That Movie Where He Played A Cop Again, But It Wasn't As Good

I don't know what's with the Harrison Ford movie references in the title. They just come so naturally. This one had Kristin Scott Davis in it. I never saw the movie.

Part I: About A Professor
Prof: Is that a question?

Prof: Yeah, but I'll wait until you're finished.

Prof: No, I'm so excited to have one that I'll take it now. Go ahead.

I love listening to his lectures. They're not spectacular. But he has a bumbling, Hugh Grant manner to him where he's really self-deprecating, apologetic, and always says half a sentence, switches approach, then tries to use a different example. Or his sentences start out as declarative, but then he adds lots and lots of qualifiers to them because nothing is ever certain, especially in sociology. It's hilarious.

Part II: Make A Wish
Tonight during small group, I was talking about these multi-lingual little kids I knew when Andy exclaimed that, "You know, when I was little, I always wished that I had diabetes. Haven't you ever envied those kids that got to go to the nurse and have their special shots?" No, Andy, never. See, Andy envied two kinds of children. The diabetic (though Sheena pointed out that being asthmatic would've been just as good), and kids with mothers that spoke a different language. Yeah, the sickly and the foreign, those were the cool kids.

Part III: The Untoothsome
A favorite topic at the Bo', a favorite event people always have cautionary tales about, a favorite draw for all the first years, is the annual foam party. It really is as nasty as it sounds. There's a giant bouncy-house without the bounce, filled with lukewarm foam, there's music, and lots and lots of sudsy people. We've all heard and told tales about the sketchy things left behind, the grossness, and this year, the new story of how incredibly wrong and uncomfortable it was that Doug was there with family. Tonight, a new development. Some of you might have heard of it, but it's news to me. One year, a tooth was found. A tooth, people. A human tooth in the remaining dregs of the foam. That is disturbing on so many levels that I can't really process it all right now.

I Hope I Don't Die At The End of This

It's like Tuesdays with Morrie except at the end, you don't learn anything and you want the guy to die. -Yes, Dear (I don't actually watch that show, and I'm surprised as you are that I'm quoting it.)

Another Tuesday, another walk around town.
This was the most run down I've seen the city. And it's odd when such decay is surrounded by elegant old buildings. Structures are so pretty here that I sometimes forget that real people live in this city with real problems, living real life.


Scottish smart aleck.

And how do I know that this store is authentic? The .com at the end of the store name, of course. It's been around for hundreds of years and countless generations.

Around the Royal Mile, but not quite on it. I like the contrast between the colorful ground floor and the somber tops. This city would be so freaking awesome to play sardines in.
This picture is bad and dark because I forgot that I was inside and I was trying to be subtle with snapping pictures of strange children, but I found this little girl hiding in the wing of an angel and just couldn't resist.

The Big Chill

(Coming out of archaeology class this morning, close to Vita-L's side of the woods...)

Moi: I was going to be good and go for a jog for the first time ever, but now I'm all cold and tired and I don't think I'll make it.

Vita-L: I'm going to take a nap. It's cold today.

Moi: Yeah, it is. I'm freezing.

Vita-L: And not just normal cold. It's cold cold. Like home cold.

(Not that I would know anything about Vita-L's home since I had just met her in Scotland and have not gone to school in her native state for the past three years... This semester is all about new experiences and meeting new people.)

Moi: I think I'm going to head into Blackwell's (the bookstore around the corner from our classroom).

Vita-L: Why do you need to go there?

Moi: They have heat. I'll warm up in there then walk home. And I'll keep popping into stores to browse whenever I get cold.

Vita-L: Yeah, you live far away.

