A Touch of Restraint

Tuesday's expedition left the lowbrow behind and took the high road. The sandwich was on a baguette and the beans were not just green beans, my dear, they were haricots verts. Of course, such fine (yet cheap, home packed) foods needed exquisite exhibits as accompaniment, and that's how I found myself at the Writer's Museum. There were plaques in there people were expected to read and lots of them, too. Lots of excerpts of poetry and literary masterpieces and whatnot, along with pretty much whatever collectors could scrounge from the inheritances of famous Scottish writers, including lots of locks of hair, pipes and chairs found in the homes of writers that they may or may not have once used, and my favorite, a copy of a marriage contract. Unlike the museums I visited last week, this one had some self-respect and forbid photography, so I could snap was a picture of the entrance of the tiny little house the museum was in. Oh, by the way, Robert Louis Stevenson, the Treasure Island man? Quite a good looking guy. Had a lot of pictures taken of himself, but well, can't really blame him.

There were warning signs all over the house because the stairs were narrow, low, and the steps uneven. It was said that folks liked to have uneven steps so they could detect people breaking in by the sounds of people caught offguard by the steps and stumbling to their deaths. It was also said that the museum let the uneven hazards remain during reconstruction to preserve the house's original charm but, knowing this country the way I do, I'm pretty sure that the people way back then were just too lazy to use rulers and the people a little back then just didn't care enough to adjust the problems. Yeah, after two months here, I'm so qualified to start making judgements like that.

Moving on, I headed to the National Gallery where once again, photography was prohibited. Somehow, I didn't look to the guard like someone who would understand English, because he spoke to me slowly and kept asking if I understood him. Was he explaining anything intricate to me? No, he told me I had to hold my backpack in my hand, that I should turn off the cellphone, and showed me a map. And no, it's not just how he talks. A group of guys about my age came in behind me and he just gave them real quick, brief instructions. But to me, he gestured slowly and made sure I understood the map. You'd think my skin said "Treat Me As If I'm A Moron" on it, but no, it's just yellow.















There you go, proof that I really went to the classy gallery, or at least walked around outside. Man, it was so good to see my friend Degas in there. Did that sound needlessly pretentious and show-offy? I don't actually know anything about art, but I really do like my Edgar, and it was so comforting to see him in such a strange place.

Remember how I said the expedition was about taking the high road and restraint in place of over-the-top displays? Yeah, Eddie Bert can't pull off the show for that long and neither could I. Note how it attracts people to go into the gallery. Not world famous paintings. A foray into the fine arts. A dose of history. No, bar and free admission. That's what they're advertising. Have I mentioned how much I love museums here?

Qué Pasa, Kielbasa?

It's yet another Tuesday so you know what that means. Or, perhaps you don't, my sweet but dimwitted reader. It's day of full tourist mode and wandering through the city's streets and galleries, gawking at old buildings and of course, snapping lots of pictures.

I don't actually have time to go into the expedition, and that will have to wait until another day, but I will tell you this, be patient, oh faithful readers, for this is a special Tuesday edition, since this week is:


That's right. It's Polish week. Go drink, be merry, and eat a kielbasa, folks. It's Polish week at the Jordan Valley deli, but it's also Polish week in all of our hearts*.

*Actual stories about Tuesday may or may not include Poles, and also may or may not be genuinely interesting. Either way, stay tuned.

I Don't Know How The French Do It

Walking down the street with a baguette in hand, it's hard to resist the urge to sword fight.

Motherland

I don't know how this happened. It is so uncharacteristic of me to get competitive, but there Hannah and I were on Saturday, having a little culture smack-down at the Museum of Childhood, and I somehow represented the U.S. (It's hard to represent Sri Lanka, or even Taiwan, because we'd just get smacked really badly and ignored.)

Moi: (Motioning to a display of Sheriff and [American] Indian outfits) And where did these Indians come from?

Hannah: (Reluctantly) America...

Round 1- Moi:1 Hannah:0

Moi: (onto new displays of lavish doll kitchen) When I was little I had a little stove for playing house and it even had a little piece of fish for it.

Hannah: And where did the fish come from?

Moi: Scotland? Huh?

Hannah: That's right. Just Scotland.

Round 2- Moi: 1 Hannah: Confused about the fishing industry.

Declarations of Love Pt. II

Yeah, Part II shows up before Part I. We're doing it Tarantino-style today. Plus, these first two pictures explain the title best. Man, Tarantino references are so passé. I am so lame. Whatever. I'm in Scotland, y'all.

And in Scotland, lots of people have drinking problems and lots of people have smoking problems. The government likes to focus on the second one and largely ignore the first one. I present to you, Scottish cigarette labels, modeled by friend of a friend of a friend of a friend Lynette(?):


Smoking kills!












Smokers die younger!












Oh, such gentle guidance and cheery advice from the Scottish surgeon's general. While on the subject of health ailments, let's have a look at these two dolls in the Museum of Childhood.





























At first glance, pretty unimpressive pictures. But use your eyes, gentle readers. These dolls are hard to play with because they can't stand up straight. And why can't they stand up straight? Notice how their joints are weird. Looks like arthiritis, now? Particularly at the ankles for one doll. Now does that sound like someone we know? There you go. A shout out to Mac all the way from the Museum of Childhood in Edinburgh! Seriously, that's why I took the pictures. My first reaction to these dolls was: they're arthiritic. Unfortunately, the dollhouse didn't come equipped with helmets and needles. That would've been awesome.



Last but not least, Inuit doll that faintly resembles chewbacca. Ah, Chewies, I see signs of you everywhere.

