about my options. Unfortunately, I’d have to say I got the impression that she wanted to get me out of the store as soon as she could. I picked the cheapest phone available that had a camera (it was only the second cheapest of the lot, at £10) and “topped it up” with another £10.
I stopped at around 3pm at a café called BB’s to grab a sandwich, charge my new phone and read the user instruction pamphlet. I ordered a barbeque chicken sandwich (which tasted like chicken but did NOT taste like barbeque) and a hot chocolate (which tasted like semi-mediocre hot chocolate), and immediately proceeded to make a mess of the hot chocolate, spilling a bit onto the table, and from there onto my hoodie.
I went into a store called “Superdrug” (I know it sounds bad, but it was like a RiteAid I swear) and looked at their hair straightener selection. They had a few to choose from, and they were all dual-voltage, as I had hoped (yes!!!!) but I thought I’d check out WalMart’s selection before buying one. Later I discovered that WalMart’s selection was… well, they didn’t have one. Not a single hair straightener. As much as I hate WalMart and their money-grubbing, privacy-invading, soul-crushing, employee-screwing, pompous tyranny, I have to admit that the ones that we have in the States at least have hair straighteners. I mean, come on, United Kingdom!
Anyhow, I figured while I was at WalMart I may as well do some grocery shopping, so I wouldn’t have to bother with the Tuesday night minivan run. I also found an adapter for UK to US plugs, and they were only £2. I had resolved to buy myself a UK straightener, so I knew that I would need one of these. I’ll be sure to get one before I leave.
Gah! I’m so not in a blogging mood right now. But I must persevere. For my readers. I love them like a second-rate supervillain pretends to love frozen yogurt to impress the girl at the laundromat. Bazinga!! (No, that’s not saying that I pretend to love them. Read it correctly! *smack* Kidding. I wouldn’t smack you. I love you, remember?)
When I got back out to the bus stop (Terminal “E” was the one I needed ) I examined the bus schedule there and fretted a bit because it said it was going to Linlithgow. Ecclesmachan is, of course, halfway between Linlithgow and Livingston, which makes my fretting pointless and silly, but I think my newness to the whole matter means that my naïve worry can be forgiven. I talked to the driver of the bus that left right before mine, and he assured me that I was at the right terminal and that the next bus would take me back properly.
I’d waited around for about 10 minutes (of course I got there early out of my anal fear of making a mistake) when an attractive guy approached and scrutinized the route schedule. He asked me if I knew whether or not the 21 (the bus that had just left) was usually on time, and I had to confess that I had only just ridden a bus in Scotland for the first time that day, so I had no clue. I also had to inform him that if he was looking for bus 21, it had just left less than a minute earlier. Despite remarking that he needed the bus he didn’t seem overly chagrined that it had left without him. Whether this reflected an extraordinarily laid-back manner or a lack of true desire to get where he was going, I don’t know. We waved to one another as my bus took off.
My return bus ride, unfortunately, was not as uneventful as my first one. On the plus side, I learned a valuable lesson: while in the States you’re supposed to hit your “stop” button, wait for the bus to stop, then get up and get off, the order of things is not so in the UK. The order here is: walk to front of bus, hit “stop” button, bus stops, get off. If you try doing it like you’re stateside, the driver will pass up your stop and you’ll end up having to ride all the way to the end of his circuit in Linlithgow and halfway back to get back to your destination. I was stunned, confused and alarmed when he didn’t stop for me. I had told him where I was going – that’s how they figure out your fare, remember? – and part of me had thought that maybe the little screen he uses to figure out your fare, I don’t know, kept a journey log for him that let him know where all his passengers were going or something. Not so, crazy little American girl! Not so at all!
On the plus side, the journey to Linlithgow was very pretty. Unfortunately I was unable to appreciate a lot of it due to 1) my impending coronary regarding my missed stop, 2) the reflections off the windows and the speed we were going, which combined to make it hard to take pictures, and 3) the slow descent into darkness. I was fortunate to be seated next to a very concerned 50-something woman, who sympathized with me and helped me out by giving me advice and making sure the driver realized what had happened. I am indebted to her for her help.
So my adventure ended at a little past 6, when I found myself once again on the sidewalk making the trek through Ecclesmachan to the Oatridge College campus. I want to mention that a student car drove by and honked derisively at me while I was walking, but didn’t bother asking me if I needed a ride.
And yes, I know that I can’t claim that the honk was derisive, since I don’t know the car personally, but in my slightly aggravated and weary state it certainly sounded like it.