You Say Potatoes

People of Great Britain:
Oy with the potatoes already. For the love of God, please move on to a different type of starch.
It's not that you don't make them wonderfully. They taste delicious- especially the roasted ones today, so much better than the ones I had with the host family last week. Really, Church Lady I Don't Know, your potatoes were spectacular. But maybe you could try something different next time? Even sweet potatoes would be nice. (Really missing Thorne's sweet potato fries right now...) And I know, even at home, we eat loads of potatoes lots of different ways, but People of Great Britain, I fear you've taken this to an extreme. Such reliance on one crop is just not healthy. Has the plague taught you nothing? Must we have it at every single meal we partake? You're not strict about any other laws of the land (certainly not the littering and smoking ones), so honestly, what's it with the potatoes? I know, I know, I cook for myself and only eat potatoes when you people so kindly offer to cook for me, so really, I should be more grateful, but everywhere I go, every home, every restaurant, every cafe, every potluck, it's just potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. The smell is creeping into my clothes, I believe, even more so than the smoke. So hear my plea, People of Great Britain: eat some squash instead. Squash is cool.

Peace, and

I Don't Want To Be A Potato Head

A Street Named Many Things

Didn't feel like updating for the last 24 hours, lots of sucky talks. But this isn't the right place to talk about it, so... let's discuss my street. (And by "let us" I mean I rant and you listen. And by "my street" I mean the street that I own.)

My street has some serious identity issues. Within a mile, mile and a half, distance, it transforms from North Bridge to South Bridge to Nicolson to Clerk to South Clerk Street. That's five names for a mile and a half. The street goes through more outfits than... someone that changes a lot. On the Bridge side, where most of the school flats are, the neighborhood is more student/tourist friendly, with more clothing shops, more upscale restaurants, more popular clubs and bars, and landmarks like museums and theatres. On my end of the street, it's more resident-friendly, with lots of takeaway places, small shops, and convenience stores. The pubs here have more old people. And in between the two ends is the campus, and bigger staples like our grocery-less grocery stores. I really like the distinctions in these city blocks, so that I associate one side of the city with visiting Vita-L and going out for fun and one side with home. And when I think of home, I think of dinner. So warm, fuzzy thoughts all over the city. Except the walk from campus back to the flat. It's miserable walking through all the greasy takeaway places and smelling all the food. (I don't know why, but only cheap eating stalls give off aromas; the fancy restaurants farther down never smell.) I honestly sometimes take a longer walk through the "meadows" just so I don't have to get extra hungry and smell all the good food I'm not eating. Did I just reveal that I actually plan my life around my hunger? Maybe, but you try walking past these stalls and see how strong you are. Sometimes, walking sucks a lot. Especially if the city is full of historic cobblestones that do a number on your ankles and make it hard to escape the tempting aromas.

That's Vita-L's picture of the hills and uneven roads we have to put up with. Speaking of Vita-L, she's going through some crisis trouble of her own. During a job interview, the employer asked, "If you could have any job that you wanted, what would you be?" Her answer? Broadway star. And not just any sort of Broadway star, but a star of the long-gone Cats. Has she ever expressed an interest for singing? Acting? Cats? Not quite. (Dancing, she'd be great with, though.) It just popped out of her mouth. "Why didn't you say doctor?" I asked. "I don't know. Maybe I should've said something I actually wanted to be. But Broadway star just came out of my mouth." Then there was defending her choice to the interviewer: I want to be an entertainer, but I don't really want to be super famous, so Broadway really seems like a perfect fit. Of course, we can't really have Vita-L star in Cats. Because that would ruin the plan Nic and I had hatched of doing a surfing tour through Latin America. Surely a Cats dancer's salary can't afford us as nice a life as that of a doctor. And who would take care of us if either of us got hurt?

To Bobby, Served On A Silver Ashet

Yeah, I don't know what an ashet is either, you have to ask Mountcastle about that. These are her people, not mine.

Tonight was Burns night here in Eddie Bert, a night that celebrates poet Robert Burns, the dude that penned Auld Lang Syne. The event is observed by partaking in a Burns Supper, which consists of the Scottish classics: haggis, neeps, and tatties. Yeah, so not all Scots are poets, just Burns.

Haggis, for the ignorant among us, is a sausage-type specialty made from oats, sheep innards, seasonings, and onions, etc., and, much like sausage, stuffed in sheep lining. Sounds nasty, but so is your average sausage. Neeps are turnips and tatties are good ol' potatoes.