Declarations of Love

I have found my muse, and she is the embodiment of the museums of Eddie Bert. They just get more and more and more fun. For me, museums are no longer stiff, austere galleries where you go to learn and appreciate. No, the museums of Eddie Bert have shown me that museums are places of amusement. Today, I present, the Museum of Childhood.



This is Lauren joining the rally of the scary child mannequins. Unfortunately, in her eagerness to side with the children, she blocked the children out of view. But trust me, they were not Sunday's children.











At the museum, there were not a lot of old toys and not a lot of plaques to read, which was a real pleasure (save for one exhibit). My favorite was this doll house here, for some really loaded kid way back then. Check out the details in the butcher shop, with all sorts of cuts of tiny meat. I wish I had a doll house like that when I was a kid, but no, I had to settle for a Barbie mobile home.



I took the picture from two angles, then stitched it together to double the viewing pleasure. Oh, it's been too long since I've had a prime rib. Somebody take me out to a proper dinner, please.


And here, to prove that I don't lurk around city museums all by myself, is a picture of Scottish Friend Hannah, putting on a puppet show for us. Behind the puppet theatre, we found, in addition to some puppets, empty bags of chips. Not cool to litter in children's museum, people, not cool.

Also not cool in the museum: the dolls. Their houses were meat-tastic and meat-beautiful, but the dolls were a reminder of how harsh and caustic life was back then and also that people used to be racists.

Exhibit #1: Asian doll with really angry eyes.







Exhibits #2: Blackface 'golly' dolls. These 'gollies' were a part of some children's book series that people loved and the images were used for a brand of jams that managed to resist protests until 2001. (It spun out some crap about how "the golly was simply a 'loveable' nursery character that symbolised warmth and had no connection with black people" that no one believed.) That's just 5 years ago! And even now, I see golly dolls being sold at a little knick-knack shop a couple of blocks down, as some hip, retro item. And even the museum, where I got these nice history tidbits fails to acknowledge any racist undertones in any of the labels and plaques. It's only on their website that they mention these things.

Exhibit #3: Exotic African doll. Check out them ear rings.







These last dolls aren't racist, as far as I can make out, but I loved the little one with the t-shirt in the middle, with her wild, crazy hair and modern look. She looks totally out of place, but also looks like she's trying hard to blend in. And has the best shifty doll eyes ever.

Skipping Town

Before I left for Eddie Bert, I'd heard tales about the UK and their peanut butter, but I always shrugged those off as just urban myths used to scare people. "Whiney Americans," I thought, "How could peanut butter actually taste so noticeably different?" I was a fool for being such a skeptic, gentle readers, an absolute fool.

Peanut butter can taste very, very different. Here, it's not half as sweet as American ones, and not half as smooth. It's drier and the color much lighter, so the peanut butter looks more like (somewhat) smooth sand and not gobs of brown beauty. The girl who had stayed in my room before me was also from the States and she had left in her cupboard half a jar of English peanut butter, which I've had eaten on occasion. It's worked out fine just because it was free and the lack of sugar wasn't really a problem once I loaded on enough bananas or jelley.

Tonight, however, I needed to make peanut butter cookies and needed good ol' American peanut butter. The most prominent brand here, "Sun Pat" claims that it's "still made today to the original American standards." But let me tell you, folks, those original standards weren't very high. So low, in fact, that you'd accidentally surpass that standard while digging a grave in Death Valley. I knew that Sun Pat just wouldn't do if I wanted to make good cookies (what do they use for their cookies here then? Well, they don't have cookies. They have biscuits.I can skimp when making a sandwich for myself, but when it comes to cookies, and making cookies for Scottish kids, I had to use the best. And so began a trek for non-Sun Pat peanut butter that started four blocks away from my flat (about a mile) and continued up and down the streets. I visited thirteen stores in my search for peanut butter, going into each newsagent, grocery and convenience store. Any idea how hard that is on a Friday night? These stores were not all lined up one next to the other. And ot was 6pm so half the shops on the street were closed already, but there I was, zig zagging through the street searching, and searching, and searching, and at each store, a jar of Sun Pat would be there, with its freaking sun smiling at me, taunting. A couple of stores carried a different brand, but still had that same, tan-colored peanut butter. Oh. I felt like that woman looking for her lost coin,, the shephard for the hundredth sheep, and the father for his prodigal son. I just knew that one of these stores had to carry American peanut butter, and so faithfully, I walked against the howling winds. Twelve stores I'd searched, and left empty handed, glancing through rows of jams and jellies and honey without success. After a dozen stores, in a cramped little corner of a tiny, tiny convenience store, about half a block past my flat (from where I first started), stood short little jars of overpriced Skippy's. Oh, that wondrous thirteenth! What a joy it was, my friends, to be paying more than double the amount I'd in the States for those two little jars of smooth, creamy peanut butter. (They didn't have chunky.) And the cookies? They turned out quite lovely, thank you.

Confederacy of Redundancy

Dear Program-
I know y'all keep sending me stuff and checking on me 'cause I paid you good money to do so, but please, chillax. I'd like to see my money be put to wiser use, like taking us out to a tapas restaurant that does not keep patrons hungry, or a host family that is not racist, or addressing students with their proper first names, especially when you're writing them about such weighty matters as grief counseling. Just a few friendly suggestions, Indiana. What concerns me most has been the rapid firing of information within the last 48 hours- the newsletter in the mail, the letter about the newsletter in the mail, the email itinerary, the two itineraries in the mail, the email about receiving the itinerary that included a partial itinerary, and that other email again checking in that repeats the same information on the itinerary, and that other one we received by email. You see where I'm going with this? I'm pretty sure some of those mailings defeats the purpose of still some other ones. And have you still not figured out that in this, your country, we "check the mail" by opening the door? Stop the tree cutting, Eddie Bert, we're ok without so many hard copies.

