I spent the morning trying to fit the last few months into bags and defrosting the freezer with plastic cutlery. I woke up after a rather sleepless night feeling tired and content, and decided that I needed to walk around the city one last time. Edinburgh has kept its charm right up to the very end. I could live here for 50 years, Groundhog Day style, and never tire of it. It's not a city that many would romanticize. But there is something ancient deep within it's foundation that bathes the city in something akin to home. After every adventure that would take me miles away just the sight of the streets I'd come to love made me feel safe.
As I walked down the street past cafes, shops and pubs I felt the ghosts of everything and everyone filling the streets around me. As if I could look into a window and see my friends waiting for chips and cheese or something. I kept turning to tell someone about how weird it all felt or to recall some time or another only to remember that I was alone. I spent the tail end of last night with one of my few remaining friends in our usual tavern and found myself staring at the table where I sat on my very first night. It was occupied by some other group of people laughing and carrying on. Usual haunts lose their familiarity without the usuals, and the city is a little colder than it was.
As I write this I'm sitting in Black Medicine drinking a latte and remembering all the afternoons I spent working on this blog in here. Almost every post was written in this cafe with the smell of coffee and bacon perfuming the air. But even here I feel the absence of everyone who made this semester what it was.
The last week was like being tied to the tracks and just waiting for the train. With every "last drink" we recalled past nights and adventures, laughing, joking and sitting in silence just enjoying the good company. With each final gathering came the question, "what was your favorite day/night/trip/etc.?" For me it was the time between September 5th and tomorrow. I can't pick one day or night or adventure. I would never give up the nights we spent at ASDA or the days I spent sitting around my flat. Every moment was part of the whole, and even those wasted weren't.
I keep telling myself that all of the goodbyes I made, and those I missed, were not definite. That doesn't mean they hurt any less though. Right now sitting alone in one of my favorite spots in the city it all feels pretty final and it hurts like hell. By this time tomorrow I'll be racing back to a house full of people who love me, missed me, and can't wait to see me. I don't feel like I'm going home though. I feel like I leaving one home for another. Tonight I'll be in the tavern for my final drink, something I've done too many times. Thankfully I have someone to share it with.
This was just one chapter and I have faith we will meet again. But for now, this is it. To Edinburgh and to everyone I met for the all of the times I will always remember, slàinte mhath.
These were crazy times...
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Friday, December 13, 2013
Failure at its Best, and a Happy Christmas
Edinburgh is a lovely city to celebrate the Christmas season in. The shop windows are full of holiday displays, the streets have been strung with lights, and Princes St. has acquired a rather festive market complete with ferris wheel, ice rink, and water slide. We've decorated the flat with christmas lights and a tiny tree. We even have a penguin, it's all very festive. I've been extremely lucky to have been able to travel so much at this time of year and to have seen the holiday lighting up streets all over the world. It's been amazing and I still have to remind myself that I'm not dreaming.
After making sure I spelled "failure" correctly I figured I might as well start writing the actual post. I honestly have enjoyed writing my little blog despite my missing the last, oh what was it, three weeks?! As of today I will be leaving this city I have come to know and love in exactly 10 days. While my time has been short it has been full of some of the best times I have ever had. Being able to share my adventures with you has been fantastic and I've loved doing it, but as my time comes to a close I think I will put down my laptop and stop writing... for now. I want to relish my last week and spend time with the friends I have made before we have to go our separate ways. So this is goodbye to "An American in Edinburgh" for now, but not forever. I will complete my adventures for posterity eventually, but not this week. I will see many of you very soon, live and in person! And I'm looking forward to sharing my stories with you face to face, rather than face to computer or voice to phone. So from Edinburgh, Scotland thank you for reading. Happy and/or Merry Christmas and there is much, much more to come!
And here's another song!
Side note: The title of this post was created by my dear friend and fellow dragon lord the ever elegant Katie.
Side note: The title of this post was created by my dear friend and fellow dragon lord the ever elegant Katie.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Sherlock Holmes and the Holy Grail
This is a tale of triumph, woe, pain, and complete incompetence. Also there may be blood, you've been warned.