Instead of going out to a pub to join strangers for dinner, and because we weren't invited anywhere else, we had our own little Burns Supper as a flat.

Here is Cat, Scottish roommate 2 of 2, chopping up some neeps. She also cooked the haggis. She nicked her finger seconds after the picture was taken. Cat is a first year who lives about an hour away by train, so she can take her laundry home whenever she wants (like this Saturday) and I envy her for it. I can understand her English on most days but when she starts talking fast with Jacqueline, I get a little lost. Apparently, her accent changes as she gets more drunk and becomes more and more incomprehensible.

Next is Mags, who's turning 21 very soon. Mags is English, from Cambridge, but has also lived in Spain, Italy, and Jersey, among other classy places, and also spent lots of summers in Martha's Vineyard. She is often my cultural translator (just the other day, Cat mentioned some candy bar I had never heard of, I looked up, slightly frowning, and Mags noticed and immediately explained, "it's like Mounds," a comment I was grateful for.) and pretty much the only person that understands when I say "wicked." Up until very recently, Mags had two boyfriends (now she has none) and that was quite something to watch as she managed the lies and twists that comes from such a position. I don't think I'm psychologically strong enough to handle that. Mags prepared the mashed potatoes (tatties) that we had tonight.

And very lastly we have Jacqueline, Scottish roommate 1 of 2. They say having Scottish roommates is very rare, so I treasure mine very much. Yeah, I think I'm just saying that. Jacqueline talks very fast and knows pretty much anyone that has ever made it into a magazine, no matter how famous or infamous they are. She is a celebrity encyclopedia, it's quite amazing. She's sweet and was not feeling well when I took this picture (though well enough to put on a little makeup for this international audience). She didn't join us for Burns Supper though. Not a fan of haggis.

When Vita L first met the flatmates, she commented, "Wow, you've got good looking flatmates," which really put the pressure on me. I'm sorry to report that I haven't risen to standards.

Ah, right, speaking of haggis. It was my first time trying it tonight. (So that's fried mars bar, check; shortbread, check; and haggis, check. My work here is done, I leave on the next available flight.) It was mealy. And saltier than I expected. And definitely odd. It is sausage-like on principle, but not in texture, because nothing really tastes meaty. And you don't really get a taste of the casing, so there's no tang or crunch to it, it's just mealy. Not nasty at all. But, past finishing the leftovers for tomorrow, I don't think I'd eat it too often. Here's haggis in its early stage of cooking and when it's almost done.
And that's the final product, mashed tatties, mashed neeps, and haggis. And for dessert, I contributed with Scottish Cream ice cream (really creamy vanilla, and delicious) and overpriced blueberries, because we're not in New England anymore.

Techno Savvy

A couple of posts down, I had put up an excerpt of a poem I found to be hilarious and commented how unfortunate it was that delivery was everything, but delivery doesn't come across on the computer screen so well.

Well, here's an audio clip of the whole performance, should you care to listen. Warning to my young and proper reader, though, obscenities abound in the poem. And people just might not like it in general. It's an acquired taste, maybe? Like stinky cheese. I just think it's funny.

This One Is For You, Derry, NH

Have resorted to sticking my hand out of the window to tell what current weather conditions are like. This city is that dark. Could not figure out what the day looked like just by staring out the window. (Doing so actually creeped me out, just looking into an immense darkness.) And definitely no longer trust the weather forecast. According to all the weather channels, Edinburgh has been weathering through severe and constant showers for the past twenty days and will continue for twenty more. Since it's always cloudy here and rains a little pretty much every other day, the weather folks just figured it'd be safe to say that it's raining all the freaking time. Better to have no expectations for sunshine, and then be swept off your feet when it comes across.