Peace, and

Stop O'Ready

Dead Alive

PS- Forgot to mention this when I was talking (again) about how no one cares about anything. Claire and I definitely almost got trapped in the castle on Saturday. I knew that it was around closing time when we were hanging out there, but I didn't realize just how close until we were exiting the castle and this woman was in the process of closing this heavy, iron door behind her. She tried to reassure us and said something about how she was just closing it to open it again, but I just had a feeling that she was saying that to comfort us, and really had no plan to go retrieve any of the other dozens of people still milling around inside. As our tour guide put it, "Sometimes, you get up there, and die."

Oh, also didn't mention how I had a nice garden picnic on Tuesday. But you know what, I don't think I want to anymore.

Remember My Name

So I've cut trees down before. Have you? Just putting it out there.
Tree cutting, as you can see from below, is taken very seriously in Eddie Bert. That's why they put signs like that in the middle of the sidewalk, so that pedestrians are forced to either lean to their left and walk on the busy bus lane and risk getting run over, or lean to the right, and risk being decapitated under the tree that's being chopped down, the tree two feet away, that they can clearly see, without aid of the sign, that it's being chopped down. In fact, I think a few senses work together in this, and people can smell, hear, and see the tree being cut down all without the prompting of the sign that just goads people into danger. Plus, the tree was no more than twenty years old. Not impressed, Eddie Bert, not impressed at all.
















On the subject of being impressed, this church I passed by was very hard at work making people impressed, as can be seen from the giant plaque advertising the luminaries interred there. I like the use of the term 'celebrity,' especially the celebrity provosts and celebrity music theorist. They really were hott. (Note the extra 't,' granted only to people of celebrity status.)















All this aside though, this city is ridiculously old and chock full of things they ought to be proud of. I think that's why things are so laid back here. They don't need to care because they don't need to prove anything to anybody. They're like the Kimberly Stewarts and Nicole Ritchies of science, arts and politics, just living off the residuals of generations that came before. Pretty proud of myself for pulling that thought together. And now, I leave you with pictures of Old Town. I know, I keep taking pictures of windy roads and they all look the same after awhile, but they're so quaint and beautiful.

































They call this 'Old College' because they're not very good with names. But also because it's been around for over 400 years.
















The Washington Monument, it's everywhere you want to be.

Capital One

I've got one of those ridiculous Capital One credit cards, the worst card in the history of human development. They approve everyone for it without even checking anything, because they give anyone that asks for it the same terrible rates and have all these hidden fees of doom- with trap doors and everything. Anyway, thought if I gave them a shout out in the title, they'd be nicer to me.

Eddie Bert, being the political and cultural capital of Scotland, has lots of museums and galleries and libraries. Being the classy lass that I am, and because today's Tuesday, I spent my morning wandering about the streets and popping in and out of museums. Apparently, though, they do uppity museums and culture a little different here...


Take this, for example. Middle school project or commissioned model for the City Museum? Hard to say. (But looks easy to make...)


And this, a tasteful exhibit in the People's History Museum. It was love at first sight, y'all.


But alas, the displays that assured me that I really was in a museum and not Mrs. Farmer's classroom at Winthrop Elementary School, were these of weight measurements. They really won me over. And I love how the museum had three big cases of these, from different periods. I wish I was joking, but no. After last semester's research on the kilogram, I've just fallen in awe of these things. Do you know how closely our economy hangs on to measurements? These, of course, are British units, and not the hotshots of the metric system. Oh, how I wish I had a camera last winter when I saw the Maine kilogram...






Honestly my favorite picture of the day. An elegant little family.

When The Moon Knocks Your Sense

On the subject of pizza...

Flatmate Cat: Don't ever get pizza at the Chili Connection. That stuff is vile.

Moi: The Chili Connection? That cheap Indian takeaway place? Don't they do kebabs? And curries?

Flatmate Cat: Yes, they make the worst pizza.

Marco?

I'm not homesick. But I just got a pang of nostalgia for two of my shirts. Is that wrong? Does that show how seduced by consumer culture I have become and how I find my identity through commodities? Am I just slapping on words I haphazardly used in my soc essay that I turned in earlier today? Why, I think I am.

I've got these two shirts that just so happened to be my favorites but I stupidly left at my aunt's house last June. One's a really old gray tee, and the other is a white knit Isaac Mizrahi polo that says his name on it. I like how when I describe the polo it sounds really fancy pants but in reality, it was on sale at Target for four bucks. Yeah, I didn't know who Mizrahi was either. Most people would look at my shirt and say, "Mizrahi, isn't he dead?" Apparently not.


[So I wrote this wicked long entry. Then published it. Then realized how incredibly long and dull it was. Then deleted it. Gist of the story: Had to turn in two papers today. V. stressful. Not a single computer was available in the entire University system to let me print my papers. Had to rush to an internet cafe instead. In the whole process, met two very nice, unexpectedly pleasant people. One- the cafe owner who let me go without paying because he had no change for my bill. He trusted that I'd go back. And I did. Two- the dept. coordinator, who was really happy for me that I made my 3pm deadline (I was never worried I wouldn't make it. She was, because she misunderstood my question. I was just concerned that she'd leave before 3pm). She actually said, "I'm so glad you made it, that's great!" when I went in for my second paper. This from a woman that'd been receiving hundreds of essays and questions and students all day long and filing all of our crap. That's awesome.]

