Back to Edinburgh

Friday in Edinburgh in which we ...

... revisit St. Giles

... enjoy lunch al fresco

... and wander the darkened streets

(guess the mystery food to the right for bonus points!)

The goal for today is to get out early and get going. It is my last day in Scotland, and I am eager to get back to Edinburgh. It is a lovely city – ancient to its bones. Rowan and I get out early enough and this time we are not hampered by bags or suitcases and are a little fleeter of foot. We have a quick breakfast and get on the bus to town. Once again, we are taking the train in. This is the station at Dundee.

We are going to have to wait for the train, and we look over the newspapers, as I hope to take back some suitably trashy ones for my daughter. She does love a good low-brow magazine – but I am still taken a little bit aback by the page three girls. We avoid those with page three girls. I decided to get the reading material on the way back so that I don’t have to haul it all around Edinburgh.

This is the view looking back at the stairs as you come into the station. What I notice, from an American point of view, is the very small-town feel. It is not what you would expect from a largish city in the US -- but I very much like it.

We get seats and it is slightly less freezing inside. You can see the glow from what I think might be a heater there on the right. If it is a heater, the warmth must be nestled against the ceiling, as it is quite bracing at the seat level.

I observe the sort of art-deco curves and look for a good architectural angle. I liked the colors – red, black, and ivory. There are little wires (to discourage birds from perching, I think) and it takes me a while to get a picture that does not look like a porcupine. In doing this, I lose my seat and we have to spend the rest of the wait on our feet. Rowan is sort of glowering at me, but I put on a “what?” face and keep taking pictures. I try to occupy myself by observing and not looking completely like a tourist. Fat chance, I would say, as the local folks watch me – I have the impression that they are watching out of boredom, not any real interest. They are probably trying to conserve body heat.

This is the first time that we have had to wait for a train, but at least we were able to get to the platform with no difficulty (the first time we tried this, we ended up on the wrong platform and almost missed the train. The train is coming in about twenty minutes and we alternate between inside (with no seats) and outside (freezing metal benches). You can see Rowan heading off determinedly for a bench. I time it to see how long I can tolerate the metal benches and find that about thirty seconds into a session my hinder is just about frozen. There is time to get a cup of coffee in the little kiosk in the station, and (sorry to say) the only thing that really recommended it was that it was hot. I think that people in the UK do not generally put half and half in their coffee, and I have to ask for some milk for mine. The long-suffering clerk rummages around and finds a little pint. The cup keeps my hands warm and I can feel it going down. Once outside, I spy a used newspaper and offer half to Rowan. I sat on mine, recalling all of my reading about survival in extreme weather conditions, where they tell you to stuff newspapers in your clothes for insulation.

For some reason, we are able to get really nice seats -- I think that we were sitting in first class or something, but we ask and given permission to sit there. We are comfy and settle back for the ride. I watch the River Tay recede into the distance for the last time.

The countryside is now familiar to me. I feel a little nostalgic, knowing that this is the last time I will see it, at least on this trip. When we come back, it will be dark. I know that you have seen some of these views before, but it is still nice to see the lovely scenery as we go by. I am trying to archive as much as I can, as it will be bare and brown at home.

I don't know why I like this shot, but I do. The gentleman does not look especially Scottish, as far as I can say (and I am not sure what that would look like anyway). I just liked his face. He looks like an apparition, floating disembodied .



Once again, we come across the Firth of Forth, and I think that I actually get a nice shot this time.



There are two bridges, one for the train and one for cars.



This is the first time that I realize that we are going along the backside of the airport. It looks small. I will be flying out of here tomorrow, and I feel a little impatience to be home.



At Haymarket ...



And to Waverly Station.

Rowan writes:

Friday is to be the last day of our Stravaig. I capitalize it, because it has been capital, and in capitals. This is nicely metaphysical. We are going back to Edinburgh before Bob leaves tomorrow. She is keen to revisit St Giles, as am I, and to explore the city further.

It is a bitterly cold day – I feel parts of me which don’t normally complain about the weather making their presence felt and threatening to break off in the sudden drop in temperature. Waverley station is a very cold place. We spot a Costa’s Coffee outlet and I get a nice hot cappuccino to go. Bob isn’t overly keen on it, but it is at least warm.



