Scottish Studies, Lesson #1

After wrapping up my first week in Scotland, I'd like to share with you a few things that I have learned about this fair country and her people thus far. It would be in your best interests to take notes.

1.) Past the lips and on the hips

Fish and chips--second only to curry in popularity--is not a meal to be consumed during daylight hours. Rather, it should be reserved solely for occasions of extreme inebriation, as the grease-laden, batter-covered scrod and potatoes act as a counterweight inside the diner's stomach, thus providing sufficient stability to allow the drunk to walk home safely. Consumption at any other time will likely cause "griping bowels," as the Scots say. A roommate and I discovered these little nuggets of wisdom one night in Edinburgh and they have served us well since.

2.) "We're not so different, you and I."

For all his patriotism and nationalistic chest-thumping, the average young Scot's knowledge of his country's history is woefully inadequate. Oddly enough, I find this otherwise disconcerting fact rather comforting. I think it's because it reminds me of back home in the States.

3.) Beetroot juice cures cancer.

Right now, I'm sure you're feeling much like this:

(Believe me, my flatmates and I were equally confused.)

In every orientation session I've attended over the past week, the Scots have been painted as a warm, talkative people. And in my brief time here, I have certainly found this to be true. People stop on the street to ask from whence you hail and why you chose to visit their country; they engage you in conversation very easily and seem genuinely interested in making you feel welcome. They even freely dispense friendly advice, regardless of whether or not it's solicited.

Allow me to set the scene: Saturday night, a group of us set out for a good time at the local pub. At last call, we found the weather conditions severe enough to warrant calling a cab for the brief trip to our residences. Arriving home tired, wet, and a little tipsy, the three of us wanted nothing more than to scurry up to our flat, crank up the radiator, and snuggle into our respective twin beds. However, the cabbie had a different idea. (Mom, stop freaking out, you haven't even heard the story yet.)

Having inquired about our studies and learning that we were all science majors of one sort or another, our cabbie decides to give us the lowdown on traditional medicine versus homeopathic remedies. It seems a football mate of his was diagnosed with terminal cancer three years ago. Rather than go through some experimental chemotherapeutic procedure in a vain effort to buy a few more months, his friend went to an alternative medicine spa in Denmark where he was told that beetroot juice was the cure to what ailed him.

"And do ye ken how he's doin' today?" our cabbie asked.

"No, sir," we replied.

"Weel, he's back to playin' football wi' me four times a week! Not everything has to be so complicated as those science classes, lassies. The Chinese ha' been treatin' heidaches and fevers with herbs fer centuries, ye ken?"

I ken, indeed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to hurry to the market. I'm feeling a little peaked and need to pick up some rhino horn before the store closes.

4.) The Man, the Myth, the Legend

Contrary to popular opinion, not all Scots are hulking, brooding redheads wrapped in tartan, mending stone fences on desolate moors. (Pity, I know.) Rather, they're more likely to be slender, city-dwelling, slightly balding smokers who wear skinny jeans and sport multiple piercings. (Again, pity, I know.) Thankfully, there is a substantial minority of unbelievably attractive men, especially in Glasgow, who could level you with their eyes. These men are the reasons that coffeehouses with outdoor seating exist. [Note to the tall, dark, and handsome lad I spied on Byres Road from my perch at the Tinderbox Cafe: Yeah, I gave you the once-over. Want to make something of it? (Pretty please?)]

5.) When in Glasgow, say "pish."

A few nights ago, while walking home from a pub (no, really, we do things other than drink), my flatmates and I passed a horribly dank Underground (i.e., subway) entrance, from which waves of warm, wet air--smelling quite strongly of urine--wafted into the city streets. Being a New Orleanian and thus having limited experience with subways, I decided to don my Captain Obvious cape (one of the many embarrassing side effects of a pint of Caledonian lager):

"Ew, the Underground smells like pee," I said, to the giggles of my slightly more sober walking partners.

Now, another side effect that I often experience when imbibing is a hypersensitivity to what I say within earshot of strangers, as I have a booming voice even without the aid of liquid courage. In rapid-fire succession, a series of apologies and qualifications fly out of my mouth: "Oh my God, I hope they don't think I said Glasgow smells like pee. Because it doesn't smell like pee. Actually, it smells like curry. Edinburgh smells like pee, but Glasgow doesn't. New Orleans smells like pee, but that's only because tourists are stupid," and so on and so forth, until I was interrupted by a distinctively male voice with a thick, Scottish burr.