'Tis No Snow

Maybe 'snow' means something different in Eddie Bert. (And Scotland in general. Maybe that's why their ski lodges failed.) The weather channel is definitely forecasting hours of snow showers at the same time it's predicting temperatures above freezing for those hours. Someone needs to draw a triple-point diagram for the UK Weather Service.

Wave Them Like You Are Scottish

Visited the Castle of Edinburgh today. Extraordinarily old building. Built on a volcano. Not an inactive volcano, but a genuine one. It's pretty old though. Thousands of years old. So old, in fact, that the people of Eddie Bert just went, "Meh, volcano, schmolcano," and built their castle on top of it. At the castle, also noticed a conspicuous lack of safety railings of any sort all around the edges. And a lack of protective glasses and panels over many exhibits. They just don't think anyone will bother taking the trouble to deface any monuments, paintings, or steal the royal crown of jewels. And my guess is no one probably will. In this country, they just can't be bothered to care. Freaking slackers' paradise.

Why I Do What I Do

"This is the idea that adolescents think people are more interested in them than they actually are, that people are always looking at them and taking note of what they are doing, even if it is just walking across the school cafeteria," said Dr. Arnett, who is a Fulbright scholar at the University of Copenhagen, speaking on the phenomenon of self-portrait digital photography, MySpace, Friendster, and Facebook. I think it's safe to add blogging into the category, too.

Testosterone, Testosterone, 1 2 3

I heart This American Life. Tonight, listening again to one of my favorite episodes, I just had to share a snippet. The episode is called 'Testosterone,' and about how the hormone affects a person, including a story from a guy that had no testosterone for awhile and just felt the life drain out of him. He wasn't depressed. Just lethargic. My favorite part of the show was when the whole staff at TAL took a test to see who had the most testosterone. All of the guys wanted to win though none of the girls did. (But no girl wanted to be last either, no one wants to be seen as a door mat.) Now, bear in mind that TAL is a show on public radio that focuses on a different topic each week. It's pretty geeky. Bookish. Nerdy. So no one guy seemed to have a clear advantage. Then, the results came. David Rakoff. An author and contributor to the show, who says delicious things like, "As far as I'm concerned, the whole point of living in New York City is staying indoors. You want greenery? Order the spinach," he won out among the men.

Here's the host, explaining his disbelief: Rakoff, the gay, Canadian Jew living in Manhattan [beat all of us].

Rakoff: Ok, we really have to dispense of the Canadian. Actually, that is non-corollary. Believe me.

The results were so dramatic that he had 50% more testosterone than the next highest guy. The revelation brought many chuckles, but also distressed one staff member, Todd, who scored the lowest.

Todd, explaining why he's upset: That at least someone would be girlier than I. If I can't be the most manly in public radio, where the hell can I be the most manly? Like, I kind of wish this was Sportcenter, 'cause then I'd be ok, if out of all my fellow staff at Sportscenter, if I had the least testosterone, I'd be fine with that, but in public radio..."

Rakoff, hearing this idea, was excited for another office testing: We should get all of them to spit. Is it a real place? Sportscenter? Is it a thing?

Todd: Now see, that's not fair! How can he, how can he out of all of us, have the most testosterone and not know what Sportscenter is? I know what Sportscenter is!

And that exclamation, my friends, made me giggle out loud in my flat, sitting in front of my laptop with headphones on, with roommates who must think I'm insane or sped. Whatever, yo. I don't care. At least I don't have to worry about testosteone levels.

It's Not Like We Speak The Same Language Or Anything

Title- too long? Yeah, probably.

Today was my first day of volunteering. I work with lots of old Scottish volunteers who I have a really hard time understanding. I just nod to pretty much whatever they say. We had one instance today where this lady, Shirley, said "Knitting wool" about five times before I actually understood the words. It took another couple of minutes to understand what she wanted to do with knitting wool. At the University, I can deal with the accents just fine, especially the English kids. Actually, even the Northern Irish and Scottish folks are easy to understand, especially within the school setting. But these old people, well, I'm just glad I'm not in transcription anymore.

A couple of sentences into our introduction today, Shirley interrupted and asked, "Are you from America?" THat was a lot better than this other guy, who looked at me and asked if I was from China.

I'm not, of course, the only person not comprehending. The Brits have their mistakes, too. I was reading a UK magazine yesterday and there was a section on vacation spots in the States and the first one listed as a cool alternative was Boston. The article advised readers to leave home their White Sox caps because, the magazine explained, White Sox and Red Sox are "bitter rivals. " Ah haha ha ha, sweet misguided Brits and their football (soccer) playing ways. First off, no one here has a White Sox cap, so it wouldn't be hard for them to leave behind. Second, everyone here that does decide to wear caps has them Yankees ones (which are sold readily at the local H&M and many other locations), and those should definitely be left home and/or burned as soon as possible. And lastly, if you want a forced "natural" rivalry and leave behind some more caps other than the Yankees, it'd be the Braves in the NL, not the White Sox? Chicago? Who? What? Oh, British myths about America. Remember that time, when they thought that no one was going to be ready to fight back when they arrived by sea (that's two lights) and they thought they could just take Massachusetts? Yeah, that was cute, too. Lexington and Concord, good times.

Concentration Curve Ball

So for the first time this week, I'm finally settled down to read some articles for my research papers. And this paper I'm reading, the first two sources they cite are 'DiMaggio' and 'Clemens.' Do they really expect me to focus on consumerism when they've got sources like that? I miss them boys of summer.

North America Briefing

Sometimes, caught up in the absurdity and harshness of life in Eddie Bert, I forget that life is pretty ridiculous back home, too. Thank God, then, for the New York Times (and for all the British kids that say, "You've got to love America," or "Only in the States," or "That happened in America, right?" every time I tell an absurd story).

