Who You Gonna Call?

Today, a large truck rammed into the BLOCKBUSTER sign across the street, thereby busting the sign, leaving yellow lettering all over the street.

Eat My Shorts

I swear, one of these days I will get over the differences between British and American English. I will stop getting yelled at. Stop asking questions. And stop posting about those conversations. That day, however, has not yet arrived.

(Talking about the pants/trouser differences.)

Elle: So what do you call our pants then?
Moi: Underpants? We just call them as they are- boxers, briefs, whatever...? So what do you say when you pants someone then? Do you trouser them? That doesn't sound right.
Everyone: Pants someone? You actually pants- ?
Moi: You pull their trousers down. What, you guys don't do that here?
Everyone: You do? What is this?
Moi: I mean I've never done it myself, but people pants people in the States... you've really never pantsed anyone?

PS. This entry is dedicated to Ellie. No reason. Just 'cause.

My Town

(It's like Our Town but without the annoying characters, so there's only me.)

Yesterday, Eddie Bert took a break from long weeks of having the most depressing weather in the world and allowed sunshine to flood in. (The clear skies barely made it through the day, and yes, the storms have resumed again and will continue for the next week or so.) I took advantage of the opportunity to enjoy the long day (it was still bright when I went for a stroll at 7:15pm!) and snapped a few poor pictures. So here, the hints of spring from my neighborhood:











































Soccer (football) players in The Meadows and the evening sky. I love being able to see an evening sky. Tonight, I cannot see much of an evening sky.





























Flowers blooming all over The Meadows. (Well, only where they planted flowers.) And a British cab. They're all shaped like that.











































Random scenes that surround The Meadows.















Please tell me that you also see a hat, two eyes, a mouth and buck teeth. Cutest little column I've ever seen.



















I love the vandals of Eddie Bert. I can't stand the graffiti, but this was ok. Last week, en route to dinner, we saw two graffiti artists spraying in the early evening, right in the open. It bugged me that they were so nonchalant about it and no one cared to catch them. Where's the rebellion in that?














Directly across the street from my flat. Classy, eh? And remember, as my flatmate once complained, Chili Connection has the worst pizza.

I Will (not) Celebrate

Hypothetically, if one had a friend who has a birthday a month from today. The right thing to do would not have been to give said friend birthday presents yesterday, or tell everyone at the house you are crashing at, last minute, that it is friend's birthday.

I so wish I had done the right thing yesterday. The non-stupid thing to do. The logical thing to do. Because then there wouldn't have been the jelly roll or the mini-eclairs, or the chocolate nest eggs, the candles, the awkwardity (I thought we were giving awkwardity a break?), the embarassment, and the confusion.

But doing the wrong thing tasted so good...

P.S. Should also learn to listen and think before speaking. Would have come in handy many a times last night.

Little Victory

(As we're discussing our impormptu plan of crashing Elle's already-full house as a small group...)

Kaz: Should we bring sleeping bags?
Moi: I don't know. Do you all have sleeping bags?
Kaz + Dave: No.
Moi: Then we probably shouldn't bring any.

Kaz: Are you bringing anything for them?
Moi: I have salsa and "crisps."
Kaz: Why're you saying crisps like that? And don't you mean tortilla chips?
Moi: Well, whenever I say chips or fries I get yelled at.
Dave: By me and Alan.
Moi: So even though the bag says chips, I call them crisps.

(This then leads into gianormous debate once again about crips and chips. Kaz maintains that crisps aren't for dipping but chips are. Dave brought up example of Pringles- crisps for dipping. Yeah, I was horrified by that, too, but they've got these new dippable Pringles. I stand by the line, however, that once corn is added into the mix, those babies are chips not crisps. And that should, theoreticaly trump all other arguments. Though it is odd that the Pringles dippers have both potatoes and corn.)

Kaz: What time should we leave then?
Moi: There's a train for five past 5pm. And one for 4pm. But (pointing to Dave) your cinnamon buns won't be ready in time.
Dave: Right
(Kaz trying hard to suppress giggles.)
Moi: What? He actually made cinnamon buns, ok?! I'm talking about actual buns.
Kaz: Ok, so you thought of it, too. Just making sure that my mind wasn't the only one somewhere else.

Dave: Why is it that whenever I make them I get heckled?
Moi: You get heckled?
Dave: People hold signs outside my door and everything. Heckled.

Like the Clouds All Started To Cry

Whenever Vita-L took pictures of Eddie Bert as we walked around, I'd comment that the picture would look much better if she'd just wait a couple more months for a cloudless day to capture the full beauty of the city. But she always said that you don't want pictures of just the good days. The pictures during the grim greys remind you of how great the sun is. So walking around yesterday, with the rain beating down on me (but not getting through my L.L.Bean Gore-Tex), I snapped some pictures of dark and depressing Eddie Bert.






























And here, the groundskeepers of Princes Street Gardens were preparing to unroll the lawn when rain interrupted. This city is at its peak beauty during the tourist season in the summer. That's when all the scaffolding finally goes down and you can see buildings again. ("Sometimes," Hannah said, "We just put up scaffolding and forget we've put it there. Or what it's there for.") That's when all the asphalt machines and jackhammers cease and you can walk on paved roads again. And that's also when I pack my bags and head for the boondocks of Chinar.


























Speaking of Chinar, here's a Chinese restaurant sign I do not comprehend. Yeah, big surprise there. I never comprehend them. But isn't the general logic of naming restaurants after place names that the restaurants serve food reflective of said place and the food is supposed to evoke feelings of the place? (Ex: Eddie Bert's own "China, China." A Country so nice they named it twice.) So why would you name your Chinese restaurant after a city not in China? Twice? That does not bring sweet images of authentic cooking in my mind, but lots of communists invading poor areas. Maybe that explains the color of the banner.















One last picture. Went to the National Portrait Gallery yesterday and enjoyed some portraits and tea. I didn't know if I was allowed to take pictures or not so snuck one really quick. I think I liked being in the building almost as much as the actual exhibits themselves. The word 'cavernous' kept coming to mind. But that might just be because I don't really know what cavernous means. But the place had a cool feel to it. The museum explains that it's the type of place where sometimes, the subject is more important than the person who had done the piece and that made me feel less bad about the poor picture I took of the Gallery, because it's not how poor of a photographer I am that matters, but that I captured a shot of the National Portrait Gallery.

Very Civil Engineering

Dear People of Europe:
I support your spirit of social action and protest. Believe me, I do. I study soc and everything. But could you not do that when I'm traveling, please? I'm only leaving the UK for one week and might not step foot in your country again for a long, long time. So please, can you not hurt me when I visit? And could you hang on to infrastructure for just awhile longer so I can eat, travel, and sleep in your country? Thanks.
Honestly- of all possible days of the year, why're you all picking next week?