Bring In The Reinforcements

Faithful reader, we are counting on you to send help. The city is wasting away. Was talking to these girls tonight at dinner and the bar that they went to had run out of beer. "What kind?" we asked. "Every kind." That's just not right, Eddie Bert. It's a bar. Bars typically have beer. Many, many, pints of many different varieties. Granted, this is the same bar that ran out of vodka and shot glasses, but we suspect that this really isn't a rare occurence in this city. They just let it go.

(Why do people keep going if there's never any booze there? A pound a drink, that's why.)

Will They Let Me Update From Jail?

I accidentally set off the fire alarm today.

By pressing it.

To be fair, they really shouldn't write "push button to open" on the exit if they don't want people to push the button to open door. Thankfully, no one was around because I was leaving class early. The first door I tried was locked. So I turnd to the side. One side of the door was locked. The other side had a green button on it that invited me to push. So I did. And then, two different types of alarms started ringing and buzzing. And I wasn't sure what to do so I just kept marching on and went to the dinner I was leaving class early for without looking back. I really hope I didn't cause too much trouble. And that they didn't have to vacate all the classes. And that my professor doesn't put two and two together and figure out that I probably set off the alarm. And really, I just don't want to go to jail, people- promise to visit me if I get busted?

On the flatmates front (and yes, Bobby, I will have pictures of them soon, you little stalker), flatmate #1 and friend are definitely singing Abba as I type. But I can't really hear them anymore, because I put my headphones on. So now all I hear is Damien Rice. And it's really hard to sing along and type at the same time. That's one of the many reasons why this entry is a bit whack.

Speaking of the dinner I went to tonight, I apparently have the stomach of an elephant, except I can't just get full on peanuts. Tonight was Butler's "reunion dinner" for us. The Butler staff, half-heartedly checking up on us, asked us how we were doing. When Ruth (or the other girl, I really can't be bothered with learning their names) heard that we were doing well, she commented, "That's great, because if you're happy now, think of how happy you will be when you leave!" I'm not sure if that was supposed to cheer us up, or be encouraging, or what kind of smack she was on, but now I can't wait to leave to reach some kind of magical happiness high. Dinner was at the first legit restaurant I'd been to since stepping foot in Scotland and it was tapas style, which meant that each course took forever to come and were all in tiny portions. All the girls at my table were starving, me included, and we all ate lots of bread and pretty much every course served. But the weird thing was that slowly and slowly, everyone started getting full, and I kept going strong. And had every course, sometimes at much greater portions than everyone, and I was still good. The bread, the potatoes, and the other potatoes and the bread did nothing. It was like I've got worms or something. And then dessert came, and still I was not full, even though the lady gave me extra ice cream because she forgot the first time around. To be honest, I'm still a little hungry now. Though more than anything, I'm concerned that there's some bug eating my insides than I am about when my next meal is coming.

Speaking of insides, heard a wonderful, wonderful poem today from this dude named Shappy. This is the only poem of his that I like. It's hilarious and the delivery really is everything, which is unfortunate, because you can't get that just by staring at these letters. Here's the beginning:

Why? Why?! Why is it so dark in here?
It’s cold, too.

It must be because we’re inside my soul!

Can’t see a thing- know why? ‘Cause there’s nothing to see!
Just emptiness.
And what, what’s all these shards of glass doing on the floor?
It must be because the pieces of my porcelain heart you shattered, you whore.
I’ll just meet you by this enormous pile of lies you told me, oh that’s right, you don’t want to see me anymore.

The New Hotness

A miscellany of pictures for you to look at today. And by the way, my dad has made a few people a lot more impressed with myself (him included) than he ought to have. He was under the impression that poetry slams did not involve pre-meditated poems but that I had performed by drawing a topic out of a hat and coming up with a poem on the spot. He thinks I can freestyle. And told people so. And now there are a lot of people who are quite impressed. Even I am, just a little.



If it was culturally acceptable to have a favorite pen (and then take a picture of it), then I'd tell you that this was my favorite pen.


My booty. Not like that, genius, I meant my prize.

Honestly, a beautiful pen, is it not?