Three offerings from today's main stories:

Now, I'm assuming the whole Cheney shooting incident thing has been made fun of to death, but this thing is just too precious. With lines like, "Dr. David Blanchard, the emergency room chief, estimated that Mr. Whittington had more than 5 but "probably less than 150 to 200" pellets lodged in his body," how can you not smile? More than 5, but lss than 150 to 200 is very reassuring.

Moving on. Bottled water. Again, this is recycled material. Folks poke fun at this all the time (and it's just starting to dawn on me, the environmental damages bottled water can incur, not so much pumping out the water, but imagine the fuel costs of transporting water from Fiji to your local grocer. Completely unnecessary costs. But we're getting off topic.). But in today's Times, well, this quote is just adorable in a really, really, sad way:

'From those first irresistible green bottles of Perrier, Americans have been positively cultish about water. "I could not get through the day without Poland Spring," said Mark Swigart, a pharmaceutical sales representative in the Boston area. "And sometimes for a special treat I'll spring for a bottle of Fiji or Volvic." '

It's WATER, Mark Swigart. Water.

And now, we head back to the UK for more absurd news. And by the way, I don't go out of my way looking for these stories. These aren't in the offbeat sections of some hidden paper, but headlines. This one is from The Guardian, regarding the global spread of English, which is seen as a 'threat to the UK' because the more people that speak the language fluently, the less the English have an advantage of others for speaking the language. In fact:

"In China, 60% of primary school children learn English and more people in India and China speak the language fluently than anywhere else in the world."

Ah ha, ha, ha. That also means that more people in India and China speak English than the States. Well, UK, maybe you shouldn't have tried to colonize the ENTIRE WORLD a few years back. That would have helped you preserve the advantage, now, wouldn't it?

Analyze This

Have found my new calling: earning spare change as psych experiment subject. Awesome.

Meaningless, All Meaningless

On Saturday, given that we were in the political as well as cultural capital of Scotland, Carol and I sought out to do more refined, classy activities like visiting the museum, the theatre, and having tea. (After a night of chick flick, chips, candies, and ice cream, our bodies needed a change of pace.) As we were walking up to the museum, the wait staff at the restaurant on the top floor was looking at of their glass walls and started waving at us. It was a bit awkward. Within the museum, we realized once again how harsh life was "in the olden days" and how scary their machinery was. And we also came upon this puzzling display.
An empty display frame. Had the frame not been there, it would not have been a distraction (or attraction) at all, but then again, this is not a land of logic. And so the display remained, with a polite sign reminding you that yes, somewhere in Eddie Bert, people actually do work hard. They just don't have any work to show of it.












At the theatre, Carol and I watched "Edward Scissorhands." Our student tickets were so cheap and far back that I actually felt physically ill for being so high up. (Could also have been the gross amounts of food I consumed, but I don't like to put any blame on food when I can shift it elsewhere.) But thank God for a sparse attendance at the matinee showing that allowed us to keep moving our seats up closer and closer and closer to Edward and his scissor hands. Yeah, did anyone else know that that was a musical? (They didn't sing or talk, so maybe musical isn't the right word. Dance show? I don't know.) Yeah, Edward Scissorhands just doesn't have that same ring of pretension that you get with other shows you might see at the theatre. Ah well. You can't always look down on people. Well, we did, being so high up in our seats, but that's not what I meant.


That's Carol, trying to fit in with the classy theatre crowd. (Note my UK spelling.)





A view from the theatre. This thing is mad, mad old.








Of course I'm ending the entry with a toilet picture. Have you not learned to expect this from me already? You'd think, being the historic and wonderful theatre this place was, with the dough flowing and the ornate decadence of it all, that they would be able to expect more lights in the bathrooms and give off less of the 'suffering artist' vibe. Honestly, the darkest bathroom stall I've ever been in. Each stall is only lit by a tiny lamp above the toilet. Otherwise, the entire facility has no lights. Black doors. Black walls. Black everything. Most intimidating visit ever. Plus, you'd think the theatre could also afford some soap dispensers, or at least liquid soap. No. Each sink had a tiny, tiny sliver of bar soap. That's high society for ya.

Ghost of February Present

Carol (the darling) came to visit from London this past weekend, thereby provind to all skeptics here that I do indeed have friends. Too bad she never met any of mine here, thereby leading her to believe that I really don't have any. Ah well. You can't have everything. What you can have, however, are some stories of our weekend.

First up. The fire alarm -charming, as always, and early in the morning. So there we were, not-quite-awake, a little before 5am on a Saturday morning, huddled in the cold right on the street, outside the flat. The fire fighters took their sweet time coming, knowing that this wasn't an emergency. They arrived and we all cheered a little. They went into the building and stayed there long enough for my legs to go numb. (Note to self: in case of future alarms in the middle of the night, should consider sleeping in sweats and not shorts.) Finally, after an inordinate amount of time, they marched out of the building and into their fire trucks, much to the relief of us all, as we couldn't wait to be in bed again. But oh wait, the fire fighters had left. The fire truck had left. But the fire alarm was still ringing. We had a few more minutes of waiting. Then the fire truck turned around, raising all of our hopes, then dashed it again when it drove past. Confused, tired, and cold, we waited in the cold some more. We were too groggy to actually formulate questions, but had we been alert enough to do so, I'm sure we would have asked, "Why!? Why!?" and "Why!?" It took ten more minutes of waiting for a man, a stranger to us all, to come by with a huge ring of keys, get in the ringing building and disarm the alarm. Who was this little man? Where was he before? What ties did he have with the fire department? Shouldn't the fire folks be better at dealing with fire alarms? These, my friends, are some mysteries to life we will never know.

