Murder on the 9:37 to Stirling!

The first experience I had with the train brought me face to face with a chalk outline, a hotel straight out of a Stephen King novel, and a bunch of people who are paid to creatively kill people. Bundled up in my trench coat with shoulder bag in hand I wound my way down the damp Edinburgh streets to Haymarket Station to catch the 9:37 to Stirling. After a brief miscommunication with the thickly-accented woman at the ticket counter I proceeded ticket in hand back outside to the windy platform. When I need to be somewhere at a specific time I will do everything in my power to get there early, oftentimes to the dismay of my travel companions, therefore I had a while to sit and take in the restless hum of the travelers around me. My train screeched into the station so I found a seat by the window and settled in for the hour and 20 minute journey from Edinburgh to the heart of Scotland. Country side and suburban villages rushed by as I alternated between reading up on some of the writers I was about to see and staring out at the rush of trees and tiny houses. Due to work on the tracks the train stopped in a wee city called Falkirk where I caught a bus that brought me to Stirling and left me standing in front of the Stirling Train Station. Stirling is small and laced with Scottish charm. That morning, while cold, was crisp and sunny and a bagpiper was performing in the square, however I had no time to look around and enjoy the scenery. I passed through the city square and noticed a faded chalk outline on the corner. As I approached the faded drawing I noticed its arm was stretched above its head as if pointing at something. I looked up and found myself gazing up at the Stirling Highland Hotel looming up on top of the hill at the end of the road. At the bottom of the hill I could see quite plainly why they chose this specific hotel in this specific city to host Scotland's international crime writing festival. Tightening my jacket against the cool air I started up the hill towards Bloody Scotland.
The hotel was stunning. Large stone buildings surround a withered unruly court yard with an oxidized observatory perched at the top of on of the corner that faces the road overlooking the town. Grand arched doorways led into narrow exquisitely decorated hallways lined with floor length windows linked the antique ballrooms, cozy sitting areas, makeshift book shop, and old fashioned reception. I wandered around trying to memorize the layout as I looked for the reception area so I could collect my event tickets and marveled at how surreal my surroundings were. Old and beautiful is always the perfect setting for murder, mystery, and mayhem. My first event featured an interview with Denise Mina who spoke about writing for graphic novels and about her work adapting Stieg Larsson's Girl with the Dragon Tattoo trilogy into graphic novel format. Being a bit of a fan of graphic novels it was interesting to listen to someone who writes both crime novels and graphic novels talk about the differences in writing style and process between the two formats. I then proceeded to a talk with both Charles Cumming and Chris Morgan Jones. They spoke about their real life experiences within the world of spies and espionage as if they were talking about what they did last weekend and inadvertently made the presenter look like a quivering puddle of cowardice in a bow-tie. I left longing for my John Le Carré novels and the world of George Smiley. I grabbed a coffee and wandered around the hotel a bit more before reluctantly making my way out to the court yard and off of the grounds. My last event at Bloody Scotland and primary reason for attending the festival was in little theater standing in the shadow of the Stirling Highland Hotel. My current favorite author, Stuart MacBride, and the excellent Val McDermid were taking the stage and joining up to give a presentation entitled "The Great, the Good, and the Gory." Before the presentation began I quickly visited the bookshop set up in the theater and purchased a few MacBride's novels, including his latest Close to the Bone, justifying it by reminding myself how hard they were to find back home and that ordering them online is so much more expensive. It's bizarre seeing someone whose words you know so well in the flesh. Hearing them talk about one of your favorite characters as if they were talking about a friend they just saw the other day is surreal. I fancy myself to be a bit of a writer and have messed around with fiction on numerous, so I found myself better able to relate and understand than I thought I would. I sat for an hour enthralled at every piece of information about writing and every hilarious anecdote. Afterwards unable to help myself I followed the crowd back up to the bookshop to get my brand new copy of Close to the Bone signed by Mr. MacBride himself. As I waited in the queue I tried to come up with something clever and insightful to say but upon reaching the table my mind abandoned me and I was very proud of my meager "thank you."

Foos yer doos?

 With my back to the old hotel silhouetted against the darkening sky I started down rain soaked road lined with darkened shops and cafes to the train station. My mind was so preoccupied with trying to remember the train timetable and the new books dripping with blood and gore in my bag I never noticed the shadowed figure following me down the cobbled sidewalk.

More music!