Peace, and

(note the peace? Please work on that and have civil, non-striking protests.)

Selfish Starving Student

Splinter Infinitives

Oh, the battles over languages.

For years, apparently, children on this side of the Atlantic enjoyed the cartoon Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles. They were still dressed the same, had the same back story of being from Japan and everything, but they were heroes, a more positive term, apparently, than the violent ninjas. In the movies, they were still ninjas. But on the small screen, heroic turtles.

The Sleeping Mammoth

Last night, Alan casually asked if I've climbed Arthur's Seat yet while we were all walking to CU. Arthur's Seat is a 823-ft-high hill in Edinburgh. It is an extinct volcano and looks like an animal from some obscure angle. The story goes that the mound is a mammoth called Arthur, who has lay down to rest and has been sleeping for a very long time. Climbing Arthur's Seat is a must to do in Eddie Bert, despite that tour guide's warning that "sometimes, the weather looks fine at the bottom, but once you climb up there, people die." When Elle repeated the story of Arthur's Seat for me, I asked if Arthur was friends with Nessie.

Elle: Why would Arthur hang out with Nessie?
Moi: I don't know. Shouldn't all the large creatures of Scotland hang out or something?
Elle: Arthur is sleeping and Nessie is a water monster people can't even see, they don't hang out.

Back to Alan's question. No, I answered stupidly, I haven't climbed Arthur's Seat yet but I fully intend to, some day before I leave. Apparently, Dave hadn't climbed it either and the two of them were planning on going in the morning, did I want to join? Now, I blame this on the cold air. And the fact that I was sleep deprived. And physically weary. And distracted. So I said 'yes.' I couldn't think of an excuse in time. And so it was set, sunset at the peak of Arthur's Seat.

Well, not quite sunset. We'd all been up late the previous night (some got to go out while others stayed in to finish tutorial reports they'd put off all semester long... fine, I stayed in, ok?), and we had another long night ahead of us. Maybe 7am? The sun would be up by then but... oh heck, why not meet at 8am? And of course, breakfast at Alan's afterwards.

And so we did. On this cloudy, misty, and wet morning (are there any others in Eddie Bert?) Dave and I entrusted our lives into the hands of Alan and Elle and we set off for the hill. Elle was a great guide as she picked all the 'girly' paths to take while the guys often took routes apart from the path, where it wasn't clear how one ascended or descended. I was embarassingly out of breath by the time we got on top and even before then, needed lots of breaks, but the hike really wasn't that bad. No one else seemed affected at all.

Dave: We're only 1/20th of the way there? This is going to be rough. I normally get no exercise.
Alan: Right. Except for breakdancing.
Dave: That's all the weekly exercise I do.
Alan: And riding your bike and skating and the occasional mountain climbing.
Moi: And the bars.
Alan: And the exercise bars.
Moi: I'm just like you, Dave. No exercise. Except without all that exercise you do.

Throughout the climb, we kept joking about inappropriate Bible matters, like re-enacting the Abraham/Isaac sacrifice once we got up top. I was really concerned about having to be Isaac until we realized that Elle was wearing a white jacket- a perfect fit for being the lamb/ram to rescue Isaac. And suddenly, my position wasn't so grim any more.


A view of the Crags, a smaller mound to the side of Arthur's Seat, at the beginning of our climb.


Alan and Dave in cheesey summit-pose at the top of Arthur's Seat.


A view of snowcapped mountains in the distance, a large expanse of the city, and Dave's left shoulder.

The highlight of the morning, however, wasn't the reaching the summit or the gorgeous views, or even getting to hang out with small group kids. It was the breakfast afterwards. Fried eggs, sausage (expertly cut in half then scored in quarters as to fit flatly in the sandwich), bacon, and quality English mustard between two toasted English muffins (apparently they're called English muffins in Scotland, too, though we're not sure about England). With espresso from a machine that made the coolest noise. (Honestly the only reason the espresso was made. No one really cared for coffee, but loved the machine itself.) And some apple juice that may have come from green apples. While everyone cooked, I did the dishes. Dave had to cut in to wash the espresso cup for a second. He dipped the cup in a basin of soap water and:

Moi: (Shifting the faucet and turning it on for him) You going to rinse that?
Dave: Oh. You're a rinser.
Moi: Yeah. The water in here is pretty nasty, from all the crumbs. You might want to rinse it.

(Earlier)
Moi: (Trying to brush crumbs into the trash) Alan, you should really do your dishes sooner so you don't have nasty crumbs stuck onto the plate.
Elle: That's why you just soak it in the basin.
Moi: But then the sink is full and I have no room to rinse.
Elle: Oh. I don't really rinse.


The delicious sandwiches. Don't even think of comparing these to McDonald's.

By the time we got back and finished preparing the meal, the sun was shining through the clouds and onto Alan's couch. We sank into the soft cushions, each a plate in hand, and settled in contentment. Once in awhile, we might have talked about frozen peas or looked away at a distraction, but mostly, we just sat there in a wakeful slumber, relishing in the satisfaction of a happy stomach.


Elle, enjoying the morning.

I Will Not Trade Pants With Others

(Name that obscure reference.)

I Will Remember That It Is:

Trousers not pants. Trousers not pants. Trousers not pants.
Chips not fries. Chips not fries. Chips not fries.
Crisps not chips. Crisps not chips. Crisps not chips.

I know that I know these things. But I still slip all the time. And these kids make sure that I know it. In a, er, loving Christian manner, er, of course.

Would You Like Doubly Fried Potatoes With That?

After CU (Christian Union) tonight, too penniless and tired to stay out and have fun with everyone else, nevermind that I was without proper ID for the pub that everyone was in, decided instead to head back with Dave and Alan and pick up some chips along the way.

Moi: Are we going to Oscar's for chips or is there somewhere else?
Dave: We'll just go to whatever chip shop pops up first on our way back, I guess.
Moi: Well, if we stay on this street, it's going to be Oscar's.
Dave: I don't know, we'll see.

(Moments later)
Dave: (Entering into chip shop) This place looks good.
Moi: (Reading the sign) Oscar's Takeaway? You don't say.

Dave and Alan had beans with their chips, because people here seem to put beans on top of everything (but still no sign of black beans or refried beans anywhere), while I had mine with curry sauce. Yes, I used the term 'chips,' as in thick cut fries, because, as aforementioned, I am so very British. Well, apparently not that British at all. All night long, the conversation went something like this:

Moi: So what are you getting on your fries?
Alan: You mean chips?
Moi: Right, right, chips.
Alan: We've already been over this, fries you eat five at a time, fries you don't care about, but chips-
Moi: I know, I know. If a fry falls on the floor, whatever, but if a chip falls on the floor, it's like "Ah! No!"
Alan: It's AGH! And you dive to the floor and catch it.