Speaking of mysteries, chapsticks really perplex convenience store clerks in Eddie Bert. Last night, Carol and I went into one and asked where the chapsticks were. Two Asian girls with American accents. That really threw them off. They didn't think they had any. One guy scanned the shelf with us. As he did, one other clerk and one customer kept asking each other, back and forth, whether they had any chapsticks and whether they knew where the chapsticks were. Then there was some confusion over whether we wanted chopsticks or chapsticks (confusion they had created entirely on their own since both Carol and I had very clearly stated chapsticks, motioned our lips, and also used the term "lip balm." Say what you may about my accent, but Carol does not have one and they should have understood us.) Basically, a clerk would say "Chapstick?" and Carol would say, in the affirmative, "Chapstick." I'd add "lip balm." And someone else would say "Chapstick?" And it'd be my turn to say "Chapstick." Carol would say "For your lips." And still someone would say, "Chapstick?" We went around like that, over and over, and over again, until finally, a clerk showed us some lollipops and tried to pass those off as chapsticks. In the end, they admitted they had no chapsicks and suggested we go to Tesco's (the grocery store with no food). Ah, culture divides. You really don't have to love them.

Speaking of cultures, here's the mosque curry update. I've gone to church 4 times here, and the mosque thrice. Church is still ahead, and no competition can actually stand against Jesus, but man, those curries are good. I took Carol there for the experience, outside dining and all, and apparently, we weren't the only fans. Pigeons also like to frequent the place during the day.

That's Carol, eating the ridiculously good and plentiful curry we shared because we were already so full on tea.
The pigeons leaving their mark, showing us who really owned the mosque. Yeah, that's the same table we were eating off of.
Scary pigeon, just one of many, flapping its wings and scaring the bejeebus out of us.

That's Carol, this time eating indoors, in a sanitary and non-religiously-affiliated environment. Enjoying her very first fried mars bar. Acknowledged, it looks like turd, but it tastes oh so sweet.

The Small Stuff

Dear People Dancing At Club:
Personal boundaries, people! Boundaries. Ever heard of them? Ok, never mind. Dance floors are supposed to be crowded, that's not really why I'm writing tonight. I'm just curious to know: why are all of your arms so wet? Mine are perfectly dry. And why do you smell so sweaty? I could still detect it above the stench of smoke and alcohol. Mostly, though, I'm writing to let you know about this wonderful product called anti-perspirant. It keeps you from being wet and smelling, which is a pretty good deal for one product. Again, I know, it's a club, people are dancing, these things happen. But the slickness of your arms were pretty alarming- I mean of all the places to sweat, your arms? I sweat, too, but... wet arms!? So I just felt my duty as visitor to your fair city to tell you these things. It wouldn't be right of me to just sit on this treasure of an invention they have in the States and not share it with wondrous Eddie Bert.

Peace, and

Dry as a Kite
(kites are really dry 'cause they're so much closer to the sun than the rest of us...)


PS. You were still sort of fun.
PPS. Why does the name of your club have racist implications? I know it's some Italian name, but... first Clansman Center, now Massa... that's two strikes, Scotland.

Murder Hall

Not going to lie. I'm pretty proud of that title.

Remember how we beat the subject of awkwardity to death? Well, we're going to do the same thing with the idea that life is cruel here. Because it is. In the archaeology building, the handicap bathroom and the women's bathroom are both tucked away in a corner on the first floor (don't even get me started on why the two are lumped together, and why the men's bathroom is on the 2nd floor). To get to the bathrooms, one has to go down a hallway and open a door which opens to an immediate and short ramp that leads to a wall. The handicap bathroom is immediately to the right, with its door being perpendicular to the wall. But it's unlikely that anyone would be able to reach the door. If one was in a wheelchair coming out of the first door, death or severe injury are the more likely outcomes. Who the freak designs a sudden ramp for the handicap bathroom that goes straight down to a concrete wall!? And no one bothered with a sign that said, "Beware of Lethal Ramp." No. It's just there, a death trap waiting for some poor soul that really has to go. We just don't know where they'll end up...

PS. Someone in the post office (that doubles as a stationary store and pharmacy) recognized me today! He remembered me from the Slam. I don't think I've ever been recognized. Not in a good way at least. Well, we're not really counting the Bo' because with 1600 kids, we all recognize each other, so it's not all that exciting.

Reason #9381 Why We All Need To Learn A Second Language

(But hopefully not the same ones.)

In one of my soc classes, the one with the bumbling professor, the only class in which the discussion does not make me shake my head and actually long for those sessions with BSketch when she assigns discussion questions, I've fallen with the Chinese crowd. I'm a versatyle Sri Lankan and just happened to, on the first day, strike up conversation with this girl with whom I share a common language. Ok, so by 'crowd' I really mean three other kids and by 'fallen with' I mean that we sit together and occasionally chit chat, whatever. Point was, today we were discussing a familiar topic to those at the Bo'- the fashion stylings of the lecturer. One kid pointed out that he has a distinctive style and dresses rather well, "it's his business casual" someone said, while another pointed out that he never repeats outfits. And in the midst of all these discussions, said lecturer walked by and smiled in our general direction. Now, at the Bo', we'd all be hushed at this point and move on to a different topic. Or we might have done so even sooner, as the classroom got more and more populated. But that, my friend, is the beauty of having a second language. No one else in the class could understand us. "He has no idea what we're saying," one kid said, as we all nodded and continued smiling and maintaining eye contact with the lecturer. "Yeah, he thinks we're really studious and always discussing classwork." And then the discussion moved toward his marital status and whether he's spending Valentine's day in Eddie Bert. Awesome. I have resolved to learn as many languages as I can so I may gossip with as many people as possible.