Whiskey Buisness

The morning following the pub crawl was spent in a distillery. After waking up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed I traveled to my favorite little coffee shop to grab some caffeine and an unexpected bit of Scottish hospitality. Coffee in hand I walked to my campus in the cold morning drizzle to catch the bus to the distillery and found myself having flashbacks of field trips in middle school. The air was buzzing with the excitement of students getting ready to spend the entire day in a candy factory with guaranteed free samples at the end of the tour. I met up with a friend of mine, who was just as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I was that morning, and we boarded the charter bus and settled in. The ride from the heart of Edinburgh to Glenkinchie distillery was spent dozing and watching the lush Scottish countryside flow past in the glow of the early morning overcast. We pulled into our destination's car park and stood around in the freezing rain for a a few millennia.
The walls in the reception area and portions on the walls in the visitors area were lined with boxes and crates full of bottles of scotch. Alcohol based trivia and a distillery dollhouse were available to entertain us as we waited for the actual tour of the life sized distillery to start. I've been a bit of a fan of whiskey, especially when mixed with ginger ale,  since I acquired the legal right to consume alcohol so I was genuinely excited about learning a bit about scotch. The process of actually making scotch is far more and just as complicated as I imagined it would be. Producing anything in vast amounts sounds a bit difficult. Producing alcohol seems to be a generally complicated process. However producing something that is consumed constantly and almost exclusively for the purpose of getting a bit drunk, how sophisticated could that possibly be? At least that was what I was thinking as stood staring at very old piece of whiskey making machinery after a night of consuming quite a bit of the product once produced by said machine. I soon got my answer; It's pretty darn sophisticated. One in about seven-million things could go wrong and completely ruin an entire day's if not a few years worth of work.
We were first led to a small room with a bench and a few bottles on display in lighted cases where our guide introduced us to the distillery and went over a general history of scotch. It was riveting. She went over the basic recipe for the scotch made at Glenkinchie which was surprisingly simple; water, barley, yeast, copper pot and old barrel. After the introduction we were led from room to room, ran into a few workers, and successfully absorbed the scent of whiskey to everything we were wearing. There are several distilleries throughout Scotland, and well versed scotch connoisseurs could tell you that each one has a specific flavor unique to the area of that distillery. The "Edinburgh Malt" has been made in Glenkinchie since the 1800's and while the equipment now includes computers the process has not changed.  We saw every step of the process first hand, from the machine that grinds the barley to the big hot copper stills. Our second to last stop was to one of the barns where the scotch sits in giant old barrels for at least 12 years. The guide ran through a few of the rules distilleries must follow in order for their whiskey to legally be called scotch, one rule being that the whiskey must be aged on Scottish soil for at least 3 years.
 Finally the moment everyone had been anticipating was upon us as we were lead from the barn to Glenkinchie's bar to sample some of Edinburgh's finest scotch. My friend and I gratefully accepted our first tiny tumblers of 12 year old scotch and tried to smell all of the wonderful fruity aromas our guide insisted were there. We were then instructed to take tiny sips so none of the subtle flavors would escape our pathetic mortal palates. Exactly five drops of water were then added to the remaining scotch in our cups to enhance the flavors. We toasted George and John Rate and downed our shots like real men. Surprisingly, the whiskey tasted like whiskey. Good whiskey, but whiskey nonetheless. We were then given some of the distillery's special 22 year old whiskey that was aged in not one, but two barrels. Admittedly this scotch, while much more painful, tasted a lot better than the first. We smelled it, tasted it, had some water added, toasted John Napier and finished off our glasses before slamming them down and demanding another round. I gave myself a pat on the back for being able to taste the difference between the two and smiled smugly to myself, despite the fact that to me it still smelled surprisingly like whiskey and whiskey alone.

Behold! The Malt of Edinburgh!

I treated myself to a small bottle of Glenkinchie's cheapest finest in the distillery gift shop before wandering back to the bus to snooze my way back to the city. Despite my being a little worse for wear I thoroughly enjoyed the trip and look forward to doing it again. There certainly is no shortage of distilleries around here and I would like to visit as many of them as possible, after all Scotland is famous for it's scotch so it would be quite silly of me to not sample as much of it as I can.

The theme for the day

Terror in the Tavern!

The university I am currently visiting offers incoming and returning students a large list of activities and in turn the opportunity to party like it's 1923 during the entire first week of the semester. Mayhem? Perhaps. Two of the activities in which I partook included a ghost tour and a good old fashioned pub crawl. Some of the things I moderately enjoy in this world are ghosts and spirits. And with an incredible student discount I downright love them.