(Later that night, talking about things unimportant.)

Moi: ...That's why you get curry sauce on your fries. I mean, chips.
Alan: That's right. Chips. Much better than fries.
Moi: If a fry falls on the floor...
Dave: When you go back to America, you can teach all your friends about it and they will be so appreciative.

(Later that night, after I realized that unlike the guys, I cannot finish a plate of potatoes at midnight.)

Moi: Does anyone want the rest of my fries?
Dave: You mean chips.
Moi: Right, right, sorry. If a fry falls on the floor, it doesn't matter...
Dave: (Sighs) We're shipping you back to America.

Woulda, Shoulda, Coulda

On the flat bulletin board, there is a flyer hanging. Two second-years are looking for flatmates for next year.

The flatmates, the flyer read, "Should be male/female."

Taylor Made

So far this semester, I've learned in my archaeology class that:

The Scots are the greatest people that ever lived.
And that the Roman soldiers' style of dress is akin to that of a 14-to-35-year-old British girl. (Yes, the huge age range is both shocking and disturbing.)

To add to that, have recently discovered that:

Roman soldiers wore chucks. Except they weren't called Chucks yet and Converse wasn't around and theirs were made out of leather. But the shoes in my history book look pretty much like the black classic Converses that're all hip again. Those crazy Roman soldiers, what will they think of next? ...No, wait, they're dead.

And Yet Its Sides Are Two

Our small group has two leaders, Andy and Hannah, and we meet in their flats on alternative Tuesday nights. Hannah's flat is pleasant and girly. It's a tight space, but very homey and Hannah has many sets of matching tea cups and saucers, which is pretty cool. Andy's flat is a longer walk away, has much more space, but very much a guy's flat. It's always an adventure scrounging up enough mugs for everyone in small group. We'd look under Andy's bed and around tables and desks to gather enough cups to wash, then redistribute around the room. What's interesting, however, is that Hannah's always apologizing for the invisible mess in her room while Andy is always telling us that we're lucky to see his room 'on a good day.' Sometimes, at Andy's flat, you can't use the toilet because they'd run out of toilet paper. In Hannah's flat, you get the luxury of choosing between two toilets. (Note how I'm saying 'toilet' instead of 'bathroom.' I am incredibly British.) Needless to say, I relish in the opportunity to choose between two toilets at Hannah's. Hers are so much cooler than mine.

So during small group this past Tuesday, I politely excused myself to head to the toilets, but Hannah stopped me before I could. She said something really fast about shelves and TP in the shower and not using the smaller toilet and I was incredibly confused. As was Elle, who was also listening in. Hannah had to repeat herself three times, then frustrated, pulled me into the smaller toilet to explain. Apparently, she was not telling us that the TP was in the shelf in the shower, as both Elle and I had heard, but that the door in the small toilet is hard to open and so they had put a 2-P (two pence) coin by the door that makes it easier to unbolt. Hannah then locked the door and showed me how to use the 2-P.

"Ohhhhh! That's what you were talking about! And that's why I always see the coin in here! And I think your flatmate tried to tell me this last time, too. But I never have problem with the door."

Hannah, though excited by all of my discoveries, did not believe that I could unlatch the bolt so easily since her entire flat had trouble with it. So she locked the door again and made me open it. I flicked my index finger and it was done. So she close it again. And again. And again. And watched in jealousy as I unlatched it all those times.

Afterward, when I had kicked Hannah out so I could actually use the toilet, then washed my hands to happy birthday, then returned to the group, Hannah shared her amazement at how effortlessly I could open the door with the rest of the small group. "You mean the smaller toilet," Andy asked. "Yeah, that one." "That's funny. I never have trouble with the door either. What's wrong with it?" Andy said, followed by the entire small group sharing that none of us had ever had trouble with the door.

The scorecard:
Me: 4
Hannah's Entire Flat: -98384
Andy: 1
Tricky Door: 2-P

It's A Consumer World After All

Dear Small Business Owners Up And Down My Blocks:

I like you. I really do. I like buying samosas from you. I like that I don't have to put on a jacket or socks and walk three blocks to the grocery store when you're just right there, that I can visit in flip flops. I like how sometimes Tesco's wouldn't have raspberries but you would. I like the Polish deli guy telling me that the bread will be in at 4pm today, and not to worry because they're open until 9pm so I'll get my bread. And oh, you are so good when it comes to junk food for the movies. I like that some of you are the only hints of color in my interactions all day long. The more time I spend lost and confused in Tesco's, and the more my sociology soul shakes, the more I like you. I don't even mind the 5-pound-or-over credit card policy you have. Or that some of you are rather brusque in manners. I even like you over the bigger chain convenience stores.

But with all that said, could you stop ripping me off? That would be really nice.
Thank you.

Sincerely,

Small Pocket Owner

Swingers

Now that the distinction has been made, I officially like The Meadows and dislike the Brunstfield Links. I'm also officially confused on capitalizing the 'The' in proper nouns.

Walked past The Meadows and into The Links yesterday and actually saw a man enjoying his Sunday morning golf on a tiny piece of grass and yes, all around him were pedestrian walks and not too far away was a major road with cars zooming by. (Edinburgh drivers aren't the nicest of people. Reminds me of Boston and makes me long for B'Wick. I don't know why I couldn't just type 'Brunswick' like a normal person, but B'Wick it is.) The grass was seriously no bigger than the Westford town center but there the dude was, swinging away. I understand the appeal of the whole golf-couse-within-a-city idea, I mean, Franklins in Dorchester is a great example of a little country in an urban setting but come on, people, if you're going to allow that then at least give the people some land. The man could have had more room in my backyard and we do not have a big backyard.

Fi and I, on our way to church, decided that since this was such a public spectacle, with people all around him, we should support the golfer. And so after each of his swings, we would say encouragements like "good swing," and "close one," and sometimes, even "better luck next time." And we really meant those nice things we were saying, because if he was bad, there was a very good chance he could hit us.

Love Hurts

I love my mom. We're tight. But we're not best friends. Tonight, we had one of those rare occasions where we talked about relationships. It was a great reminder of why we don't do it more often...

(Mother mentions someone's daughter who studied abroad in England for the year and met a guy who she later married.)

Moi: Really? That's wonderful. But that's also so complicated. I don't want to meet a guy here and have to deal with going back and the distance. I don't think I'd want to meet someone here.