High as A Kite in Scotland, Fin

And you thought we had had enough by Part 2. No, we're doing consecutive entries today. And we're also really liberal with our use of first person pronouns today, sometimes singular and sometimes plural. Who do we mean by we? That's for us to know and you to find out.

Tour Guide: They had these structures called blackhouses, so named black after the color.

What else can you name black after?!

For lunch, the Tour That Just Gets Better Every Time The Guide Opens His Mouth, dropped us off at a tiny 'village' and told us we had an hour to get lunch. Most of us had just woken up from a woozy nap (thank you, windy country roads) and really, had absolutely no idea where we were. Didn't help that unless we wanted to eat at the exact same cafe we had stopped at during our first rest stop, serving the exact same food, we had to trek half a mile down the road to a sketchy little diner called Little Chef. Ah... Little Chef. If you could imagine a Denny's, but less classy, with even worse service, you get Little Chef. Man, I miss Denny's right now. The waiter at the Nashua one was actually pretty nice. The signs outside and on the menu advertised that Little Chef was having a "price crash!" so the foods were at especially cheap prices- that always stayed constant... yeah, we didn't understand the price slashing either. We stepped in, the 5 of us, and after a few minutes, a man finally came over to ask if we wanted smoking or non-smoking. We said 'non,' and he told us he'd have to split us up so that there'd be a barrier between two tables. We looked at him incredulously since one foot away from the seats he pointed to was a completely empty booth that could have easily accomodated us. We pointed this out to him. "Oh, that's the smoking section, do you mind sitting there?" But there's no separation between the two 'zones' and they're literally one foot apart and facing each other... so we said, yes- henceforth preventing all other smokers from using the 'smoking section.' On the menu, Little Chef didn't just advertise their proudest entrees but also items that were "Just as Good." Because sometimes, you don't want things of highest caliber, but food that's Just as Good. And sometimes, you get really thirsty and really need caffeine and that's why Little Chef advertises their COFFEE AND TEA LIKE THIS! To jerk you awake when you're reading. Pay attention to the menu! Oh, and when Lauren and I left early, because service was so slow that we were afraid the bus might leave without us, and so we were sent with the intention of asking the bus to wait for the rest of us, when we did that, did the waitress run after us yelling, thinking we had dined and dashed? I think she did- even as the rest of our table was waiting patiently for her inside the diner to, I don't know, ring up the bill? Oh, Little Chef, I shan't forget you.

Getting High In Scotland, Pt. 2

Scotland- this country is full of surprises. When you expect reverence, they give you crass, when you expect campy, they give you class. And in both circumstances, it just makes you wonder how hard they're actually working. As our bus was pulling out of Eddie Bert, heading for the highlands, I spotted a man in a bright vest, a sanitation worker. He had a garbage bag in one hand and a metal stick on the other and he looked like he was picking up all the litter alongside the road. It was about 8:30 on a Saturday morning so the streets were mostly empty. Ah, I thought, that's great, they do care about the environment after all and really, litter is a huge problem here. Cheers to you, sanitation worker. And then I saw him use his stick to pick up a piece of trash, look to the left, look to the right, then throw the trash behind him into a little patch of grass so that it was off the street, yes, but on a piece of grass a foot behind him. That's not sanitary, man! He had a garbage bag in his left hand this whole time! But no, he decided to litter instead.

Along the tour, as I've said, we heard many delightful stories about Scottish history and how they killed rival clans, etc. (I really hope that their definition of Clansman is different than the American definition. Click on the photo for a better idea of what I mean.) Our ears especially perked when our tour guide mentioned the crannogs of old, mostly because Vita-L and I have been hearing that term all month long in our archaeology class without any real understanding of what a crannog was. Turns out, crannogs were defense structures on little artificial islands in the middle of lakes that the Scots built in times of warfare, to seek refuge from the enemies. Again, let us pause and consider the logic. (Jamilah made us do that over, and over, and over again because the absurdity just delighted her too much). So, enemies are coming and instead of, I don't know, stay and fight or scatter to the hills, these people ran toward the middle of the lake. Doesn't that make for difficult escapes should the enemy go toward them? Can't the bad guys just wait on land for their supplies to run out? And couldn't they just torched the crannog? Those were the immediate questions that came to mind. You're welcome to add your own. Like, were craisins involved? Because if not, that sounds like a misnomer to me. Sometimes, I wish I had lived in historic Scotland, because I would've made for one brilliant military strategist.

What were we talking about? Ah, yes. Surprises. At Loch Ness, the place where we expected, nay, counted on, the most kitsch and gimmicks, we actually encountered nothing but class. It was beyond disappointing. The gift shops (there were only two) were all tasteful anad had either cute stuffed animals, fancy sweaters, or books on Loch Ness. Are these people not aware that their only claims to fame are fuzzy pictures of a fake monster that really isn't that authentic of a folklore? I wanted the cheesy and over-the-top, but all I got were images of a serene lake. Oh, Nessie, I had such high hopes for you.

Lies, All Lies

This morning, walking around the city of Eddie Bert, surrounded by construction crews through my entire walk, I decided to listen to my little shuffle. It was a good selection of my favorite songs, nice mix of the old and the even older, and one of the songs playing was Moxy Fruvous's "Lowest Highest Point," a song they improvised during some concert that basically repeats the line "lowest highest point" over and over again and involves lots of making fun of audience members for guessing the wrong states all the while showing Moxy Fruvous's own ignorance about American geography. (In their defense, they're Canadians. Or, should that be counted against them? I don't know.) Anyway, at the end of the song, it's revealed that Delaware has the lowest highest point in the States and we all give props to Delaware. And for years now, whenever I meet someone from Delaware, I tell them that their state has the lowest highest point, because frankly, there's not much else to say about Delaware... except even that is a lie.