"Yer in Glasgow, so say 'pish'," he commanded. Flustered, I looked to my left to find two men in their mid- to late-twenties walking alongside our party. Gary, the one who spoke, repeated himself, then asked us why, of all the places we could have studied in Europe, we chose Scotland. We gave various answers, mine alluding to the rich history of the country. He looked at me blankly. (See, #2 in action.)

In any case, the moral of this roundabout story is this: When in Rome, do as the Romans, and say "pish."

Okay, class, you're dismissed for recess. Future lessons to come.

Exploits in Auld Reekie

According to my wee site meter, activity has picked up quite a bit around here. As such, allow me to apologize for being delinquent in my duties as blogmaster (or whatever the appropriate title is) these past few weeks. Hopefully this entry will steer us back on course.

On August 27, I left the Big Sleazy for the Garden State's Newark International, making a bit of a scene at Louis Armstrong International in the process. (Mom, Dad, Jen: I really miss you guys.) I spent about thirty minutes of my seven-hour layover in Newark stumbling around the sprawling Terminal C, looking rather pitiable with my airport map, trying desperately to make my way to the international concourse. Upon arrival, I bumped into a few fellow IFSA-Butler travelers, and we made quick work of the obligatory awkward introductions. Seven hours in a cramped Virgin Atlantic airbus later, we touched down in London Heathrow, then hopped a virtually empty plane to Edinburgh.

So far, everything sounds peachy keen, eh? However, those who know me and are familiar with my perceived lot in life know that things are rarely that easy for me. At baggage claim, I found that only one of my bags had made the journey from New Orleans with me (both of us, not surprisingly, looking a little worse for wear). My other bag--you know, the one containing all the essential items, i.e. my cellphone, iPod, hiking boots, etc.--was "lost in transit," according to the British Midlands baggage officer. For THREE DAYS, it was lost in transit. For THREE DAYS, I was freaking out in my bright orange, suede Reeboks (naturally, the only shoes that made it to Edinburgh with me). Did I mention it was THREE DAYS? However, there is a happy ending to this little drama. My final day in Edinburgh, my bag was deposited in my room, its appearance eliciting from me a jubilant squeak and impromptu shimmy on my bed.

Baggage troubles aside, the first week of my trip has been amazing. So, I'll stop flapping my gums for a bit and share with you the sights of Edinburgh as seen through my camera lens. Enjoy! (Remember, click on the image for a larger view.)

This is my first official view of Scotland, as seen from the coach ride on our way into the city. It all seemed very surreal to me (and, honestly, it still does) that I was finally driving past the countryside I had come to know and love through Fodor's and Lonely Planet guides.

Again, the view from the coach. I honestly didn't mean to include the stranded motorists; they just happened to make a cameo appearance in a shot of that gorgeous sky.

This here is the view from my room at the Apex International Hotel. That spire you see to the left belongs to the Highland Tolbooth Kirk, a former cathedral, which now serves as the Edinburgh Festival City Centre. It's situated at the top of the Royal Mile, just at the foot of Castle Rock, where you can also find...

...this magnificent structure, Edinburgh Castle (as seen from the front of my hotel on Grassmarket St.). This castle sits at the top of the Royal Mile, a stretch of road that terminates in Holyrood House, the Scottish royal palace. Though much of the structure was added in the 15th and 16th centuries, Edinburgh Rock--the extinct volcano on which the castle sits--has been used as a fortification since the 7th century.

The back of the castle, taken on an early morning walk through the city.

This monstrosity is the front facade of the new Scottish Parliament. Initial projections placed the building's cost at £40 million; by its completion, total expenditures exceeded £430 million. Needless to say, the Scots were displeased. (It's even fuglier in person.)

This charming structure is advertised as Mary Queen of Scots' bathhouse. When she would take her yearly bath, Mary would come here and soak in a tub filled with champagne, milk, and honey. Rumor has it that her bathwater concoction was then sold to the nobility. Just goes to show money can't buy taste.

I'll likely be pelted with tomatoes for this crack, but I simply cannot resist. Here is the National Library of Scotland under a glorious rainbow that appeared after a brief sprinkle. (Wait for it...) I guess you could call this a "Reading Rainbow." Wokka, wokka, wokka. (Please note: if this reference is lost on you, you are likely not a child of the 80s, and are thus unfamiliar with the Levar Burton PBS series of the same name.)