Mother: I just don't want you to meet someone in Britain who tricks you into bringing him back to the States and then kills you once in America or something.

Moi: Yes, that really would be the worst scenario.

Mother: That'd just be trouble.

The MisZeducation of Alan

Favorite Cultural Moment of the Night:

Alan explaining how for the longest time, he didn't understand the advertising logic behind a sign that read E-Z-Fax.

And then Fiona and non-Welsh-Dave not understanding him for the longest time, especially since for a few seconds, Alan wasn't sure if it was spelled 'E-Z' or 'E-Z-E-E' until we pointed out that EZEE had the same number of letters as EASY. But yeah, Fiona and non-Welsh-Dave were just as confused by E-Z-Fax as non-enlightened Alan.

That's just what happens when you call it Zed.

Knick Knack Paddy Where?

Most un-Patrick's Day ever.

Not that I celebrate St. Patrick's day much, but I was surprised by how little folks capitalized on the day. Other than all the pubs advertising St. Patrick's day specials and some hints of green among a few kids, saw hardly any displays or recognition of the day. It's the closest I've ever been to Ireland, and I must say that even in the quiet suburbs of Massachusetts, I've seen better displays. That's not to say that there aren't scores of kids out right now getting drunk in the name of St. Patrick, and that scores didn't start very early today, but it's just not advertised or celebrated as much in Eddie Bert as it is at home. Case in point: Alan, the green-less Norther Irish who spent the day sober. And he told me that back home, despite all the Guinesses consumed, no beer or river is actually dyed green. I actually wore, unintentionally, way more green than he did. The rain coat. Backpack. And the Nessie on my sweatshirt. "That's so Irish!" Alan said of my Nessie. "You mean, from the Highlands of Ireland...?" "Oh. Right. Loch Ness isn't in Ireland."

Talking about the significance of St. Patrick's and why he's actually a saint, we all came up a bit fuzzy. I demanded to know the man's miracles (something 'bout pigs...). And vaguely recalled snakes. Fi was proud that he was English, just like she was, until we found out that he was actually Welsh. And Alan just really liked the fact that the Irish had enslaved him. We all have our historical biases. And we all have our accents. Though we can't always pinpoint them. When we asked Alan the difference between a Northern Irish accent and an Irish accent, he put on all sorts of voices different than his normal tones, but none sounded quite right. Fi could only do the different English accents by saying the name of the place, like 'Somerset.' She could also be called upon to do the same for 'South Africa' and 'Australia.' And Dave flat out refused to do a Welsh accent, despite being Welsh, because he claimed he just didn't know how. So we're still at a loss of what it sounds like (Except Fi, who could say 'waaaaales.') And I thought all of this was quite amusing and shed great light on Britainnia until they asked me to do American accents. All I could say were 'New Ywok' and 'Bahstin.' But I stand by my excuse: when you've already gotten a Sri Lankan Taiwanese Massachusetts Suburbs accent, it's hard to put another.

Most ironic moment of the night: Fi's New Yorker flatmate coming in drunk as Alan the Irish was just finishing up lamenting about St. Patrick's day and then their subsequent discussions on alcohol, St. Patrick's traditions, and pubs in Belfast, with the New Yorker leading the way and the rest of us not really knowing what she's talking about. I wonder how she'd react to a red-suited man.

Seize the Slam

Quite a few years ago, this movie Slam Nation, came out and introduced slam poetry to a wider audience. There wasn't much story, the movie just follows the progress of a few teams through the national slam poetry championship. The cast there is now pretty much a who's who of slam poets. I didn't see the movie until last summer, even though Poeting had shown it a couple of times. Something always conflicted with those specific meetings. And when I finally did see it, I was blown away, and wished that I had seen it sooner. And wished that I had not had two missed chances. I didn't know how much I had missed until I saw the movie. See, two of the poets in the movie, and perhaps the two most well known, Taylor Mali and Saul Williams, had both performed at the Bo' and I had missed them both. The first was for an off-campus retreat, where I got to know a few kids from Colby and became much better friends with former-roommate-Rio, so it was very much worth it. The second time, Saul's performance conflicted with my weekly seminar with the PuMan, and I had already missed a class the previous week and could not miss another one. It was either watch a brilliant performance by a wonderful performer or listen to stories from a Pulitzer-winning writer giving me the chance to impress him. Not a bad place to be in, but not a decision I enjoyed making. But finally, tonight, I got to hear one of the Slam Nation poets. Michael Brown. And I got to sit right in the front. And got to talk to him. And promises to contact once we all get back in the States. So he wouldn't have been on my top list of people I must see before I die, but it was still very nice and humbling to hear a great poet perform (and a string of other really high caliber poets not usually seen in these parts... because they're not from these parts). And in two weeks time, it'll be my turn on that stage. Freaking unbelievable.

Triple X

Three Dislikes:
1. Wicker furniture.
3. When the library book I need is on the bottom shelf.
2. Cuticles that won't rip.

Three Likes:
2. Good customer service. Like the guy in the bookstore today. And the lady at the consulate. And the lady in the post office. All around, a very good day for customer relations.
3. Waterproof things in the rain.
1. Paprika.

Favorite images of the day:
3. A little math exercise as you drive.














2. I've heard kids from London talk about these signs, but didn't see one for myself until today. These are life savers. If only I had noticed them two months ago.















1. Next to the Stitch Master, this is my favorite sign in the City.


















You know how Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy was a 'trilogy' in five parts? Well, so is this.

Because the city is so old, throughout its history, Eddie Bert has accumulated a lot of important people to commemorate. There's a statue of a dead-but-always-with-us guy every few blocks. Take this one, for example. King George IV. Why is he so important? Because he visited Scotland. That's what the statue says.



















I know I looked like a stalker snapping a picture of a big group fo children but I just couldn't resist. Children in matching raincoats in the snow, y'all, how can anyone resist?














PS:
You know how sometimes teachers make stupid mistakes and you catch them and they say that they were just testing to see if anyone was paying any attention even though everyone knows that that's not true and everyone has heard the line used forty bajillion times before? Well, I was just testing if y'all were paying attention with the golf course post... Good eye, Lucy, good eye. I'm pleased to be schooled on Edinburgh.

Bright Ideas

My room is trying to kill me. Had I read or watched The Shining, I would probably reference it and compare my room to the hotel? building? room? that The Shining took place in. But I can't.