Bob says:
We alight and decide to go to the Christmas market first and then to Cockburn street up to St. Giles.

Rowan writes:

Our first stop is the Christmas market, which is still stretched out along the rim of Princes street gardens like the mulberry frill on a Christmas cake, brimming with little favours and garnished with a rich smell of rum punch, bratwurst and bratkartoffeln. Sausage and fried potatoes just does not sound as good.

The Italians the French…heck, even the Germans have a bold syntactical context for the wares they are expediting and exporting to us. The sturdy no-nonsense German monikers uphold and reflect the staunch solidity of the heartwarming snacks on offer on the little stalls. I am kind of keen to eat a bratwurst, and to buy a portion of bratkartoffeln in a little white paper carton. The reason I don’t is because the combination of smells is slightly odd, frying meat mixed with the cloying fumes of the punch, and because I am shy of asking for some, and because Bob doesn’t seem tempted, and I don’t want to mention being in need of comestible intake before she does. Goodness knows why. Perhaps because every hundred yards would elicit a sitty-doon carb–fest, if the itinerary were up to the little greed pixie jumping up and down on my shoulder and pouring sweet nothings into my ever receptive ear. I buy a sneaky bar of tablet, which is a sort of hardish Scottish fudge and the best pancreas workout know to woman after Edinburgh rock. For some strange reason, it doesn’t seem to have the same appeal to men.

We wander up and down on the bouncy rubber matting which acts as a walkway between the stalls and examine the wares. There are a couple of booths selling celtic crosses and Bob wants one for her birthday. I am attracted by the work of a chatty jewellery maker who has some very detailed and pretty little crosses on her stall. Choosing takes a little thought, and she chats on as we hum and haw over which particular cross would be most suitable. Bob finds a lovely little cross for herself. They come in little crinkly bags which I am coveting, but which I know would just end up stuffed in one of my “drawers of doom.” I am very tempted to buy one, but am afflicted by a sudden tsunami of mean-ness or justifiable austerity and resist. I am the sort of person that has to walk around the thing I am deciding to buy at least three times, hop from foot to foot and generally dither so much that the salesperson starts to think they have a nut job on their hands. Making quick decisions would not be a talent I could honestly inscribe on a curriculum vitae.

Bob says:

Cockburn Street wends its way up to the Royal Mile and is full of interesting little shops. Rowan sees one place that she used to buy hippie-ish type togs at – it is now a trendy shop filled with tartan minis and fishnet stockings. I could probably wear a shirt as an arm warmer. It is trash pick-up day and that is why there are bags of trash out. Edinburgh is sparkling clean.

It looks medieval, doesn't it?

We stop in a little antique shop that Rowan remembers from years ago. I sort through a pile of old coins, finding sixpences and some shillings and florins. And a half-crown. I know that my husband will like these and get him and the kids a nice assortment.



I liked the round corner on this building as we walked up the street.



If you do not remember, St. Giles' Catheral is about 900 years old, and it a working parish church of the Church of Scotland. I like that they still have services there. St. Giles was the patron saint of lepers and cripples. Technically, it is not a cathedral at all, but a high kirk. The oldest parts of the building (including the massive internal pillars) date back to 1120 or 1130, depending on what you read. Last time, we came in the back entrance, and this time we walked around the building and found the proper entrance. There is a neat bookstore and gift shop that we decide to look through later. For a pound, you buy a little sticker that allows you to take unlimited pictures.

Caveat number one: I am going to say that my pictures do not in any way do justice to their subject. The interior is just breathtaking.

Caveat number two: I was going to not show the videos that I took, because I am embarrassed at how bad they are. They are realllllyyy bad. I was going to try to justify why they came out so bad, but words fail me. I will explain the problem. I held the camera wrong and everything is pretty much sideways. I don't know what to say. If you want to watch them, turn your head or your monitor. I am sorry that I am a complete idiot. If you get vertigo, skip them... Now back to the stravaig.

Rowan writes:

After exploring the market, we head towards St Giles. The light is wonderful today – we have really done the right thing in coming back during the brighter part of the day.