I got back in time to have dinner with John and Allistair again. I was also privy to a semi-bawdy conversation they were having with a pair of sexually ambivalent boys. Whether they were genuinely exploring their sexuality or just being teased about their chummy relationship I have no idea. Scottish humor still mostly eludes me.
I have yet to plan my next excursion, but Niall tells me that in two weeks’ time my Heritage class may take a trip to Edinburgh.
*squeal!!*
♥
SM
March 7, 2011 (because this lovely excursion happened yesterday)
I know I was supposed to write this blog about my American views of certain things in Scotland, and I’ll still do that… but in another blog. Because for this one I have a new experience to relate – my first real foray into public transportation and shopping in Scotland.
I navigated a local public transportation website, traveline.com, yesterday to figure out where and when I could grab a bus. I’d seen a bus stop right outside Ecclesmachan and figured that ought to be a spot where I could get picked up. After doing a search of local T-Mobile locations I had determined to go to a shopping center called The Gyle, which is at the city limits of Edinburgh. However, when I went to breakfast this morning I saw Rose and Linda, her boss, and when I told them that I was going to try my hand at public transportation they recommended that I try the mall in Livingston instead, as it was bigger and also had a T-Mobile store in it. So When I got back to my room I found myself a new route.
Off to Livingston I shall go!
I stopped in the coffee shop and got a Twix bar, against my better judgment, before I left. Naturally I left my route information on the counter there, and didn’t realize it until I got to the bus stop. Luckily I remembered the important details (be at Stance D at 16:47 for the bus back), so it wasn’t a major deal for me. Someone arrived shortly after me at the Ecclesmachan bus stop, which boosted my confidence a skosh. I didn’t know how much the fare (it’s £1.70 to go between Ecclesmachan and Livingston, in case you’re ever out this way and need to know) would be and didn’t want to waste the bus driver’s time while I dug it out, so I dropped £2 into the change receptacle. I think he was annoyed by it but he didn’t say anything.
The ride to Livingston was relatively uneventful, but I kept myself alert to the road signs, looking out for anything relating to “The Centre” or “Almondvale Avenue”. I do want to mention, however, that the ubiquitous British “roundabout” is spawning healthily out this way. Seriously, they have roundabouts here like we have intersections back home. It’s crazy. And each and every one has a special name. They are really serious about their roundabouts.
The entrance to the mall, which is I believe the main entrance, that the bus dropped us off at was big, and inside it looked absolutely massive. The avenues (I don’t know what we call them) here were large enough for major vehicular traffic to pass through and the glass ceiling was at least 4 stories above my head. Further along it closed in significantly, until it was narrower in width and shorter in height than what I’m used to in the States.
I saw some stores that I recognized, such as H&M and the Disney Store, but most of them were completely foreign to me and some had comical names, like “Cotswold” (sounds like a British word, doesn’t it?), “Aulds”, “Peacocks”, “Schuh” (pronounced, “shoe”, I’m assuming, since that’s what they sold there) and “Jessops”. There was also the British equivalent of a Dollar Tree, affectionately called “Poundland”. Isn’t that just “tickle-your-gut” adorable? I suppose we do have some oddly-christened stores in the States, such as “Babbages” and “Torrid” (the worst name for a plus-size clothing store for women, by the way, that they could have chosen).
The first store I went into was a department store called M&S. I didn’t see much that I liked, but the store was notable because it was a department store… with a grocery store inside of it. Seriously. Imagine going into Sears and you turn a corner and suddenly you feel like you’re at Sparkle market. It was weird. There was even a little bakery in it, which was like a store-within-a-store-within-a-store-within-a-mall. I almost bought a maple pecan thing for 80p or something… it smelled so good! Luckily there wasn’t an attendant at the bakery so I was forced to turn it down. Close call, that one!
I have commented that I haven’t seen a single kilt or heard a single bagpipe since I got here. There is, however, a store at the mall called “Highlander” that specializes in kilts, but I didn’t go in. The sign mentioned “other formalwear”, which made me think it would be like walking into an “American Commodore” and telling the attendants there that you’re just browsing (“Ummm… okay. Sure…”). That balked me, plus the fact that I’d have had to go up a flight of stairs to get to it, where everyone could see me and think I was a weirdo.
On my way back through the mall I found a directory, because I hadn’t seen the T-Mobile store (which was, after all, the focus of my journey), and found that I had passed it up. The girl in the store seemed friendly, but she didn’t offer me much advice or spend a long time chatting with me about my options. Unfortunately, I’d have to say I got the impression that she wanted to get me out of the store as soon as she could. I picked the cheapest phone available that had a camera (it was only the second cheapest of the lot, at £10) and “topped it up” with another £10.