So I'll just tell you how, after the massive, slippery, sticky blob yesterday, my room went a step farther. Today, light bulb committed suicide. I think it was a kamikaze sort of thing and it was trying to take me out. It did not just blow out, no, it actually dropped from the lamp and crashed onto the desk. And it took some melted metal stuff with it that has now cooled permanently on my laptop battery. And I can't quite put the lightbulb back because its ends are jagged and metally and weird. And I'm concerned that it's not quite dead and will leap off again at any second.

Very stressful time lately, lots of inanimate objects turning on me. Would not be surprised at all if tomorrow, wardrobe, desk, and chests alike all simultaneously lose their balance and collapse forward just in time to serve as kindling for the flames of the spontaneously combusted heater, right when I am trapped under the freak mattress that somehow bounced me under it, and we all know how flammable mattresses are, folks. I'm afraid to close my eyes or even just sit here for another second.

Not that I get to close my eyes any time soon, must figure out a way to crack through the borders of other Schengen countries. How does Austria sound to you?

Airing Out

It's hard to be mad and self-pitying when everyone's being so nice to you. Way to kill the angst, everyone. But thanks. And I've gotten over my cold, so way to go, immune system.

Today was a decidedly mixed bag day and I really don't have a coherent story here. My student ID was mysteriously returned to me. It appears that I had dropped it somewhere in the building and someone somehow found my address and put it in an envelope and delivered it to me. Hooray for magical mail slots that fetch forgotten items.

But that came after getting rejected by the Italian Consulate for a tourist visa. It sucks being an alien.

But then I made nachos, albeit without refried beans, which do not exist in this country. Nachos are cool, just like teaching British kids the ways of Americana:

Dave: What'd you bring?

Moi: Nachos.

Dave: You mean crisps?

Moi: No, I meant tortilla chips, no wait, yeah... I guess they're crisps... But they're corn! Isn't crisp a strictly potato term?

Hannah: These aren't potatoes? No wonder they tasted different.

(Later checked the bag and it said 'tortilla chips.' The Brits complained that that was too hard to keep track of, and I insisted that their way was more difficult. Pointed out how confusing it was that they called two different drinks lemonade. They pointed out something I didn't pay attention to. I pointed out that the rest of the world celebrates a different Mother's Day than they do. And Hannah said, "Yeah, the rest of the world also drives on the wrong side of the road." And you thought Americans were self-centered.)

But then, opened my door and was first pleasantly greeted by the aroma of freshly done laundry. Then remembered that it had almost been a week since I had last done laundry. Then realized, to my great horror, that detergent had spilled all over the floor and that there was a giant blue puddle on the carpet. Did not have time to clean it up before and now I have neither the will nor the energy, so I've thrown down a few paper towels and we'll deal with it tomorrow. Or, if I can get away with it, never. Now, as I have expressed many times, I heart laundry. Very much. The smell of it wraps tingles around my chest and at the same time excites and soothes me. But I fear that this permeation of laundry smell in the room is too much of a good thing. I still enjoy it now, but what if I get sick of it? I really hope I never sick of laundry, but I fear it may soon be happening.
The blue blob that has invaded my room, drenching carpet, syllabus, handouts, and papers from Butler I don't really care to read, as well as haphazardly thrown towels:

(PS. That's totally not a dirty sock hanging out at the upper left corner. I don't do that.)


So, er, on my weekly walk today, I walked through the Meadows, as I often do. The Meadows is a gianormous piece of green pasture for the public to walk through, a nice chunk of green space within the city that's great for picnics, jogging, and ultimate frisbees. Today, however, I noticed the golf sign.

Not going to lie, the signs concern me quite a bit, especially since this is pretty much a park we're talking about. Was under the impression that I would not be in danger of being hit on the head in such open, public spaces. And I'm really not quite sure where the golfing takes place as The Meadows is surrounded by main roads on many sides and has lots of little paths that cut across. Now in constant fear of golf balls attacking.

Where's My James Franco?

Remember how on Freaks and Geeks Mr. Weir would tell his kids that the outcome for people that do all sorts of rebellious things is death? And how we thought it was funny? And how we laughed and then mourned the show's early demise?

It's not so funny, though, when you discover that your mother is actually Mr. Weir.

On the phone with my mother today...

Mother: ... and be safe, and don't go to any bars.

Moi: Ok.

Mother: Did you hear about that girl that went to the bar? She died. Somebody killed her.

Moi: I'm sure she wasn't killed because she went into a bar.

Mother: Yes, she was. She went into the bar and was killed. She was coming out of the bar all by herself at 4am and someone killed her.

Moi: Well, maybe the fact that she was alone in a bar at 4am had something to do with it. And not just because she went into a bar.

Mother: Do not go into bars. They're not good places. I'm serious. That girl just got killed.

She's serious, y'all. Don't even think about going into bars. You just might die.

But It Doesn't Taste Like Apples

Do they still make Applejacks? I used to love them.

I am posting from a forbidden computer and it feels oh so good. I have misplaced my student ID card for the thirty fifth time this semester. The ID doubles as a library card and I need it just to get into the library. Don't even think about checking books out without a library card. Don't.

But I needed to use the library. Badly. Not so much for the classes that I haven't read for, but I needed to print some papers, which, amazingly, I didn't need a card to do. Also figured that I could just read the library books in here without actually checking any out. A perfect way to foil the system, no?

Apparently not. See, apparently, one needs a card just to be in the library. We could get stopped and asked at any time. And if one forgets to bring the ID, one is supposed to apply for a daypass at the front desk, immediately. I have a daypass application with me right now, but it hasn't been stamped by the front desk yet. The lady at the desk let me come upstairs to look for my card and told me to hurry back downstairs if I don't find it because I really shouldn't be walking around without an ID or a stamped daypass. "You wouldn't want this to ruin your University record," she told me, because well, it can. "These things go on and blemish your permanent record." These types of offenses have kept many great minds from achieving their full potential and I really shouldn't risk another minute of being unstamped. I probably would have gone downstairs and let her stamp my pass had I not known how serious the consequences were. Now I just want to waste time up here. Just thought I'd tell you, reader, I am putting my entire academic future on the line just to type these little words to you. I hope you visit me in schoolhouse prison.

I think I'm going to go off and take some books off of the shelves without checking them out and read them without proper authorization. And put them back in the wrong places. Maybe, afterwards, I'll drink some water and chew some gum in here. I'm feeling reckless.

Three Favorite Cereals:
1. Oatmeal Crisp Raisin. Healthy, but not too healthy.
2. Golden Grahams. Unhealthy, but not too unhealthy.
3. Cocoa flakes. Or puffs. Or krispies, and in that order. At the end, you get chocolate milk, how cool is that?

O York, Old York

They only named this city once, and that city was York.