The interior is still hushed, shadowy and solemn,

but the stained-glass windows are glorious and are backlit and breathtaking.

Entering St Giles is like entering the mouth of a vast cave, full of unexpected carvings,

heavily ornate,

but as natural as stalagmites worn into complex whorls by aeons of subterranean raindrops.

It is intricately Gothic,

but as perfect as an outsized redwood tree in expressing its purpose by the very nature of its existence. Powerful, organic, unique.

We spend a long time admiring the beauty of the windows,

the carved buttresses and friezes, and just listening to our footfalls, and offering up quiet prayers.

Bob says:
Here are some of the shots of the interior, in no particular order.

This is a little closer view so that you can see the detail a little better.





This window looked almost monochrome, but the colors were beautiful -- that rich crimson that is so deep that you expect your fingers to come away wet after touching it.



Again, I wish that I could know the history behind each carving and nook.



Here are just a few examples of the stained glass windows. This is just a hint of the beauty of the real thing. It was rather dark in the sanctuary.

Rowan writes:

The organist begins to play, and the music swells and fills the cathedral.

It is a real treat, and very moving. I notice a little nook where people can come and light candles and pray, the flames are flickering golden in the soft gloom of the little alcove, and I stop and light six candles and pray for a little child who went to God six years ago that very day.

Bob says:

Rowan and I have drifted apart. I stop and light candles for my children and pray for them, and for Rowan's two. The blaze of the candles in the dim interior is a powerful image, and I am reminded of the Light of the World.

I am very grateful for my children. They are healthy and happy, and I do not take them for granted. Each is an undeniable presence in the world. But in a place like this, you are struck by the idea of time and that your own time on this earth is limited. Even as I light the candles, I am aware of time passing, and have a glimpse of the fact that my children may have children, and so one, stretching down the years. I will be a memory, perhaps a piece of family history, after my time is passed. This building, in some form, has been around for twenty of my lifetimes. I feel a little like a candle -- briefly flaring bright.

A young Scandinavian couple stop and light candles and stand in silence for a moment. I wonder what they are praying for.

We have been in St. Giles' for a couple of hours. I catch a glimpse of Rowan, sitting quietly. This picture was originally very dark, but I lightened it a little so that you could see the details in the stone walls.

I wander around and try to get a couple of other shots, as we will be leaving soon.

This is a picture of the pulpit (I think). I am struck again by how different this is from any church I have ever been in. I think of my pastor who often sits on a stool at the front of the church with nothing but a book stand for his Bible.

It is different here. What I am seeing was meant to endure. That is probably one of the largest differences between this place and other places that I have been. This is a place that intended to stand and to be a testament. I don't think that churches in the US are meant to stand for a hundred years. They are comfortable and efficient and welcoming, but they have no presence.

This place does. It is solemn, but not somber. There is a stern, soaring beauty here.

As most of the old churches that I have seen, this is a place for remembrance. The interior walls are covered with plaques commemorating those who have passed away.

I liked this memorial to the Marquess of Argyll.

The inscription reads:

“Archibald Campbell, Marquess of Argyll. Beheaded near this Cathedral AD 1661. Leader in Council and in Field for the reformed religion.

“I set the Crown on the King’s Head. He hastens me to a better Crown than his own.”

.

This is the floor. The colors are strikingly different than those in the rest of the cathedral

This bronze of Robert Louis Stevenson is seven feet by seven feet. Amazing.

Here is another alcove that I wandered into.

It was lovely in this one. There was a chest under the carving and I had to stop myself from opening the drawers. That would have been a bit hard to explain when all of the alarms went off.

I do love stained glass windows (as you probably have guessed), and it is so sumptuous that I think that I am glutted.

It should be overwhelming, but, curiously, it is not. Perhaps because each glorious whole is made up of smaller and smaller details that are more comprehensible. I feel a little dazed and drunk by now, and I turn around to look where I have been walking, half-expecting to see little smears of cobalt, emerald, and crimson for footprints.

