Thursday, September 24, 2009
Autumn Leaves, or Fun in a Graveyard
I found this awesome little cemetery kind of off the beaten path and was pissed that I didn't have my camera with me. So, I waited for the next sunny day and ventured back. It was definitely well worth it. I hope you enjoy the sights of Greyfriar Cemetery accompanied by the sounds of Tony Bennett.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
End of the beginning.
It has been a long two days. It is beyond belief that a mere twenty-six hours ago I was sitting at a vacant gate in Columbus, waiting for the wrong plane. I had my worries about travelling. To be honest, the most stressful part of the preparation process has been thoughts concerning these two days of connecting flights, security checks, VISA clearances, strip searches (maybe not, but a guy can dream), and B&B bookings. Figuring out the logistics of my time in transit has been enough to send me into episodes of extreme anxiety and uncertainty, but I never envisioned any problems arising in my own back yard of Port Columbus! Yet there I was- gloriously awaiting the arrival of a phantom plane in the wrong corridor, full of the giddy excitement characteristic of a pre-adolescent schoolgirl.
Once I managed to find the correct gate, there were no issues to speak of the rest of the trip. Amazingly, I made it through Detroit and Amsterdam without any trouble or significant incident. I may be the first repressed twenty-three year old idealist to admit such defeat/disappointment. One thing worth noting was the uncanny ability of the three middle-aged men I was privileged to sit next to on the respective flights to slyly work their heads onto my shoulder as they drifted into a deep and somewhat enviable slumber in the air.
Any delusions of uniqueness owing my American citizenship and adorable Midwestern accent were proven false before I touched ground in Edinburgh. On the flight from Amsterdam to Edinburgh, I met an awesome dude…. from Traverse City, MI who attended undergrad in Montana. He is a post-grad student studying Archeology and who idolizes the University of Michigan, poor soul. We spent most of the time disagreeing on the varying degrees of uselessness attained by Charlie Weis and Rich Rodriguez. And by disagreeing I mean to imply that he was a reluctant student of my doxology. He’ll come around.
I was greeted by my taxi driver who happened to be what I can only assume as a lifelong alcoholic. He was sweet as hell. For the duration of the twenty minute ride from the airport to my accommodation I was treated to an impassioned speech on the quality of certain beers and lagers, and their superiority over other beers and lagers. Tommy, as this heavyset middle-aged Scot instructed me to call him, was in the anger stage of the grieving process over Scotland’s national football/soccer team being booted from World Cup qualification by the Dutch. It was at this point I decided not to mention where I went to undergrad and managed to appease him by the simple comment of “a small town in west Michigan.” Tommy was my first experience with a true Scottish accent. I became embarrassed asking him to repeat himself after a few attempts at the term “tram system,” so I relegated myself to the old smile-and-nod technique passed down by generations of hopeless tourists.
It was a little before 9am GMT (4 am EST) when I arrived at my B&B. They had been swamped from the recent Edinburgh festival and current influx of international students, which prevented me from checking in to my room until a bit after 2:30 pm. During that span of time I decided to wander downtown to check out the sites and begin to get my sense of direction. This failed, as I was lost by 10 am. Around noon I found a sanctuary from aimless walking: a Starbucks. As tiring as my adventure had become, it was well worth it. The scenery and architecture remind me of a surprising mix of Vienna, Salzburg, Philadelphia, and New Orleans.
The surrounding hills and Castle remind me of Salzburg.
The endless sense of awe and recognized historical significance recalled feelings of Vienna and Philadelphia.
The narrow streets, tight building construction, and shops that appeared from nowhere are familiar to those in New Orleans (without the urine stained doorways, shady alleys, or depressing stench).
I crossed North Bridge twice, trekked the Castle mount, and circumnavigated the Scottish parliament. It was an unparalleled five hours.
I returned to the B&B around 1:30 (30 mins before my scheduled check in) and was told to wait until they told me my room was ready. At this point I was running on about five hours of accumulated sleep over the previuos 48 hours and had just walked God knows how many kilometers/miles. AKA: I was tired as eff. As I mentioned before, I was not allowed into my room until a little after 2:30 pm. I was frustrated, tired, and smelled like old plastic. It was not long before I was asleep.
Trying to acclimate to GMT, I forced myself to wake up around 7pm. Showered and crisply dressed, I found my way back to City Centre. Looking for a good meal, I entered a Scottish pub (Tommy would be proud). They don’t serve food in Scottish pubs. Oops.
I was here, wasn’t I?! No need in insulting the nice Scottish bartender (who coincidently had AMAZING hair… I had no chance) so I ordered a pint out of pity. After asking her for a recommendation, Chloe and I settled on a Kronenbourg Lager. One lesson I learned the hard way is that in Scotland, it is a sin rivaled only by mass homicide and child abuse to spill a lager.
I had just sat my glass on my strategically located table (not too close to the door, within a quick step’s reach of the bathroom, and clear vision of both the TV and the rest of the pub) when I went to sit down and my knee bumped the table. Several ounces of the liquid fell from the brim of the glass. Ashamed, I asked Chloe for a few napkins. Pitiful, Castle. Pitiful.