The front of the Highland Tolbooth Kirk, as seen walking up the Royal Mile toward Edinburgh Castle.

The city-wide view from a bridge on Princes St. The weather in Scotland has been absolutely gorgeous these past few days.

Gravestones in the kirkyard of St. Cuthbert's. Christian worship has been celebrated at the site for the past thirteen centuries. While walking through the graveyard, my group and I stumbled upon a worrisome sight...
Ahhhhhhhh! Scottish zombies!

Leaving St. Cuthbert's, we entered a large park near the shopping center of the city. Here we found this amazing view of the castle.

After our long walk and the scare with Caledonian zombies, we decided to drop by Bobby's Tavern for a wee pint...or three. Anywho, Bobby's is named for Greyfriar's Bobby, a loyal terrier who sat at his master's graveside every day for 14 years. He is now buried next to his master and immortalized in this memorial in front of the bar.

Now, before coming to Scotland, I had been told that the Scots were a friendly, fun-loving people. I was also made aware that they love their drink (after all, who doesn't?). Shortly after this picture was taken, our group was heckled by a rather inebriated young Scot who wanted to make his way into our memory books. Boy did he ever. Allow me to introduce to you...

...ASS MAN! Right-o, enough said about that one. (Though, I must admit, I was pretty stoked about my first international mooning.)

And that, rather fittingly, is the end for now, dear readers. This is but the first of likely many visits to Auld Reekie (Edinburgh, for those not in the know). Soon I'll begin work on the starts of my Glasgow experience, and trips to the Isle of Skye, Inverness, and England's Lake District are in the near future.

Bienvenue au Québec

(Note: Click the pictures for a larger view. Enjoy!)

Okay, so my adventures don't start in Québec proper, but rather at the gate for my flight to Detroit (which, to my knowledge, still sucks). While boarding, I noticed two familiar faces in line.

They were none other than Kari and Grant of Mythbusters fame. Accordingly, I made a fool of myself, asked for a picture, and they happily obliged. Kari even said goodbye to me as we deplaned in Detroit. Yeah, we're tight now.

After a three-hour delay in Detroit, we finally arrived in Québec at around 10 PM local time, and set out to explore Québec by night. Unfortunately, a lot of the captured views looked better in the daylight, but a couple from that evening were noteworthy.

Québec, North America's only walled city outside of Mexico, is divided into Old Town (further subdivided into Upper and Lower Town) and New Town. This is one of the gates in the wall surrounding Old Town, the original city.

Me and a bust of Winston Churchill. I love that man.

As I said, Québec is more photogenic by daylight. Here's the view from my hotel room:

Those would be the Parliamentary buildings for Québec Province.

The cityscape from the café in the Congrés du Québec, where the meeting was stationed. (And yes, I did actually attend some talks. Phytopathology and mycology are pretty interesting.)

This charming little street provided my first (and thus far only) experience of being labeled an ugly American.

Allow me to set the scene: One morning, after sitting through a positively riveting lecture on the host-parasite coevolution of rusts and smuts given by living phytopathology legend Dr. Franz Oberwinkler, Pete, Dr. Powell, Scott, and I embarked on a quest for breakfast. Having spied a small epicerie adjoining an equally petite boulangerie, Pete and I set our foodie heads together and picked up the makings for a classic French petit-déjeuner: a warm, crusty baguette, three buttery, fungus-cured cheeses, Ottawa plums, and dried figs. Our party of four settled on a bench on the cobbled sidewalk and broke our fast.

In the middle of the meal, an elderly man walked up to us and asked, in French, if we were tourists, asking again in English when we didn't answer right away. We indicated we were, and he asked if we were American tourists. Again, we said we were, in English. Without skipping a beat, he sneered and said, "You should make more of an effort to speak French," and hobbled off. Once he was out of earshot, Scott replied, "Why should we make an effort? You speak English." While I can understand the older man's point, I can only hope he heard Scott. After all, he approached us, sans provocation. On a brighter note, in a restaurant on our last day in Québec, an elderly couple stopped by our table to sincerely wish us, in heavily accented English, a lovely stay in their fair city.

Me, being an ass, in front of the Gare du Palais, or the Palace Train Station.

A local fruit and vegetable market near the St. Lawrence River. Pete and I stuffed ourselves silly on fresh raspberries.

Scott models the scale of the Smartcar, a European import that my mother came to know very well on her trip to the Mediterranean.