It started back when I was a young lass and fell in love with the stories of a seriously legit genius detective and his equally awesome and medically trained flatmate. The writer of these stories was also totally cool and just happened to have been born in Edinburgh (This information is very important, remember it because it is key in this story). Fast forward a few years and I'm less young, still lass, downright obsessed with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson and in a shocking turn of events in Edinburgh (See, I told you). Therefore my dragging my flatmate to Picardy Place to see the statue erected in honor of my favorite author was inevitable and honestly I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. We walked from our flat all the way down Princes Street and took a left, surprisingly without getting lost.
First there was a pub. The Conan Doyle, a sign sporting the silhouette of arguably the most influential fictional character of all time and a portrait of his creator. I tend to lose control over my speech over the silliest things, and this pub was one of them.
After the pub there was a small plaque on a building that declared that this small circle of buildings in the middle of my current home was in fact the birthplace of Sir Doyle and again I lost control of my mouth. I also began to regret not bringing my copies of the complete adventures of Sherlock Holmes on this particular excursion.
Then there he was, the great detective himself. Well, a statue of the great detective himself but nonetheless I was so excited I decided that I needed to get a picture with him which is saying a lot. I stood and marveled and spouted off pointless seemingly random facts about Mr. Holmes and Sir Doyle until my flatmate decided it was time for tea and we left in search of sustenance. During our search for a coffee shop I proceeded to get my flatmate and myself terrifically turned around multiple times, a fairly common occurrence, and through the use of rare free WiFi and Google Maps we eventually got on the right path and the rest of our day was as smooth as fine scotch. However I should have taken heed of the universe trying to warn me of my poor directional skills. Sadly, I've never been good at spotting obvious signs.
The next day I rose bright and early determined to visit the famous Doune Castle where bits of Monty Python and the Holy Grail were filmed. I set out alone on an ill fated journey back to Stirling for what I was sure would be the final time. The Internet had told me that by taking a train from Edinburgh to Stirling then a bus from Stirling to the village of Doune I would arrive at my destination safely and be free to take pictures and frolic about to my hearts content. Murphy's Law says that anything that can go wrong will go wrong and being the sharp witted college student I am had avoided incident until I reached the bus station. After checking a chart to figure out exactly what bus I needed I turned around to see it drive off without me. 20 minutes after the next bus was supposed to arrive I boarded and asked the driver if I could in fact get to Doune Castle via that bus, he replied in the affirmative. I then asked which stop it would be and he told me there would be a library. It needs to be mentioned that the majority of the bus drivers I have met in Stirling and other more rural areas are jerks who hate tourists. The bus was empty save for me and a handful of other people. At this time I barely had an hour at the castle before it closed and when I saw a building with a bunch of books painted on the windows I followed two people off the bus, but only after asking the bus driver if that was in fact my stop. When he nodded I departed. As the bus drove off I found myself face to face with not a library but a creepy primary school in the middle of the twilight zone. The people who had left the bus before me seemed to just vanish into the damp grey scenery. The entire town, which lined a single cracked road, seemed deserted save for a black cat who hissed at me as I walked passed. The only shop around was closed, there was only one bus stop and no other bus for another hour. So I did what any self-sufficient 20 something would do and called my mom, who was in the United States and could do absolutely nothing to help me, and waited alone in the misty rain disheartened at never actually reaching my destination. My bus driver snickered at me as I boarded the bus.
I tried the following weekend to get to Doune Castle with a few friends in tow for safety but we discovered once we arrived in Stirling that the castle had closed the day before and wouldn't reopen for a month.
I can't get no satisfaction.
It started back when I was a young lass and fell in love with the stories of a seriously legit genius detective and his equally awesome and medically trained flatmate. The writer of these stories was also totally cool and just happened to have been born in Edinburgh (This information is very important, remember it because it is key in this story). Fast forward a few years and I'm less young, still lass, downright obsessed with Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson and in a shocking turn of events in Edinburgh (See, I told you). Therefore my dragging my flatmate to Picardy Place to see the statue erected in honor of my favorite author was inevitable and honestly I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner. We walked from our flat all the way down Princes Street and took a left, surprisingly without getting lost.
First there was a pub. The Conan Doyle, a sign sporting the silhouette of arguably the most influential fictional character of all time and a portrait of his creator. I tend to lose control over my speech over the silliest things, and this pub was one of them.