A travelling tip to the reader: Having a cold pretty much sucks the fun out of any trip, so try not to get sick when you travel.

I, of course, ignored that tip and signed up for the cold to arrive right around the time for my weekend in York. I used up all of the hotel tissues on the first night, and went to bed comparatively early all three nights while others prowled the streets of York. But I didn't need staying up late and going to pubs to have fun, I saw plenty of sights during the day. Like the stall that sold sandwiches for a pound. It was so good we had to go back the second day. Not unlike the rest of Great Britain, York is a tourist town that is old, beautiful, and of historical significance and they're proud of it.
And I would be proud of this wall, too:










That is, had my people not built this:


















Although, it must be said that the people of York make much better scones than my people. After a hearty climb of the city walls, we had tea in a proper English tearoom and put our pinkies to good use. The tea, called passion, was fiery and warmed my body good. If only more of their stiff, cold ways could be melted away by passion tea. Like this, for example. Whoever put this sign up obviously needed a lesson in chilling out and sharing:

The pathway wraps around the York Minster- the house of God where people learn to emulate said God and put to practice lessons of love, sacrifice and peace and all that. Plus, it's a bit hard for the hordes of tourists that come upon the Minster to enter without using this forbidden pathway. Obviously, these Highway Act folks never paid attention to their Sunday School teachers.





But alas, this sign paid the price and redeemed the stupidity of the other sign:

You Don't Know Jack

The takeaway boxes at the Mosque are magical.

I don't know about the more expensive, plastic 'separates' containers, but the cheap, equally-non-biodegradable, yellow styrofoam boxes are magical. That's pretty much the only explanation I can think of to explain why it appears that my food has multiplied over night.

I think it's God's way of encouraging more positive inter-faith dialogue. If more Christians and Muslims alike discover the magic of the box and the wonder of my God, we can all get together and learn to respect each other and our differences.

Anyway, what I was I saying? Magical box. Yesterday, absolutely sick with cold and didn't feel like cooking, I swung by the mosque for some of their delicious curry to take back for dinner. It was about 3:30 in the afternoon and already, the lamb was about to be sold out. I had the very last scoop. The mosque, by the way, doesn't open until noon, so it's ridiculous how fast this stuff goes. The guy behind me was telling the server how he never gets to have lamb and he always rushes there after his classes. It's true. I hadn't had any until my third visit. I normally try to make my curries last through two meals, though sometimes the 2nd meal would be quite skimpy. That's what I had expected for my second round of curry today. Last night, I was so hungry that I thought I scooped through most of the box and wouldn't have much left for lunch. And I definitely lamented that they gave bigger portions for the plates they use if you eat on-site. Today, to supplement my lunch, I even went out and got some samoosas, because a. samosas are delicious and widely available and b. I was hungry and knew I hardly had any curry left.

But when I my box today I was blown away by how much food was in there. The samosas definitely had to be put away, I just didn't have enough room for them. The rice covered most of the bottom of the box though I distinctly remembered that last night, there was only about a quarter left. I think I ate more for lunch today than I did for dinner last night. It just expanded. Absolutely amazing. Now it's not just holy curry, as Dan has dubbed it, it's holy magical curry.


On a completely unrelated note. Couple of nights ago, we were discussing breakdancing. Dave was reluctant to give up the location of his dance show this weekend.

Alan: Come on, Dave. You know that if I was in a programming (or engineering) competition, I'd tell everyone about it.

Kaz: Yeah, but no one would go watch you.

Unconquerable World

I don't know if you know this, but I'm in a class called Archaeology of Scotland 1B. We've been learning lots of interesting things all semester long, but it takes me awhile to realize what I've learned because I spend the entirety of lecture furiously scribbling down the PowerPoint notes. That's all I do. The lecturer talks during class, but I don't really have time to listen. I'm too busy copying down the notes. It's not until later, when I read them accidentally as I look through my notebooks for certain doodles, that I realize what I've written and learn interesting things about Scotland.

For example: Roman soldiers dressed like Scottish girls. Or I guess it's the other way around. It's true. Archaeologists have said it so it must be true. They're never wrong about the stuff they've inferred from shards of pottery. Roman soldiers wore tights to keep them warm and leather skirts over them. And boots. When I heard this, I exclaimed, a bit too excitedly, "That's what the girls wear!" That greatly embarassed Vita-L, who looked at me and shook her head, as if to say, "Thanks for totally giving away that we're not from here. I was fitting in so well." But then, she nodded, because she had to agree that I was right. What? Did I not mention that I take a class with Vita-L? Why is that such a big deal? It's not like I know her from the Bo' and have taken 9 classes with her before this. You must have her confused with Vita-K. Oh, I miss Vita-K.

Another thing I've learned about Scottish history: The Scots are really proud of it. This week, we've been studying the Roman period. The authors we've been reading and lecturers all emphasize the same things: as students of archaeology we must learn to be impartial, to look beyond the Roman historical records and their Roman biases and study the archaeological record. And what do we find when we learn to ignore the Roman writings and judge the evidence fairly (Scots didn't have writings yet at this point, they just talked to each other a lot)? We learn that the Romans were not able to conquer Scotland because the Scottish people were strong, brave, and wonderfully sophisticated (unlike the easily conquered English to the south) and not only were the Romans not able to take over Scotland, but the Roman presence actually encouraged the Scotmen to unite and become better people. That's right, the only lasting impact the Romans had on Scotland was not introducing technology or coins or efficient agriculture practices or pretty architecture (the Scots had no use for these things), but the one lasting impact the Romans had was creating a stronger Scottish identity. The Romans allowed the Scots to realize their full potential as a nation. It's amazing how clear history becomes when you take away the prejudices of nationalism and focus on really old dirt.

Maybe when I'm not sick anymore I'll tell you about the University strike yesterday and how classes were either cancelled or rescheduled.

Melinda and Melinda

This story only involves one Melinda.
The other Melinda... er, last we saw of her she was hitch hiking to Aberdeenshire. No one knows if she's made it.

Wow, that was a really dark lie. But that's ok, because the other Melinda is sweet and that more than makes up for it.

Last night, went to a wondrous little restaurant that specializes in seafood called Sweet Melinda's. On Tuesday nights there, you pay whatever you think the meal was worth. Or, if you're like me, you pay slightly less than what you thought the meal was worth because you're a starving student who can't really afford luxuries like protein-rich foods. That's right, have a fancy dinner then pay however much you want. Oh, it was delicious. And the food was good to boot.