(I don't know why, but oftentimes, when I write these entries, my grammar goes out of whack and I sound very Yoda. Ah well, it's just you, lonely reader.)

The Pringles Rant No One Was Waiting For

Apologies that this entry and the last are laced with what appears to be anger and bitterness. I'm really, really, having a good time here. I still can't get over the high of last Thursday night. I like my friends new, old, and really old, and you guys actually make it really hard to write frustrated entries because y'all are so nice, even if you don't read this. With that said...

I don't think this can design would survive in the United States because of the reaction it would provoke. Maybe I'm placing too much faith in activist groups and their sensitivity when I say this, but I think folks would protest the heck out of this depiction of the Thais. Now, cultural caricatures are fine to an extent. And there's nothing I love more than to make unPC jokes and sweeping generalizations about other people's cultures. I can't find any one thing in the picture that is straight up offensive. But I believe the picture is borderline enough in the grey, murky area, that someone could find beef with the chili crisps. In fact, part of what bothers me about seeing this can isn't so much that the picture insults or offends me, but that no one else seems to have been offended. No one has raised concerns yet. No Thai groups here has resisted being depicted like that. Is that really how you would like to be portrayed? When your country can look like this?



Now, the juxtaposition with the Texas BBQ flavour. Am I being fair in wanting people to be upset about the Thais and not Texans? I actually think I am. Are cowboys not just another cultural caricature? Why don't I want Texans to be in uproar? I think it's because of the cultural connotations implied. What's being compared here isn't exactly trailer trash (which are apparently, all over American movies?) or Texas redneck farmers versus Thai small-eyed, bad-teeth, innocent farmers. In that case, I'd say both sides should cause an uproar. But this isn't the case. The pictures look drastically different. As false as the cowboy, wild west myth is, as much as they are part of a dying breed, they are a glorified dying breed. They are positive, glamorous, strong- it's actually in the title, it's wild. The Texas BBQ was introduced as part of a special promotional (and apparently short-lived) series called Taste the World. The Thai one was not. And similarly, the myth of the rice paddies, shanties, and simplicity give off quite a different impression. Thai sweet chili.

(Sigh) I know, I am an oversensitive soc major. I am reading too much into a can of what used to be my favorite potato crisp brand. And I am causing too much uproar about poor advertising depictions that have gone on for far too long and I am coming into the game much too late. I know. But these rants overtake my mind because I have so much free time here it's not even funny.

And yes, Mr. Pringles's hair, upon closer inspection, is starting to creep me out and yes, it's a shame that we don't get such nice flavors. I thought it was just my good ol' Taiwan that had the really savoury, awesome ones but no, good crisps can be found all over the world except in the US. But whatever, if I don't whine in my blog, then who will?

BTW, did you know that Snap, Pop, and Crackle look different here?

The One With The Boy From Uptown

There we were, a bus full of Butler kids in a strange town, waiting in the dark at what seemed to be the side of the road. We had left Scotland behind an hour ago, and was now in England. The bus driver, without announcing anything, just pulled over at what we assumed to be the spot to meet our host families for the weekend. (Butler being the school that I'm doing Uni of Eddie Bert through and not an Alfred) After a long while, a lady finally stepped on board, "Do you know which one you want?" The bus driver asked her. She wasn't sure, and had to go back to the car to fetch her list. Ah. She wanted a Heather and a David, as if we were fresh meat. And one by one, our hosts came and claimed us, and thus, the homestay weekend began. The idea of the homestay was wonderful, the execution, however, left more to be desired. What more to be desired? Oh, I don't know, a fire? Plague? Death? Anything to break the discomfort of the whole stay.

To be fair, it could have been worse. And the family was very welcoming and very nice. The food was great. We got to try new cheeses. The view was stunning and tranquil and learning about a new place was always interesting. Both Kate, the other Butler girl they were hosting, and I got our own beds and rooms and everything was nicely prepared. We got to sleep in for as long as we wanted. Their pets were adorable. It felt really good to be in a home. And it was great coincidence that Kate was from Colby by way of Ipswich, so we had two ties in common. Unfortunately, the niceties ended there.