After the pub there was a small plaque on a building that declared that this small circle of buildings in the middle of my current home was in fact the birthplace of Sir Doyle and again I lost control of my mouth. I also began to regret not bringing my copies of the complete adventures of Sherlock Holmes on this particular excursion.
Then there he was, the great detective himself. Well, a statue of the great detective himself but nonetheless I was so excited I decided that I needed to get a picture with him which is saying a lot. I stood and marveled and spouted off pointless seemingly random facts about Mr. Holmes and Sir Doyle until my flatmate decided it was time for tea and we left in search of sustenance. During our search for a coffee shop I proceeded to get my flatmate and myself terrifically turned around multiple times, a fairly common occurrence, and through the use of rare free WiFi and Google Maps we eventually got on the right path and the rest of our day was as smooth as fine scotch. However I should have taken heed of the universe trying to warn me of my poor directional skills. Sadly, I've never been good at spotting obvious signs.
The next day I rose bright and early determined to visit the famous Doune Castle where bits of Monty Python and the Holy Grail were filmed. I set out alone on an ill fated journey back to Stirling for what I was sure would be the final time. The Internet had told me that by taking a train from Edinburgh to Stirling then a bus from Stirling to the village of Doune I would arrive at my destination safely and be free to take pictures and frolic about to my hearts content. Murphy's Law says that anything that can go wrong will go wrong and being the sharp witted college student I am had avoided incident until I reached the bus station. After checking a chart to figure out exactly what bus I needed I turned around to see it drive off without me. 20 minutes after the next bus was supposed to arrive I boarded and asked the driver if I could in fact get to Doune Castle via that bus, he replied in the affirmative. I then asked which stop it would be and he told me there would be a library. It needs to be mentioned that the majority of the bus drivers I have met in Stirling and other more rural areas are jerks who hate tourists. The bus was empty save for me and a handful of other people. At this time I barely had an hour at the castle before it closed and when I saw a building with a bunch of books painted on the windows I followed two people off the bus, but only after asking the bus driver if that was in fact my stop. When he nodded I departed. As the bus drove off I found myself face to face with not a library but a creepy primary school in the middle of the twilight zone. The people who had left the bus before me seemed to just vanish into the damp grey scenery. The entire town, which lined a single cracked road, seemed deserted save for a black cat who hissed at me as I walked passed. The only shop around was closed, there was only one bus stop and no other bus for another hour. So I did what any self-sufficient 20 something would do and called my mom, who was in the United States and could do absolutely nothing to help me, and waited alone in the misty rain disheartened at never actually reaching my destination. My bus driver snickered at me as I boarded the bus.
I tried the following weekend to get to Doune Castle with a few friends in tow for safety but we discovered once we arrived in Stirling that the castle had closed the day before and wouldn't reopen for a month.
I can't get no satisfaction.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Down by the Sea
It was earlier than it ever was before. That being said the time was actually comprised of several factors rather than just the time of day. 8 a.m. seemed more like you've-never-actually-slept-in-your-life o'clock for the better part of our traveling party due to a night of painting the town indigo. Nevertheless 8 a.m. saw us gathered in Black Medicine, or the most wonderful coffee shop in all of Scotland, and ready to depart on the 10 minute walk to catch the 8:32 train from Haymarket Station, destination: St. Andrews, Scotland. Someones insistence on actually eating breakfast like a responsible adult made us miss our train by exactly two minutes and upset everyone who woke up before half seven. When we finally boarded our train everyone promptly fell asleep. Leuchars was picturesque. The teeny-tiny train station was surrounded by open countryside and blue rolling hills and glowing in the morning sun, we didn't stay long. A short bus ride and we were in the lovely seaside city of St. Andrews made famous by a different sort of golf than the kind I usually associate with the beach. Massive sea grass coated rocks covered the wet sand marking how dramatic the Scottish tide can be. The sight was truly something to behold and after soaking in the view for several moments I reached for my camera.
My little camera preformed bravely and with the sort of honor usually reserved for respected war heroes. Regrettably I failed my little Canon in that I forgot to charge its battery the night before and after a valiant struggle its battery died. Fear not dear reader for my trusty Droid took over and several pictures were taken over the course of the adventure.