The day of the ghost tour I made my way to the famous stretch of road between Edinburgh Castle and Holyrood Palace known to tourists and other non-natives as The Royal Mile, only getting lost once after arriving at my intended location. I met up with some of the people I had become acquainted with over the course of the week and at precisely 3 o'clock a woman in a cape showed up and escorted us all into a dark side-alley. The tour was broken up into 2 parts: the above ground part and the below ground part. During our time on the surface we were guided around and told several very disgusting things about the Scotsmen and Scotswoman of old. We were told of their very hygienic habit of throwing their toilet waste out onto the street at specific times of the day, which consequently gave us a very rude term for describing someone who is intoxicated. Another interesting tidbit we picked up was that women would attend executions and attempt to catch the blood of the recently headless on their hankerchifs in the name of fashion. Additonaly and rather Surprisingly John Knox, the founder of Presbyterianism, is buried underneath spot 23 of a government car park. After concluding the above ground portion of the tour we were herded into yet another dark alleyway by our caped tour guide then filed up some awkwardly steep stairs and into a very small and dark room filled with tourture devices. Our guide described the purpose of each terrible tool in gory detail, reaffirming the fact that our ancestors were horrible people. One device was made to melt a woman's face off, another was designed to coax a rat to use your stomach to recreate The Great Escape. After our guide was absolutely positive we were all comfortable she led us down into the potential set of a horror movie. Under the streets of Edinburgh there exist a system of stereotypically awful tunnels that had once been the homes and final resting places of the illegally homeless. We were treated to stories of witches, ghosts, and people being cooked alive in dripping rooms lit by very creepy green safety lights. In the final room, which regrettably did not have a safety light, our wonderful guide finished yet another gruesome story and switched off her flashlight, prompting someone to pull out their iPhone as a replacement. Back in the light of day we were directed to the nearby student bar to recover our nerves.

Because of a certain recent film I have been as of late particularly keen on pub crawls, so I jumped at the chance to participate and be introduced to several of Edinburgh's finest pubs. This crawl was littered with youths who very recently acquired the legal right to partake in alcoholic substances, therefore it was particularly entertaining. I ventured to the first pub accompanied by a large group of my fellow patriots, a couple of Germans, and a guy from Australia, via bus. Upon reaching our destination we signed in and were gifted with matching blue t-shirts and encouraged to enjoy a bit of beer before being hurried to the next pub by 2 people who were hired to make us party. Over the course of the evening we visited a collection of 6 pubs and clubs where we shared deep intellectual discussion and amusing anecdotes all in the name of a pleasent night out. We met up with friends we already knew, met people from all over the world, made new friends, and listend to a dubstep version of AC/DC's "Thunderstruck." There was foosball, dancing, laughing, drinking, and at one point an Irish house band playing "Play that Funky Music" surprisingly well. We overtook each venue in a wave of blue t-shirt wearing alcohol fuled energy for America. As we eventually made our way back to our respective flats in arrow-straight lines I was hit with the realization that I was having what could only be described as a really good time and had been having what could only be described as a really good time pretty much since I arrived. Before I left home I kept referring to my adventures in the UK as a sort of coming of age experience, and so far it's going really, really well.


PARTY MUSIC! 

Home Alone

I recently had my first real bout of homesickness. My usual method for dealing with any sort of unpleasant emotion usually involves a good cup of coffee and a Netflix marathon. However, because I am currently in the lovely United Kingdom I do not have access to American Netflix and consequently several of my favorite comfort shows. It's funny how important the stupid little things like that become when you find yourself thousands of miles from home. I felt so out of place, alien on my own planet, in a place so similar to yet so overwhelmingly different from everything I knew. The feeling of actually being the last person on earth mixed with a feeling similar to getting lost on your way home and it was all far much more than I wanted to deal with. Despite it being roughly 7 a.m. back on the east coast and without any sort of signal from me, home called. My mom, dad and sister reminded me exactly where I was while I felt lost. That I'm only far away, not gone. The long familiar conversations that ensued proved to be exactly what I needed to get back up and enjoy being in the unfamiliar old world that unfolded itself outside my window. Eventually we hung up and I found myself alone in my room again. I reopened Netflix UK and found something new to watch curled up in my brother's sweatshirt and enjoyed every minute of it. 

http://www.thisismyjam.com/combsoftheyard

Master of the Mountain

A few days ago my flatmate and I decided over soup and coffee that we needed to climb Arthur's Seat. I can see the hill of legend rising up over the city from my flat, it's beautiful but misleading. It's a lot further a lot higher and a lot steeper than it looks from my desk. So, five miles and a couple hundred feet later we found ourselves out of breath and trying to take in a breath taking view as all of Edinburgh was laid out at our feet. I brought my camera along for the ride and pointed it in random directions hoping to capture some of the feeling of being literally on top of the- Scotland.

All hail the king.