I don't know if you recall this wee little sitcom of the bygone era, Friends, but in one episode, Ross is torn between two girlfriends and he says of the one uptown:
I want to give her another chance, you know? She lives so close. And, at the end of the date, the other time, she-she said something that was—if she was kidding was very funny. On the other hand, if she wasn’t kidding, she’s not fun, she’s stupid, and kind of a racist. Then later, talking about the same girl, he says:
No, it turns out that the one from uptown was making a joke. But it was a different joke than I thought—it wasn’t that funny.

The girl from uptown is my host parents' 23-year-old-son, who was a fountain of commentary on America, the French, 'the Arabs,' the Irish, and the Welsh. (That's a picture of him, with the dog Spice.) Most of the time, we think, he was trying to be funny, but no, it just didn't work. And other times, he just said really wrong things.
(Kate and I have shared this a few times with other kids and at this point in the story, everyone always asks, "So he's racist?" And I would always pause, because I seriously hadn't thought of using that label on him, just pompous and ignorant, but then I'd think and say, "Yeah, I guess he is.")

A mild example: Describing how trashy his local pub was, all filled with 14-year-old boys, he said, "Just think Texas trailer park." To which we all replied, his mother included, "What do you know about Texas trailer parks?" "I've seen it in movies and on TV." And no, he wasn't joking.

Sad thing is, he was just one of the many bumps in the homestay, which also included being deprived of a shower, watching the three worst movies ever made (Londinium, Alfie, and The Village), the worst British TV had to offer (the notables being American Idol and an hour of a comedy-sketch show from the late 1950's) and taking the most depressing walk in the history of humanity. Oh, and it was awkward when the host mom confided in us a. that she suspects her dead mother was disappointed in her b. she wishes her son could have studied abroad like us so his could grow up a little and c. explained why she needed to be on a diet. Yes, I was very tempted to use 'hellish' to describe the weekend, but the house was much too cold for the comparison. Wore my fleece around the house most of the time. But indulge in these pictures, they make the weekend seem nice.

The view was beautiful, yes, but the terrain was just miles and miles of nothingness. We just walked over patches and patches of grass and rocks for a really, really, long time, with nothing to look at but more grass. Was so full of melancholy I didn't know what to do with myself.


Yeah- people in the UK have the oddest problems.





Anyone else think that's an odd place for a mail slot? Is the ancient ruin of a castle (where King Arthur's dad may or may not have been born) really receiving that much mail?


PS. I love my friends and hate the rest of you lot.

The Worst. The Very Worst.

I don't even know how to begin.
(I edited most of this entry out because I feel weird writing about it like this.)

The story starts last week. So I'm walking along my Eddie Bert streets the way I've been doing for a week. And I notice a sign for a Slam. Slam, you say? They have these in good ol' Bert? That's awesome. Well, maybe that's not what you say, but that's what I said. And I also checked if they've got a Poeting society at the Uni (as they call the University). They don't. So random slam in Bert was going to be my only chance at hearing poetry. Of course, I jumped at it. Told a few people about it. My three good friends were psyched. The rest not so much. After passing the poster a couple more times, I wasn't content with just doing the time and place. I needed to know more. So I took down the email address on the poster and emailed the contact. Just randomly like that. I'm never this gutsy. She said they still had slots open for the Slam, would I like to join?

Long story short (but not that short). Yes. I would. And I did. And boo yeah.
I am so overcome by shock and glee that nothing has sunken in yet, except that perhaps the Scots aren't as demanding in their poetry as folks at the Bo'. I just kept saying, "But this never happens to me!"

And I must say that angry political poets are the sweetest guys in the world. They are so pale and scrawny and serious but so, so, nice and earnest. They were so kind and supportive because they were tired of these two comedians winning slam after slam (see, comedians don't care about the important things in life, and that's not right). Some people meet cute guys in clubs, I meet (people who think they are) suffering artists who are excited about angry Asian girl poems.


