These three pictures are of Lower Town, which was inhabited by dockworkers and seamen in the city's early years. While we were there, Québec was holding a festival celebrating the founding of the province, so the streets were filled with reenactors. And yet, I somehow failed to get a picture with one of the umpteen pirates roaming the streets. (Also, note the large copper-roofed building to the left in the first picture. That is Chateau Frontenac, and that will be important later.)

Near our hotel in New Town, there was a large, lush park that, like most of the city, was chockablock full of wildflowers, compliments of the perfect 75-degree weather. (My next post will be devoted entirely to the flowers of Québec.) Above is a statue of Joan of Arc.

I'm a sucker for tree-lined paths.

While touring the park, Scott and I stumbled upon one of Canada's most feared predators: the woodchuck. Okay, so fearsome he ain't, but goshdarnit, he's cute.

The Chateau Frontenac, pictured here as seen from the park, is the city's iconic structure. Built in the nineteenth century, this massive hotel was the site of much of the planning of the Allied offensive in the Second World War. (Hence the Churchill bust earlier.)

The fortification surrounding the city features a garrison, called the Citadel, not too far from the aforementioned park. Currently an operating military base, the Citadel offers tours, but Scott and I are cheap and opted out of it. Instead, we moseyed along the top of the fortification and were rewarded with these two views of the city.

This is one of my favorite pictures from the trip. Here you see Upper Town (Chateau Frontenac and the rowhouses), Lower Town (the docks), and the St. Lawrence seaway, all from the top of the Citadel. It's even more beautiful in person.

Finally, as I have fallen in love with the delightful city of Québec, crotchety old French men and all, I have decided to relocate upon my return from Scotland. This is the house on which I have set my sights. Now it's just a matter of getting the current owners to strike a deal with a college student possessing fledgling credit and only the most rudimentary French. I think I can swing it.

Work in Progress

Well, I safely touched down in the US last Thursday and eventually made my way home to the Big Sleazy. The photoessay from lovely, lovely Canada is in the planning stages and will be posted shortly.

For the time being, I have only the following to say:

1.) Detroit sucks.

2.) I cried when driving through T-town on the way home, something that caught me completely off guard (and embarrasses me to the core).

3.) No, really. Detroit sucks.

4.) To the woman who ignored the two-hour tantrum of her profoundly autistic child, preferring instead to gab with her girlfriend on the phone: [raps her on the nose with a rolled up newspaper] Bad parent! BAD PARENT!

(Trans: Ma'am, I understand caring for a child with autism is a terrible cross to bear; however, it is YOUR cross to bear, not mine, not the flight attendants', not anyone else's. You chose to have a child and assume all responsibilities contained therein, so man up and act like a parent.)

5.) Detroit me da asco. (Trans: Detroit, it makes me sick.) I feel this bears repeating.

Moving Woes

Fifty bucks for a couple of boxes? Are you serious, U-Haul? How about I give you my right kidney as collateral so that I can get a mattress bag, too? What's that you say? That roll of moving tape will require my first born as a deposit? Thank God selling my eggs is still an option. [insert derisive snort here]

I'm experiencing a very serious time crunch. Moving day (this Friday) is looming on the horizon, and I still have so much left to do. My belongings lie in piles on my floor, waiting to be packed away in one of the aforementioned, horrendously expensive boxes. I'm completely incapable of deciding myself which boxes will go to storage here in T-town and which will be shipped back home with my father Friday afternoon. It's almost as though I don't want to decide. While I was ready to label apathy the culprit, I soon realized that nostalgia is the reason behind my dragging heels. This is my first apartment, my first place...and I'm leaving. Surely for something better, but this little shoe-box apartment has so many memories tied to it. Memories of impromptu dinner parties, movie nights, and sororal sleepovers during the summers.

Sadly, I won't even have time to mourn my first residential loss, as this Sunday I'll be shipping out to Québec for a mycology conference. [A note to my readers (all four of you): blogging will be thin over the next week or so, but I leave you with promises of a Québecois photoessay.] In addition to packing, I'm also compiling and analyzing data for my presentation, which needs to be completed by Wednesday at the latest. Anyone in the audience care to help me with my statistics? Yeah, didn't think so.

For all my complaining, I do have a few good weeks ahead of me. Dinner and final drinks with friends, some last-chance appointments with favorite professors, canoeing down the Bogue Chitto with my sister and some high-school friends. Oh yes, August will be a glorious month. Just gotta slog through the rest of July.