I stopped at around 3pm at a café called BB’s to grab a sandwich, charge my new phone and read the user instruction pamphlet. I ordered a barbeque chicken sandwich (which tasted like chicken but did NOT taste like barbeque) and a hot chocolate (which tasted like semi-mediocre hot chocolate), and immediately proceeded to make a mess of the hot chocolate, spilling a bit onto the table, and from there onto my hoodie.
I went into a store called “Superdrug” (I know it sounds bad, but it was like a RiteAid I swear) and looked at their hair straightener selection. They had a few to choose from, and they were all dual-voltage, as I had hoped (yes!!!!) but I thought I’d check out WalMart’s selection before buying one. Later I discovered that WalMart’s selection was… well, they didn’t have one. Not a single hair straightener. As much as I hate WalMart and their money-grubbing, privacy-invading, soul-crushing, employee-screwing, pompous tyranny, I have to admit that the ones that we have in the States at least have hair straighteners. I mean, come on, United Kingdom!
Anyhow, I figured while I was at WalMart I may as well do some grocery shopping, so I wouldn’t have to bother with the Tuesday night minivan run. I also found an adapter for UK to US plugs, and they were only £2. I had resolved to buy myself a UK straightener, so I knew that I would need one of these. I’ll be sure to get one before I leave.
Gah! I’m so not in a blogging mood right now. But I must persevere. For my readers. I love them like a second-rate supervillain pretends to love frozen yogurt to impress the girl at the laundromat. Bazinga!! (No, that’s not saying that I pretend to love them. Read it correctly! *smack* Kidding. I wouldn’t smack you. I love you, remember?)
When I got back out to the bus stop (Terminal “E” was the one I needed ) I examined the bus schedule there and fretted a bit because it said it was going to Linlithgow. Ecclesmachan is, of course, halfway between Linlithgow and Livingston, which makes my fretting pointless and silly, but I think my newness to the whole matter means that my naïve worry can be forgiven. I talked to the driver of the bus that left right before mine, and he assured me that I was at the right terminal and that the next bus would take me back properly.
I’d waited around for about 10 minutes (of course I got there early out of my anal fear of making a mistake) when an attractive guy approached and scrutinized the route schedule. He asked me if I knew whether or not the 21 (the bus that had just left) was usually on time, and I had to confess that I had only just ridden a bus in Scotland for the first time that day, so I had no clue. I also had to inform him that if he was looking for bus 21, it had just left less than a minute earlier. Despite remarking that he needed the bus he didn’t seem overly chagrined that it had left without him. Whether this reflected an extraordinarily laid-back manner or a lack of true desire to get where he was going, I don’t know. We waved to one another as my bus took off.
My return bus ride, unfortunately, was not as uneventful as my first one. On the plus side, I learned a valuable lesson: while in the States you’re supposed to hit your “stop” button, wait for the bus to stop, then get up and get off, the order of things is not so in the UK. The order here is: walk to front of bus, hit “stop” button, bus stops, get off. If you try doing it like you’re stateside, the driver will pass up your stop and you’ll end up having to ride all the way to the end of his circuit in Linlithgow and halfway back to get back to your destination. I was stunned, confused and alarmed when he didn’t stop for me. I had told him where I was going – that’s how they figure out your fare, remember? – and part of me had thought that maybe the little screen he uses to figure out your fare, I don’t know, kept a journey log for him that let him know where all his passengers were going or something. Not so, crazy little American girl! Not so at all!
On the plus side, the journey to Linlithgow was very pretty. Unfortunately I was unable to appreciate a lot of it due to 1) my impending coronary regarding my missed stop, 2) the reflections off the windows and the speed we were going, which combined to make it hard to take pictures, and 3) the slow descent into darkness. I was fortunate to be seated next to a very concerned 50-something woman, who sympathized with me and helped me out by giving me advice and making sure the driver realized what had happened. I am indebted to her for her help.
So my adventure ended at a little past 6, when I found myself once again on the sidewalk making the trek through Ecclesmachan to the Oatridge College campus. I want to mention that a student car drove by and honked derisively at me while I was walking, but didn’t bother asking me if I needed a ride.
And yes, I know that I can’t claim that the honk was derisive, since I don’t know the car personally, but in my slightly aggravated and weary state it certainly sounded like it.
I got back in time to have dinner with John and Allistair again. I was also privy to a semi-bawdy conversation they were having with a pair of sexually ambivalent boys. Whether they were genuinely exploring their sexuality or just being teased about their chummy relationship I have no idea. Scottish humor still mostly eludes me.
I have yet to plan my next excursion, but Niall tells me that in two weeks’ time my Heritage class may take a trip to Edinburgh.
*squeal!!*
♥
SM
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