Being the curious academic that I am, I decided to google the state with the highest lowest point (Colorado) to complement my knowledge of the lowest highest point and in the process discovered that Florida, not Delaware, has the lowest highest point. My sincerest apologies to the people of Delaware. You really have nothing distinctive about your state.

Speaking of lies, The Quotation Deli, as I like to call the deli that disrespects our punctuation system, just keeps getting better. And the deli right next to it, too. Today, Quotation Deli is serving "Broth" while Deli Next Door (Bennington's, I believe) is serving Scotch Broth (which has no Scotch in it). Tell me, people, what's "Broth!?" Methinks they're serving the same "soup" in two different stores with two different prices. Lies. Lies. I tell you, lies.

PS. Don't even get me started on Zoga. They advertise a 'Soup of the Day' every day, but do they tell you what the soup is? No. So you don't really know if they serve a different soup every day. Or if they serve "soup" at all.

Getting High In Scotland Pt. 1

Went on a highland bus tour yesterday and saw much of the Scottish countryside. Was also asleep for a great deal of the nausea-inducing car ride, so perhaps did not see as much as I was supposed to, but I saw a lot of lands that were high nevertheless and in the process, learned a lot about great Scottish failures.

Contrary to what previous tour guides have told us, this is not a land of innovations and geniuses. No. This is a country of failed ideas. Like, I don't know, the grand plan hatched during the particular heavy winters of 1960's of building ski lodges up in the highlands to attract tourism. Yeah, apparently that plan only works if you have snow.
This mountain, therefore, standing tall and dry in February, is no good for skiing. That's why all these ski lodges have fallen on hard times. Upon hearing this, the group of us from New England posed many questions, like "Why can't they just make snow?" "Why don't they use the hills for something else, like grass sledding?" And "What, oh what, on earth posessed you to build ski lifts and ski lodges and ski slopes if you don't see snow here? Why!?" We coule only come up with two logical explanations for this: 1. The same fairies that people built stone monuments to told them to do it. Or 2. It was the 60's. They were not lucid.

We also heard stories of this canal that was built with the intent of connecting all the lochs (lakes) in the country. Much like the Big Dig back home, the canal took ten years longer than expected and more than twice the money. But the beauty of the whole thing was that after construction was finally finished, it was discovered that the canal was too shallow for boats to cross. So they had to redo everything. Oh, you've got to love this country.

But mostly, on the bus ride, we were fearful. Firstly, we were fearful of being left behind, since none of us really got over the whole Stirling incident. It wasn't very assuring either, that we were given numbers to call should we get left behind. Why would we get left behind? Couldn't the bus just wait for us? We don't know. Secondly, no one seemed especially concerned about safety. Navigating through the windy roads of the mountains, we saw lots of incomplete fences and safety railings, railings that were not nearly tall enough to be sufficient for the gianormous bus we were on. The bus driver, pressing hard on the gas peddle, certainly did not seem concerned. There were also the upturned cars in ditches alongside the road. I think I counted four. One was especially close to 2 highland cows, which once again, led to many questions. How did the car get there? Why is it still there and upside down? Are there still people in there? And if our bus ever flipped over like that, would people come and rescue us, or will we just lie there, like these cars, as people drive off without concern? Highland cows are adorable, but their horns are nasty. And the Scots pronounce 'cow' in a way that sounds like 'coo,' which is pretty cool by me.

Well, If It Quacks Like A Duck

The title is a shout out to fuzzy memories of BP '99.

Bad news, everyone. My toys, they're fighting.

Meet the toys, Eyeball and Duck. Eyeball came from Will and means a lot to me. Duck came free from the hotel from orientation and means almost nothing to me. Eyeball senses this (well, sees it at least) and uses this to its advantage. Here, Eyeball is intimidating duck.





Eyeball strikes.














Duck falters.











Eyeball declares victory over duck.








Eyeball rides Duck to show ownership over Duck.








Eyeball not very good at riding Duck and almost falls off.

Is the Duck really not stupid and passive? Or is it simply plotting silent revenge, waiting for the proper time to strike? I don't know. Frankly, I just see them as plastic toys. But if anything happens, I'll let you know.

We Must Be In My Soul

It's been a cold past couple of days. Very dry, but cold. It's a very November in Maine type of weather. (I dare not imagine what January/February in Maine was like.)



We had a little snow on the ground the other day. But that's about as much snow as we see, just a little dusting and some frost on the grass. These blocks, by the way, make up the Royal Mile and they're taking them up one by one to clean and redo the Mile. Except while that sounds all nice and preservationist of them, in practice, they're just plowing them up, dumping them into trucks, paving asphalt underneath, and then dumping the cobble blocks back onto the mile. And they're not very gentle about any of those steps. Not like the way those construction folks took forever with the chapel restoration and disturbed my sleep the entirety of my freshman year. That other picture was just some dirty street somewhere. Correction, some dirty street somewhere in Eddie.

Anyway, back to the cold. So I've been complaining to anyone that would listen (namely, no one) that it's cold in the city and that I've cranked my heat up really high and I think I've finally figured out the problem. Ok, so Vita-L may have helped. It's cold all over the city because well, their heaters are just inefficient. But my room heat is kept at temperatures much higher than everyone else's because I like to hang out in shorts and apparently, that's inappropriate for this time of the year...