You can see my flat from here.

It may have been a bit breezy.

The view from my flat.

We started our quest at a small cafe near our flat and walked in the general direction of Arthur's Seat until we stumbled upon the beginning of the path that we hoped led to the top. A series of steep rocky stairs wound its way up the side of the hill and we huffed and puffed our way up pausing occasionally to turn around and look at the increasingly spectacular view. After shedding our jackets and coming to the shocking realization that neither of us were in very good shape we reached a flat grassy plain that offered us a bit of a chance to relax before tackling the final flight of awkward and uneven stairs to highest point. The wind picked up and threatened to throw us over the edge but we forced our jackets back on, kept calm and carried on. Words could not properly express the view from the top, the city stretched out below us in every direction surrounded by green rolling hills and misty water. We sat and gawked at the scenery trying to soak up as much of it as we could. We found a significantly easier path back down through ancient green landscape and worked our way back down. By the end of the day we were both tired, sore, and a little wistful. That was my first journey up Arthur's Seat and my first adventure in the beautiful city of Edinburgh, but definitely not the last.

Ooo look, music!

And Here We Go.

Goodbye wasn't as hard as I had anticipated. At the time it hadn't sunk in that it was the goodbye. My mom, my sister and I left the house at about 8:30 and grabbed pumpkin spice lattes from the airport Starbucks, met up with one of my closest friends and waited for the inevitable. Time moves in strange ways when you're hesitantly excited. We hugged, we laughed, and then I watched everyone disappear behind a window as I rode the tram away from familiarity.  I didn't have to wait very long to board for New York and the flight was entirely uneventful, until we touched down. While waiting out on the tarmac the sun, still beating summer onto the city, caught the colors of the clothes of my fellow passengers and inadvertently threw streaks of blue and red up on the white walls reminding me that, in case I had forgotten, Paris came next. I didn't get to see the skyline save for a glimpse I caught while taking the train between terminals and I didnt get to grab another pumpkin spice latte after stumbling my way through security and to the next gate. My time at JFK flew by and left me very little time to do any of the last minute things I wanted to do. If I were a better writer I could probably describe the feeling of seeing your country fade away beneath the clouds. It's weird, but I could probably get used to the rush. French air line food tastes really good when you haven't eaten anything for roughly 12 hours, and coffee smells incredible when you're rushing away from everything you know at a land speed of 800mph. Sunsets at 39000 ft. are pretty spectacular and when your over the Atlantic stars are a lot easier to see. Paris is six hours ahead of Tampa, meaning that my 5:30 arrival time felt more like 11:30 and I couldn't sleep at all. I watched the The Office in French while I tried to will my body into being tired and to drown out the sounds of the baby a few rows up that seemed to cry every 47 minutes. They pointed the plane towards the second star and flew straight into morning. Trying to navigate through security can be tricky, trying to navigate through security in French is very tricky. I tried to use all of the speaking around me to summon incredible French language abilities but after a 7 hour flight that just won't work. Nevertheless I navigated my way up and down escalators and past several closed coffee stands to the bus stop to catch the tram that would take me to a tiny plane. I decided that I would sleep on the 1 and a half hour flight from Paris to Edinburgh but adrenaline began pumping and the little old French woman next to me wouldn't stop coughing in a very high pitched way. We passed over a rocky shore, a field of sheep, an old castle like church and I had arrived. After I grabbed my bags from the carousel and exchanged my cash the fact that I had been awake for nearly 24 hours caught up with me. I wandered back and fourth through baggage claim trying to figure out how to get out before asking a very gruff security officer how to escape. I found a small table in the airport coffee shop and listened to the people around me carrying on normal conversations as my life got flip-turned upside-down. Getting a cab was shockingly simple and I found out I had been mispronouncing the name of the campus I had to go to. My cabbie was friendly with a strong accent and carried my bag up the stairs to the building where I needed to check in. Serendipity had me waiting in line next to girl who lived in the same block of flats as me and we shared a cab to our new homes. Unpacking was interrupted by an impromptu nap which was followed by Netflix and Skype sessions with home. Luck bestowed upon me some very friendly flatmates and a gorgeous view of Arthur's Seat and of the city surrounding me to counteract the extreme jetlag. My all-American flatmates and I visited the next door tavern, which just so happened to be older than our country, to grab some fish and chips and conversation before returning to our rooms to finally get some well deserved sleep. So much has already happened since i arrived and I have so much more to look forward to. My adventure has officially begun. 

Musical accomptment for my entries can be found here:  

http://www.thisismyjam.com/combsoftheyard/_6ofjenc 

That's pretty cool, right?