We journeyed down onto the beach, climbed over the massive salt soaked rocks and dipped our fingers into tide pools. The sharp cold air smelled of seaweed and salt, and the water was frigid and clear. Dunes lined the back of the beach and raced away from us curling back and out of sight and the water turned a dark grey teal as it raced back to the horizon. Frothy waves rushed up the dark sand and signaled the incoming of the tide. We wandered our way across the beach and up to the sidewalk and collectively decided that finding breakfast would be a good idea. After a visit to a small pub that successfully convinced us to try its pancakes we went in search of St. Andrews Cathedral, or rather what's left of it.
The remains were massive. What it might have looked like before it became a quarter of a shell while standing amongst the debris was unfathomable. The ruins loomed overhead, large stone structures still retaining ancient details. The grounds were littered with graves, some worn completely blank by time. The salty air and blue sky made the churchyard bright and peaceful and I found myself wandering amongst the gravestones quietly enjoying the odd timeless serenity. In the middle everything stood St. Rule's Tower and being a fan of tall things, climbing tall things, and of being in high places I decided that climbing it might be enjoyable. So my friend and bought tickets and proceeded up a feeble spiral staircase that led up to a stone staircase and another slightly more sturdy spiral staircase that deposited us onto the viewing platform at the very top of the tower. We looked out across the city and down onto the skeletal remains of a once awesome site. The sea breeze played havoc with my hair while I pointed my little phone around in a feeble attempt to capture the moment.
After making our way back down we decided to visit the castle. We shortly decided against visiting the castle as they wanted a ridiculous amount of money to visit the stuffy ruin and it didn't look all that great anyway and found ourselves instead on a small rock studded beach where we sat and watched the waves reveling in the peace and quiet . Our little party of travelers then walked over to the golf course for which the little city is known. I'm not big on golf, but I was still taken by the sight of the course. Golfers were golfing and we didn't want to run the risk of throwing off their respective grooves so we didn't stay long. We wound up back on the beach where we decided to stay for the remainder of our day. Tides are truly surprising things and the massive sea worn rocks we has explored mere hours before were completely submerged. After rolling up our jeans and kicking off our shoes we wandered up the beach, waded into the freezing water, lounged on the sandy dunes and enjoyed the fresh salt air until the sun began to fade out.
For your listening pleasure
We journeyed down onto the beach, climbed over the massive salt soaked rocks and dipped our fingers into tide pools. The sharp cold air smelled of seaweed and salt, and the water was frigid and clear. Dunes lined the back of the beach and raced away from us curling back and out of sight and the water turned a dark grey teal as it raced back to the horizon. Frothy waves rushed up the dark sand and signaled the incoming of the tide. We wandered our way across the beach and up to the sidewalk and collectively decided that finding breakfast would be a good idea. After a visit to a small pub that successfully convinced us to try its pancakes we went in search of St. Andrews Cathedral, or rather what's left of it.
The remains were massive. What it might have looked like before it became a quarter of a shell while standing amongst the debris was unfathomable. The ruins loomed overhead, large stone structures still retaining ancient details. The grounds were littered with graves, some worn completely blank by time. The salty air and blue sky made the churchyard bright and peaceful and I found myself wandering amongst the gravestones quietly enjoying the odd timeless serenity. In the middle everything stood St. Rule's Tower and being a fan of tall things, climbing tall things, and of being in high places I decided that climbing it might be enjoyable. So my friend and bought tickets and proceeded up a feeble spiral staircase that led up to a stone staircase and another slightly more sturdy spiral staircase that deposited us onto the viewing platform at the very top of the tower. We looked out across the city and down onto the skeletal remains of a once awesome site. The sea breeze played havoc with my hair while I pointed my little phone around in a feeble attempt to capture the moment.
After making our way back down we decided to visit the castle. We shortly decided against visiting the castle as they wanted a ridiculous amount of money to visit the stuffy ruin and it didn't look all that great anyway and found ourselves instead on a small rock studded beach where we sat and watched the waves reveling in the peace and quiet . Our little party of travelers then walked over to the golf course for which the little city is known. I'm not big on golf, but I was still taken by the sight of the course. Golfers were golfing and we didn't want to run the risk of throwing off their respective grooves so we didn't stay long. We wound up back on the beach where we decided to stay for the remainder of our day. Tides are truly surprising things and the massive sea worn rocks we has explored mere hours before were completely submerged. After rolling up our jeans and kicking off our shoes we wandered up the beach, waded into the freezing water, lounged on the sandy dunes and enjoyed the fresh salt air until the sun began to fade out.