A Penchant for the Melodramatic

Yesterday, my fellow HHMI interns and I took a tour of several biotech companies in Huntsville, Alabama. One of the PR representatives at Operon hailed originally from Aberdeen, Scotland, a large coastal city to the northeast of Glasgow. I mentioned my impending trip abroad and jokingly asked her for any advice. Bad idea.

"Oh, you're going to Glasgow?" she replied. "You do know that's the Alabama of Scotland, eh?"

Gee thanks, lady. That's exactly what I needed to hear.


As an aside, one of my roommates from high school is getting married today. While I wish the happy couple all the success in the world, I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry.

You see, I had always thought the notion of a ticking biological clock was a silly one. Then mine started counting down. Loudly. And, for all my efforts, I can't seem to turn the damned thing off. (Mom, before you go apoplectic, rest assured that I have no plans on bringing home a bundle of joy anytime soon.) I'm just at that age where I have to start weighing my future options. Ideally, I'll hold off on having a family until I'm not only finished with my education, but also firmly established in my chosen field (which remains largely unchosen).

Regardless of my career path, I'm facing at least another five years of graduate study, placing me squarely in my late twenties before I even enter the professional job market. As a generational comparison, my parents had been employed for four years, married for two, and were about to welcome me into the world by this point in their lives. It would seem I'm a little behind schedule. Now, thanks to my biology background, I know better than the average American woman that my ovaries will not shrivel up and die the second I turn thirty. However, that doesn't change the fact that ladies are groomed to believe that spinsterhood begins at thirty-five, and that those of us unlucky enough to remain single by that point have only animal hoarding, trips to the mailbox, and becoming prominent figures of childhood lore to look forward to.

Despite the irrationality of this belief--to mention nothing of its falsity--it's a pervasive one. Which is why every wedding announcement sent to me elicits visions of being the blue-haired eremite who strikes fear into the hearts of neighborhood children as she mumbles incoherently to herself on her daily shuffle to a predictably and perpetually empty mailbox. The only thing scarier than the fact that I have actually constructed the aforementioned scenario is that I'm worried about this crap at twenty-one. (Melodrama for the win!)

These thoughts serve to highlight the importance of this upcoming trip. After all, when I'm holed up in my ramshackle cottage, eating expired sauerkraut from the can, I'll have only the memories of my youth to keep me company. Well, those and my cats.

Anticipation

It would seem this blog is off to a positively roaring start. (Sigh.)

The weeks before my departure are flying by, much to my horror. With only 53 days until my flight out of the US, I thought I'd have more time to prepare, more time to pack, more time to say goodbye. I'm finding that as D-day nears, I'm becoming increasingly ambivalent about leaving. The excitement that permeated much of this spring semester has given way to fear and doubt. What if this is a colossal waste of money? What if my Master's project, which will be pushed to the back burner for the next six months, goes belly up in my absence? What if my mother's right, and I'll be mugged/raped/murdered/sold into sex slavery the instant I set foot on Scottish soil? Surely these are all legitimate concerns.

I've also been battling the urge to wax sentimental about my time here at the University. It's certainly no secret, my complete and utter disdain for this institution. While I've met wonderful people and been offered myriad opportunities for advancement in my chosen fields of study, my success here has done little to change the fact that I'm miserable. And yet, despite my contempt for this backwards state and its equally backwards flagship university, I'll miss it. Honestly, it's a charming little slice of Americana...if you can block out 95% of the city's residents (many of whom are, admittedly, fellow college students.) Though I'm not leaving for good, as I have a semester until I earn my B.S. and another year to finish my Master's, an extended vacation will certainly be to my benefit.

My eagerness to leave behind my university does not, however, extend to my hometown. A year to the day after Hurricane Katrina destroyed New Orleans, I will be flying over the Atlantic, leaving behind a city that is still struggling to recover. Part of me welcomes this trip as a way to distance myself from the ongoing recovery effort. (Make no mistake: it is still a recovery effort.) I won't kid myself, though. I know my leaving is a feeble attempt to push the tragedy from my mind; by avoiding the city for as long as possible, I can retain the memories of my childhood. Memories of a city that, for all its poverty, debauchery, and corruption, managed to steal my heart. I'll leave with the hope that the city will see some progress in my five months abroad. It's a vain hope, really, as this past year has failed to deliver.

Here's to a kinder future, New Orleans. For now, I'll just remember you as you were.

(Photo by Jerry Lodriguss, a renown photojournalist, astrophotographer, and New Orleans native.)