Rowan says:

We drift into the gift shop and admire the beautiful pieces on display. The shop is staffed by cheerful and knowledgeable elderly ladies, answering questions about the wares, but not otherwise interfering in our browse. They have a lovely range of Icons, and I stand for some time, transfixed by the paintings, the colours and expressions, swithering over which ones to choose. Finally, I make up my mind, and Bob is looking at the heavy facsimiles of Celtic crosses stacked in a nook close to the shelf of glistening icons in their livery of gold, red and blue. We examine them closely – the choice is difficult, but she makes it with a very dignified lack of dithering.

Bob says:

I wanted to get something for my in-laws and this was the place to be. I found what I was looking for. Rowan and I carefully evaluated each cross and statue until I found the right one. I wanted to get Rowan a book on the stained glass windows and shooed her out of the gift shop. I told her to meet me outside. She was a bit slow to be shooed, and the gift shop ladies clearly had little experience in people trying to surprise other people, because they were not at all surreptitious. At all. Anyway, I made my purchases and went out to find Rowan.

She was not there. Don't ask me where she went, but she was not there. I say this, not to embarrass her, but to note just how quickly one can go from a state of exaltation to utter irritation. I walked out of the cathedral, fully expecting to find Rowan. I did not. I looked around the side of the building ...

... taking a moment to enjoy the architecture.

And then I go back to the entrance.

And then I walked down the street, wondering if she went to the other end of the building by mistake. She is not there.

I walk back.

And take a picture of these neat bricks set in the sidewalk. The dates are 1610, 1386, 1430.

And look back at the entrance. She is still not there. I am baffled as to where she could have gone. I clearly said "I'll meet you outside". I could feel myself getting irritated. And maybe a little worried.

So, I walk back down the street, admiring the light and the shadow against the buildings across the way. After longer than you want to know, I finally found her. I can't remember where she was, which is pretty funny. Suffice it to say, that it took numerous trips in and out of the gift shop and cathedral and around the building a couple of times. I was so relieved to finally find her that I did not throttle her. Or even scold her -- I might have muttered a bit, though.

Rowan writes:

We are in need of lunch, and Bob is keen to experiment with some more of our traditional artery-hardening foodstuffs. The stravaig back to the fish and chip shop we visited on Wednesday is a short one, and we are met by the familiar heady aroma of forbidden and glorious foods.

Golden battered fillets of haddock line up alongside white puddings, battered sausages and black puddings, portions of haggis, pakora and da – da- duuum…the piece de resistance to be named in hushed tones, or only partly alluded to in darkened rooms …the deep fried Mars Bar.

I have never eaten one, though some folks must – it is a sort of ironic backlash food, a Scottish, “Aye, right so you want healthy eatin? Ah’ll gie ye healthy eatin’.” The outcome is as dangerous as the attitude which hove it into being. The deep-fried Mars Bar. Its fame has gone before it. It may not have physically bobbed over the teeming waters of the Atlantic ocean, but its reputation has clearly arrived.

When we place our large order of pakora, haggis and fish and chips and white pudding (for research samplage only :D) the fryer does not bat an eye, but we stop him dead in his tracks by mention of the BIG one. The other customers exchange knowing looks with solemn faces in a sort of awed silence. I feel as if we had ordered fugu, and are about to risk all in the skill of the chef, paring away the poisoned bits and giving us our platter of harmless pufferfish. The Deep Fried Mars Bar….we have stepped up to the tape.

The strapping frying fellow unwraps a Mars bar, dips it in batter and drops it into the boiling fat. I make some sort of insubstantial allusion to Bob about it being Scots version of baked Alaska. When done, he lifts the offering on a big wire spoon, and sets it in its traditional wrappings of greasproof paper, then newspaper. We pay, and leave the shop, clutching out warm offerings and looking for a place to sit and sample them. We sit and inspect the goodies whilst looking down a steep narrow pend, winding deep into the heart of unexplored Edinburgh.

It is fairly cold – the air is still, and the aroma of yummy fried fare coils into the air before us. We dig into our haggis first – it tastes okay, but it is not like the haggis you would have served in a restaurant, or buy to cook at home – that would have a crumbly texture. The deep-fried haggis in batter is a sort of squooshed and concentrated billiard ball, reminiscent of haggis, but not quite. I am hoping Bob will suspend judgement on haggis, kooked as it is in this aberrant manner. I have mis-spelt cooked, but the typo somehow is somehow fitting.