For your listening pleasure
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
A Tourist in Edinburgh
If you image search Edinburgh on Google the very first picture you see is on Calton Hill, right at the end of Princess Street. I was itching to get out and play tourist so I grabbed a sidekick and cued the Indiana Jones style travel montage. Our destination was nearly an entire 2 miles from H.Q. so we set off at the crack of 1130. We journeyed all the entire stretch of Lothian Road took a right and walked to the end of Princes and viola there sat stop #1 on our grand rock and roll bagpipe fueled adventure. Calton Hill is home to a plethora of monuments, some more iconic than others, each one rife with history.
We climbed the Nelson Monument and looked down the stretch of Princes Street and over the many Edinburgh notables. Locals claim it is the greatest view of the city, I claim there are far too many stairs.
Once back on the ground we stayed to watch the ball atop the Nelson Monument give ships the time and as the echo of the one o'clock cannon faded out we started off for the castle and the royal mile. We cut through Princes Street garden, waving to Walter Scot as we passed then climbed the sheer hill to the castle. Remnants of the military tattoo still lined the courtyard and we decided that rather than try to fight our fellow tourists whilst hilariously out gunned we would return to take the castle at a later date. After donning fancy hats and procuring gold tipped walking sticks we began the walk from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace and Scottish Parliament. We popped in and out of the various shops that line the mile long stretch including, but not limited to: an antique children's literature shop, a fudge shop, a shop that sold whiskey infused honey and tartan dog collars, and multiple tourist shops each blasting its own flavor of bagpipe rock music (This just in; The Red Hot Chili Pipers actually exist in this realm... madness I know.) Due to the lateness of the hour and the rather unfortunate weight of our respective wallets we decided to forgo actually entering Holyrood that afternoon. We gathered information about the palace and the Queens Royal Gallery then perused the gift shop where you can buy a coffee mug with her majesty's face on the side and/or a tiara. Our day of soaking up the tourists life ended at Pizza Express, which is just as good as I dreamed it would be.
 |
| Calton Hill as seen from the very end bit of Princes Street |
 |
| The National Monument of Scotland, never actually finished but still grand. |
 |
| I know right? Pretty darn grand. |
 |
| Waiting for the ball to drop: 1259 |
 |
| Moments after I looked away and successfully missed the ball drop: 1300 |
 |
| Me and my trusty buffoon. |
We climbed the Nelson Monument and looked down the stretch of Princes Street and over the many Edinburgh notables. Locals claim it is the greatest view of the city, I claim there are far too many stairs.
Once back on the ground we stayed to watch the ball atop the Nelson Monument give ships the time and as the echo of the one o'clock cannon faded out we started off for the castle and the royal mile. We cut through Princes Street garden, waving to Walter Scot as we passed then climbed the sheer hill to the castle. Remnants of the military tattoo still lined the courtyard and we decided that rather than try to fight our fellow tourists whilst hilariously out gunned we would return to take the castle at a later date. After donning fancy hats and procuring gold tipped walking sticks we began the walk from Edinburgh Castle to Holyrood Palace and Scottish Parliament. We popped in and out of the various shops that line the mile long stretch including, but not limited to: an antique children's literature shop, a fudge shop, a shop that sold whiskey infused honey and tartan dog collars, and multiple tourist shops each blasting its own flavor of bagpipe rock music (This just in; The Red Hot Chili Pipers actually exist in this realm... madness I know.) Due to the lateness of the hour and the rather unfortunate weight of our respective wallets we decided to forgo actually entering Holyrood that afternoon. We gathered information about the palace and the Queens Royal Gallery then perused the gift shop where you can buy a coffee mug with her majesty's face on the side and/or a tiara. Our day of soaking up the tourists life ended at Pizza Express, which is just as good as I dreamed it would be.
 |
| Turns out you can see Calton Hill from parliament, madness. |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)