That's the club in daylight. The Bongo. It's actually mentioned in my guidebook as "legendary" which got me all excited. Then I actually showed up to the venue. And went, "Oh. Maybe times were different back then." It's just a room. And I'm pretty sure the Pub at the Bo' can seat more people. But I'll take it any way that I can.

Compact City

I know. Second lamest title ever. You know what? I'd like to see you write better entries from Scotland.

On Tuesday, because I didn't have class until 4pm (did I mention that I'm only in class for eight hours a week? That's right, read them and weep), I took a few hours to wander around the city and see the more touristy political attractions- the Scottish Parliament and the Queen's Palace. I didn't actually pay for the tours, just lurked around the two places. Although the Parliament had a lot of gates that should have been closed that weren't. Was really tempted to just walk in. But alas, didn't. Now here's what I love about Edinburgh. They hate their Parliament building because it took 500 million pounds to build. After the building costs reached about 200 million pounds, they sort of just didn't have a budget anymore, 'cause it was just so expensive anyway. And that logic is freaking awesome. And they always mention that they didn't even have a Scotsman design it. Crazy, post-modern Germans. Also, I love how efficient and compact this city is. So I'm walking along, here are some cafes, apartment buildings, and oh, two feet away is the Scottish Parliament, and the Queen's Palace is literally across the street, and between them is some weird science thing called Our Dynamic Earth and all in the background, just standing there, is Arthur's Seat. That big mound right there. Just chilling.



People love to climb Arthur's Seat. It's good exercise and gives you a great view of the city. But come on, people, it's not even a pretty hill. It's just patches of overgrown grass, most of it brown. I don't hike back home. But I do know that you cannot get away with calling this 'hiking' in New England. This is not nature, people. It's a hill with lots of little paths on it leading to the flat, barren top. You can do better, People of Eddie Bert, you deserve better nature.






See these paths? We just don't do nature the same way.





Grass, grass, all over the hill. And a sad view of the Parliament because I didn't want to climb the whole hill (we're saving that for another day) and because it got really windy and I remembered that our guide during orientation had warned us that sometimes, the bottom of the hill might look calm, but the weather will change suddenly and get really scary up top and, "then you die." His words. Yeah, kind of scarred now.

Harrison's Big Break

Fine. You won't talk about them Pringles. We'll get to them later, we will. In the mean time, People of Scotland, as I like to call them, aren't very good at graffiti. Honestly, I can do better tags than these. And I go to school in Maine.











And now onto this again, toilets. Scottish people are just very weird with their toilets. Case in point:


Why is it a three-part contraption? Is that not one of the more complicated toilets you've seen? And not complicated in the Japanese-modern sort of way where it squirts water and plays songs and has self-disposable covers. No. This is just a plain toilet that comes in many forms. And that extra ridge? I don't know what's up with that either. And who is that handicap railing supposed to help all the way tucked behind two obstacles? But if thinking about all this stresses you out to much, that's ok. There's a cushion you can lean your upper back against to rest your weary body and mind. All together now: What were they thinking!?

I Don't Support The Team

And I'm getting punished for it.
It's been so long since I've had to get up at ungodly hours like 6:30am (ironically, for God, and prayer breakfast) that I've forgotten how to function at such early hours. Definitely bonked my head on my desk while bending over to put the socks on. Now my head hurts. There's already a bump. My feet are cold. And I'm still sleepy. I can't believe I'm going to be doing this every week.

What Do You See?

Before I go into the rants, I just want to test things out.
Look at these cans for a sec for me. (Sorry, two of them are just that fuzzy.) What do you think of the pictures?

Ok. I know. By asking I am firstly (as they like to say here), stepping into ground I don't like to use for this blog and secondly, totally revealing how few people actually read this. But whatever, the one of you out there, what do you think of these pictures, if anything? Nothing fancy or tricky or eloquent. Just comment on what you think.

My thoughts to come in a couple of days. First, need some sleep for waking up at 6:30 am tomorrow.