The other wares are yummy enough representations of their genres, until we come to the white pudding.

I turn with a little trepidation to my white pudding supper. I have been caught-out before, in Edinburgh, with this wonderfully hot and hearty Scottish fare. White pudding suppers, or mealie puddings, as they are more colloquially named, will nestle in their wad of newspaper, giving off the most heart–meltingly awesome aroma. White pudding suppers are irresistible, or they ought to be. They ought to be fragrant golden sausages of deep fried oatmeal and onions, covered in a chewy batter, augmentable with vinegar and brown sauce. Whoo hoo! White pudding suppers are the urban Scots antidote to all known ills, as they stop you feeling anything. As Pink Floyd would say, we “have become comfort-bly numb” as they just weigh a person down so much. A quick antidote to daily stresses. A guaranteed ‘cheer-me-up’.

Like all cheer-me-ups, though, prescribed or otherwise, they have discernible side effects. Pop – there goes my jeans button. Oww – my left arm hurts. White pudding suppers are representative of the “live now, die just a wee bit later” Scottish response to life which sends governments into huge amounts of spending on prophylactic health advertising. They wonder why nobody listens, and the Coronary Care wards are still overflowing. They should just eat one and see. A white pudding may take a year off your life, but it is worth it.

Nevertheless, the Edinburgh council may have unintentionally hit upon the answer. The fish n’ chip shops of Edinburgh use ( da da duuum) pearl barley instead of oatmeal. Pearl barley! (Leans against wall and waits for the blackness to subside.) Barley is for soup. Pearl barley is gloopy and slimy, and there is a ‘cod-eye convention’ quality to the white pudding I am dis-chuffedly munching. I am eating it, but I am not happy. I am wishing I had a REAL white pudding for Bob to try, and me too…I would only have given her a small piece (glances selfishly about and hides imaginary mealie pudding under coat.)

Bob says:

We walked down the street to get lunch. We walked into the same shop we went to last week and ordered a veritable feast. Rowan was nervous when I started taking pictures, as she was sure that the owners would think that we were from the Health Department (but I think that she said the Health Ministry or something Scottish like that). I am fine with people thinking that I am from the Health Department. It improves the chance that someone, somewhere, will wash their hands.

The long thingies in the front are white puddings and there are black puddings right behind them. And I don't think that you want to know what is in a black pudding. I sure didn't. In case you cannot read the back row, from left to right are deep fried chicken fillets, chop steak, kingrib and, oh there are deep-fried cheeseburgers. I did not want to even ask. The squarish things to the extreme right are haggis. Deep-fried haggis is so amazingly stereotypically Scottish, that I must try one. I get lovely fish and chips and the appropriate amount of salt and vinegar are added. The counter-guy sprinkles on some salt, pauses and waits for me to signal him to stop. I don't and he keeps shaking. Mmmm ... perfect.

We walk down the street, bags steaming gently in the afternoon air, as the shop has no seating, except for some metal chairs stacked against the wall. We find a lamppost with a cement base that is big enough for us to sit at. Rowan unwraps the haggis and ceremoniously breaks it in half.

She offers me half.

I take a bite.

It is interesting, I would say. Meaty and a little starchy from the oatmeal. Some onions. Nice. Not great. Not bad. I would eat it again. It could grow on me. But the fish and chips are great. Salty and vinegary. The chips are yummy, too. Mmmmm.

Inexplicably, Rowan has brought along small plastic cups and a diet coke from home. I had looked at her askance earlier, but it turns out to be just the ticket. She pours us each a little in our plastic children's mugs.

As we lunch, we look down the other side of the street. It is peculiarly pleasant, sitting on a city street, eating food that is probably really bad for us, sharing a soda and watching the world go by.

I finish my fish, but not the chips, because Rowan has broken out the chicken pakora. (Red is nature's way of saying, "Hot!")

Mmmmm. Chicken pakora ...

This is a picture of our picnic table.

Okay, now what you don't know is that Rowan gave me more than one hard look when I said that I was getting a deep-fried mars bar. I told her that it was not negotiable, because the first thing that my 13-year-old son was going to ask me was, "Did you eat a deep-fried mars bar?" And I was going to have to 'splain myself if I had not. Rowan did not find it funny. I did. She was torn between long-suffering and a sense of national insult -- sort of miffed that Scots cuisine has been reduced to a food that most of them would not touch with a ten-foot-pole.