At this part of the story, people like to interrupt me with lots of questions, like how much is the food normally worth, how do they make their money, why would they want to do that, do they ever get ripped off, how much do people normally pay, and how much I paid. Patience, young one. The entrees are normally 12-14 pounds. (I've been in this country for a few months now and still haven't figured out how to do the pound sign on my keyboard. Or, rather, I know how I could do it, but I'm too lazy to, so I just type out the word 'pound' every single time.) So that's around $20. Then there are appetizers and desserts. And man, were they good. Yes, once in awhile a few college kids rip them off but mostly people pay about the same amount, or even over pay out of guilt and because they're not sure about prices. Plus, I'm pretty sure Sweet Melinda's makes a pretty sweet living the other nights of the week. It's a small restaurant and almost always packed, and for good reasons, too.

Lauren and Vita-L, and
Jamilah and Jenny at dinner. What? Jenny is totally a new kid I met in Edinburgh and she definitely doesn't go to the Bo'. No, you must have her confused with someone else. She is my new friend, Jenny Book.















Check out the question mark next to the total. That's 'cause we got to call the shots, yo.
And a shot of the most beautiful check in the world. Note how we took full advantage of the situation, helping ourselves to three beautiful courses- all of us except Jamilah. She wimped out on dessert.

(PS. This picture of the check only turned out so well because Vita-L schooled me on how to take a picture of it and insisted that I stand up tall then zoom on it. PPS. In case you were concerned for the good people at Sweet Melinda, no, we did not stiff them. Their business is thriving and all of their kids can afford to go to college.)

Housekeeping

Hooray for comments, especially those that shed light on the practices of these crazy Brits. (Fine, Susan, yours are good, too.)

And aw shucks for great professor who won't be returning to the Bo'. Now I know not to put off taking good classes.

I'm sick again. So instead of going about work and stuff, I'm updating a lot.














I'm not a good photographer, so sue me. This is the "back roads" route I take when I want to avoid the little cafes and takeaway stalls on my street. There are only a few restaurants on this street and the Jamaican restaurant, with jerk chicken priced at $20, doesn't tempt me as much as the Quotation Deli on the main road. Though it does make me long for them beef patties in Boston.

I don't know where Jedburgh is, except that it's to the right. But I like to think of it as Eddie's little brother. Ed and Jed Bert. This is the intersection I cross every single day, many times a day. It's gotten to the point that I don't really look before I cross anymore. I just walk. So if you ever hear of me getting into an accident, this is probably where it happened.


A closer view of the intersection. I just love how you can see the hills in the back, just like that. All around Eddie, no matter how crowded the city gets, if you just turn around, there's Arthur's Seat.

Brilliance Lost

Brilliant thoughts come to me in the shower. When I have enough money one day (yes, as a loaded sociologist), and have finished using the excesses on paying back loans and tuition bills and feeding my family and myself and buying my mother that ring and supporting worthwhile charities and endowing something in my name just 'cause it's fun to endow things- when I've done with all that, I'll install a waterproof but erasable board in my shower and get special markers so I can write in it whenever an idea comes. I saw the board on TV once. I think it was for an OCD patient that couldn't stop writing though. Hm. No matter. This way, when people visit my bathroom they'll be impressed by all the scribbles and think that I'm so intelligent I can't afford to lose a single thought. Yet in reality, I'd only be jotting things down because my memory isn't good enough and my attention span not long enough to sustain one idea through a whole shower.

That's why I just wrote this huge long paragraph instead of World's Best Entry. I lost it to the drain in the shower. But I just remembered that on Sunday, as we sat around being served, we talked a lot about showering and shampooing. We're very hygienic people. A lot of the stories involved the conditioners our flatmates' use. And how they felt to the hair. And I remembered thinking, "Oh, hey, it's not just me." So there you go, gentle reader. If you've run out, go ahead and use your flatmate's conditioner just this once. We all do it. But shh...

The Kitchen God's Wife

Yeah, didn't actually read that book, but if I ever meet her (which I won't, what with there being only one true God and all...) I've got a lot of questions. I guess I'll just have do direct them to you, reader.

Don't know which is worse: my bad habit of eating in front of my precious Dakota the Computer (the computer formerly known as Dakota), thereby risking splattering and spilling awful grease and foodstuffs of all sorts on its beautiful body, or my bad habit of not paying attention as I pour water into my cup in front of Dakota the Computer, thereby spilling water all over both the desk and my pants.

Also, I don't know if this is just a Scottish thing, a white people thing, a everyone but Asians thing, or just everyone but my family thing, but my flatmates feel it's ok not to wash the suds off of dishes. And the suds frequently remain on pans, plates, and silverware to dry off. I don't mean just a little spot here that they've forgotten, I mean big splotches of bubbles. Sometimes I wonder if they really rinse them or just dip the dishes in soapy water. I've met a few other people that have this habit, and some people have said it depends on how much soap is left, but this is something I'd never, ever do (expect through careless washing, which happens a lot) because to me, leaving the suds on means the potential of eating soap bubbles, and I don't think we're supposed to eat soap. So, do you find it acceptable? Do you wash off the suds of your dishes? Do you see the bubbles as soap or air? Help me understand your ways, white people.

Hm. Wondering if perhaps I was supposed to make a timely allusion to Crash in my title and try to be clever just because I mentioned 'white people.' I hope not. I don't think I like Crash and all the hoopla associated with it.

On Good Behavior

With chance of parole.

The British food system just gets more confusing.

Fiona (in front of the refreshment table at church, before our huge lunch): I've had so much food already today. I've had bread, cheesecake, shortbread, scones, crisps, and flapjacks.

Moi: Flapjacks? Where'd you get flapjacks?

Liston (the American who's been in Eddie Bert for awhile): That is a flapjack.



(Just what exactly is flappy about this flapjack?)













Fiona: So what do you call these things in America? Just oat things?

Moi (after a few minutes of thinking what clever name I'd call it): Actually, yeah. I was just thinking of them as oat thingys.

(Wikipedia says that in the UK, flapjack is "a tray bake made from rolled oats and syrup," sort of like a granola bar.)

Later, talking about the absurd amount of food we were consuming (we had to, church people made it for us and it would have been rude to refuse. Sometimes we have to learn to serve and sometimes, to be served). Fiona pointed out that her apple pie was "practically a fruit salad."

From there, with that impeccable logic, we just took off, justifying all that we ate. The Pringles? Easy. Potatoes- vegetables. Chocolate cake? Cocoa beans- beans- vegetable. Vanilla ice cream? Vanilla beans- vegetable. Somewhere in the background, Heather kept pointing out that neither corn, potato, nor sweet potato was a vegetable, but we ignored her. Heather's studying to be a vet.

Moi: Hey, if it's an animal question, we'll ask you, ok? Leave the vegetables to us.