So here I am, in an authentic Scottish pub with a stack of moistened napkins to my right, my computer in front of me, and a second Kronenbourg on the left, writing this account of my first thirteen hours in Edinburgh. It has already been an unforgettable experience. I find it hard to accept that I can be so richly blessed with opportunities such as this. Today has been a long time coming. I hope that the days and weeks to come offer countless more memories and life lessons. Here we go.
Once I managed to find the correct gate, there were no issues to speak of the rest of the trip. Amazingly, I made it through Detroit and Amsterdam without any trouble or significant incident. I may be the first repressed twenty-three year old idealist to admit such defeat/disappointment. One thing worth noting was the uncanny ability of the three middle-aged men I was privileged to sit next to on the respective flights to slyly work their heads onto my shoulder as they drifted into a deep and somewhat enviable slumber in the air.
Any delusions of uniqueness owing my American citizenship and adorable Midwestern accent were proven false before I touched ground in Edinburgh. On the flight from Amsterdam to Edinburgh, I met an awesome dude…. from Traverse City, MI who attended undergrad in Montana. He is a post-grad student studying Archeology and who idolizes the University of Michigan, poor soul. We spent most of the time disagreeing on the varying degrees of uselessness attained by Charlie Weis and Rich Rodriguez. And by disagreeing I mean to imply that he was a reluctant student of my doxology. He’ll come around.
I was greeted by my taxi driver who happened to be what I can only assume as a lifelong alcoholic. He was sweet as hell. For the duration of the twenty minute ride from the airport to my accommodation I was treated to an impassioned speech on the quality of certain beers and lagers, and their superiority over other beers and lagers. Tommy, as this heavyset middle-aged Scot instructed me to call him, was in the anger stage of the grieving process over Scotland’s national football/soccer team being booted from World Cup qualification by the Dutch. It was at this point I decided not to mention where I went to undergrad and managed to appease him by the simple comment of “a small town in west Michigan.” Tommy was my first experience with a true Scottish accent. I became embarrassed asking him to repeat himself after a few attempts at the term “tram system,” so I relegated myself to the old smile-and-nod technique passed down by generations of hopeless tourists.
It was a little before 9am GMT (4 am EST) when I arrived at my B&B. They had been swamped from the recent Edinburgh festival and current influx of international students, which prevented me from checking in to my room until a bit after 2:30 pm. During that span of time I decided to wander downtown to check out the sites and begin to get my sense of direction. This failed, as I was lost by 10 am. Around noon I found a sanctuary from aimless walking: a Starbucks. As tiring as my adventure had become, it was well worth it. The scenery and architecture remind me of a surprising mix of Vienna, Salzburg, Philadelphia, and New Orleans.
The surrounding hills and Castle remind me of Salzburg.
The endless sense of awe and recognized historical significance recalled feelings of Vienna and Philadelphia.
The narrow streets, tight building construction, and shops that appeared from nowhere are familiar to those in New Orleans (without the urine stained doorways, shady alleys, or depressing stench).
I crossed North Bridge twice, trekked the Castle mount, and circumnavigated the Scottish parliament. It was an unparalleled five hours.
I returned to the B&B around 1:30 (30 mins before my scheduled check in) and was told to wait until they told me my room was ready. At this point I was running on about five hours of accumulated sleep over the previuos 48 hours and had just walked God knows how many kilometers/miles. AKA: I was tired as eff. As I mentioned before, I was not allowed into my room until a little after 2:30 pm. I was frustrated, tired, and smelled like old plastic. It was not long before I was asleep.
Trying to acclimate to GMT, I forced myself to wake up around 7pm. Showered and crisply dressed, I found my way back to City Centre. Looking for a good meal, I entered a Scottish pub (Tommy would be proud). They don’t serve food in Scottish pubs. Oops.
I was here, wasn’t I?! No need in insulting the nice Scottish bartender (who coincidently had AMAZING hair… I had no chance) so I ordered a pint out of pity. After asking her for a recommendation, Chloe and I settled on a Kronenbourg Lager. One lesson I learned the hard way is that in Scotland, it is a sin rivaled only by mass homicide and child abuse to spill a lager.
I had just sat my glass on my strategically located table (not too close to the door, within a quick step’s reach of the bathroom, and clear vision of both the TV and the rest of the pub) when I went to sit down and my knee bumped the table. Several ounces of the liquid fell from the brim of the glass. Ashamed, I asked Chloe for a few napkins. Pitiful, Castle. Pitiful.
So here I am, in an authentic Scottish pub with a stack of moistened napkins to my right, my computer in front of me, and a second Kronenbourg on the left, writing this account of my first thirteen hours in Edinburgh. It has already been an unforgettable experience. I find it hard to accept that I can be so richly blessed with opportunities such as this. Today has been a long time coming. I hope that the days and weeks to come offer countless more memories and life lessons. Here we go.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)