Another girl questioned the amount of beans that actually went to each dessert instead of say, an actual serving size of vegetables. But we pointed out that we were all made equal in God's eyes and that we shouldn't let things like serving size get in the way of that and that really showed her. Plus, have we mentioned how packed with calcium ice cream is? And how the same goes for the filling of eclairs? And how we're supporting to cocoa farmers in South America? On the way to our daily three-to-fives, we just might reach sainthood first.

Let's Go: Glasgow

Went to Glasgow yesterday and remembered what it was like to be in a city, to see restaurants with more than five tables in it, and to be in the midst of people. Felt very jealous of Glaswegians as I spotted Chinese restaurants galore. Respectable Chinese restaurants at that.

Because Scotland has just a handful of cities, each one of them claims to be the 'capital' of something. Eddie is the political and cultural capital, and Glasgow, as it turns out, is the capital of fashion, style, and curry. Yeah, I wasn't convinced either, and decided to just capitalize all sorts of other things for the city, since it was so easy to do. Like cast iron. Glasgow is the cast iron capital of Scotland. And headphones. And nylons. Don't question me in these things, they just are.















The George Square of Glasgow. Not to be confused with the George Square of Eddie. Or many other cities in the UK.















The Nelson Mandela Place of Glasgow (if you click on the picture, you can see the plaque that says so a little better). I don't think anyone could have picked a whiter spot in the world to honor the great anti-apartheid leader. Just look through the sea of people and try to spot one person of color (ok, so ignore the Asian lady in the front, but I challenge you to find a black person in the picture. No, to make it even easier, I challenge you to find a black person in the city).

Glasgow: The Jesus Capital of Scotland. Actually, with only 30 minutes, can they even get through everything fast enough to talk about Jesus?

Episode 482710: Hunger Strikes Back

The past few months, since I've been cooking for myself, I haven't eaten gargantuan portions of anything. There's been a curb to getting pieces of apple cake over and over again and then telling people they can't really split the cake with me as we had previously agreed upon because I have decided to eat it all myself because it was that good. I mean, I still eat a lot. I still eat unhealthily. But I'd at least like to pretend that I'm slightly better about it and have shed some bad eating habits. Thursday night, on the way to watching a movie, I stopped in a store to grab some chips and candies, because well, you can't have a movie without junk food. Weird thing was, I had no desire to eat chips. Not even Pringles. None whatsoever. So I picked up a samosa and pakora instead, because deep fried vegetables and meat are totally the healthier alternative (they're readily available at most convenience stores here, "fastfood you can find everywhere, like our hotdogs!" Lauren said). Friday, because of a messed up eating schedule, didn't eat much and didn't feel like I missed food too much. Huh, I thought, could this be the end of my gluttonous days?

No. Went to an Indian buffet for lunch yesterday and proved that over and over and over again. Only 2.5 plates, yes, but 2.5 really, really packed plates. And I still felt like I could eat some more after the last plate, and sort of wanted to, but politely abstained because I didn't feel like outeating Lauren by too much. And it was awkward that she had to keep waiting for me as I ate and ate and ate. She was done after one plate of sensible portions. Obviously, the girl didn't know how to get her money's worth.

There you have it, reader. Every few months, I have an entry along these longs and a monster lying dormant reawakens with greed, demanding sacrifices I cannot bring fast enough. Who know how long the battle to satisfy and appease the monster will rage this time? All I know now is I'm hungry and I better eat.

Let It Turn To Dirty Slush

It snowed today!

-in many parts of the world, including Bert!

This morning, I wondered what pair of sneakers I should wear. My orange Pumas or my orange Pumas. Took a look out the window, it was cloudless and sunny, a rarity in Bert, so I went for the orange Pumas, the one with a blade of yellow to better match the sun. Phrases like that make me dread that my reader takes me too seriously and believe I live my life the way I say I do, but whatever. Point is, it was sunny so I wore my favorite sneakers, the orange Pumas, instead of my regular orange Pumas.

Got to work and suddenly, it started snowing heavily. The snow did not fall the way people behave in Bert, no, it was intense. It started as a squall, sudden, violent, low-visibility, but continued steadily for a few hours and very quickly accumulated. That, was pleasant surprise #1 today, even though it meant getting my favorite sneakers wet and dirty. It felt cheesy saying so, but the snow reminded me of home. "And where's home?" Jay, the volunteer that I can't really understand, asked. "Boston," I say, because any other answer would have been too complicated and would've been met by blank stares and awkward pauses. "Oh, Baw-stin?" he asked, in a perfect Bostonian accent, and it was a complete shock. Jay's speech is normally low, mumbled, and slurred and that triple cocktail makes it nearly impossible to understand through his thick accent, so I'm always nodding at him without really comprehending, and trying to figure out if he's special or not, but that brief, sharp clarity was just startling. It was a completely different voice, tone, and personality. And that, folks, was pleasant surprise #2.



Being at work, I couldn't really capture the majestic fall of the snow. By the time I got back to the flat, the sun had semi-come out and a lot had melted away. This was the scene from my window.

Surprise #3 was mostly pleasant, but not that much of a surprise and pretty bitter-sweet quite literally and metaphorically. Had a date with Fiona at Plaisir du Chocolat today, a really fancy chocolatier and cafe that has teas and hot chocolates with fancy names and really long descriptions. They had a 7-page long, leather bounded menu for just tea and coffee. I'm not sure if I can even imagine more over-the-top formalities than that. A tiny hazelnut chocolate tart, divine as it was, set me back $8.74. Not even kidding. It was perhaps 2, at most 3 inches in diameter, a tiny little thing, and it cost that much. And oh, it tasted so rich. (Ba-da-chi) The chocolate espresso, at a mild five dollars, was in a tiny little espresso cup, and I literally felt like I was drinking liquid chocolate/maybe this is what heaven tastes like. It was so luscious. As it cooled, a thick film of chocolate espresso skin formed on top, sweet yet dark, strong and very caffeinated all at once. Each cup of hot chocolate comes with glasses of water because they know that it's that intense. They also have designer chocolates with intricate flavors, designs, and of course, paragraph long descriptions. The chocolates change by season and is perhaps the most pretentious indulgence I have ever seen.


The names of the respective tiny cubes are Persephone, Szechuan, and Sheherazade. One 'evokes splendors of the Arabian East,' one is infused with indigenous precious pepper and pear pulp, and the one is named after Hades' niece/wife. And oh yeah, this is still chocolate we're talking about. How the servers at Plaisir du Chocolat can keep a straight face about their work every day, I do not know. Perhaps they're just too intoxicated by the deep, lavish textures of their work.