Note the cute little fork. Not sure exactly what to use it for, but it is cute.

Cheers!!

Okay, you ask what it is like. Hot. Melty. Good. Not to die for, but exactly how far wrong can you go with deep-fried anything, particularly chocolate? An adventure, if nothing else, and a fitting end to a lamppost picnic. As I bite into it, there are no almonds, which reminds me that Mars bars in Scotland are more like Milky Ways than the ones here.



We set off again, just wandering around, trying to burn off a calorie or two.



You can see the sun setting against the buildings.

Rowan writes:

After eating, we ponder what to go on and explore. Time is marching on. There is an interesting looking charity-shop on the Royal Mile behind us, and we wachle across the road to have a closer look. I love charity shops, and find it physically painful to pass one without going in. Guess that makes me some sort of sad second-hand clothes addict. Rarely wear the product of my forays, but sometimes, one strikes gold. Yep – intermittent reinforcement – the chance of striking gold – I have been sucked into the maelstrom of the charity shop casino, and am compelled to gambol in for a gamble. I have a strong boot vibe come upon me. My boot radar is going off loudly, and I know Bob is after a pair.

It is an expensive charity shop. I see a nice embroidered Cherokee denim skirt, and go try it on. It is too big, but I am still going to buy it, cos there is always the strong chance that I am going to put on weight and fit it properly. Bob takes a pragmatic view of proceedings and tells me it is too big and to save my £4.50 for something I am not just going to chuck into my wardrobe of the unworn.

Bob sees a few interesting items. Like me, she seems to have an eye for the good things in such places. She spots a very nice military beret for her teenage son, and then comes over to inspect a great pair of caterpillar ankle boots on the shoe shelf. She tries them on and they fit her very well and are very edgy. They cost heaps new, so I am chuffed. Bob whips out her camera and photographs the boots on her feet, before taking them to the counter to pay. I am smiling at her efficiency, and can see the picture in my mind’s eye. I resolve to get a new digital camera and become equally photo-happenin.

Outside, it is becoming gloamy.

It is after four o’clock already, and our chances of making it to Holyrood Palace are growing ever slimmer. I feel increasingly guilty that Bob has not had the opportunity to visit the historic site, but then, I am pretty sure I haven’t been round the palace either. Think I went once as a student but was put off by the entry fee. Bob has picked up a leaflet in the charity shop detailing a “charity shop trail” where you can do a sort of second-hand clothes crawl around the Royal mile.

Bob says:

As we walk, we see John Knox's house, and I have one of those moments when history hits you right in the noggin. It just sort of sinks in -- this is where John Knox lived. My husband would be thrilled to see this, and I take a picture, just for him.

And a little more closely so that you can see what it says.



And the corner of the building. It is lovely.



We walk a little more and I pick up some souvenirs for my co-workers and a scarf for my husband at one of the many little shops along the Royal Mile. Rowan considers some shortbread for a Certain Monkbot. I have actually taken care of everyone on my list. As we near the end of the street, I catch a glimpse of Holyrood Palace. I will get there next time, but it is out of reach for tonight.



There are little alleyways off the the main drag. They are very narrow, and I cannot help but think of how old they are. Um ... I think that they are called pends. Or closes. I thought that it said North Gray's Close, but I think it is Cray, not Gray. On further consideration, it would have said Grey, not Gray. (Sorry, Gray!, but I did think of you.)



I had to look this up, but a pend is an arch and an alley is a close. This is the sign over a close -- note the pend!



The streets are getting dark, and we are going to walk up toward, I think, Nicholson Street (is that right, Rowan?).

Rowan writes:

We can do the charity shops, or do a mad schlep to catch the last half-hour of Holyrood Palace, before it closes. I am hoping for the shops. I know Bob will be hoping for the palace. There is sooo little time. It is one of those moments in life when you are faced with a choice and come to the realization that the person who lets you choose is actually far nicer than you are. Shops it is. Bob has come 3000 miles, and I am taking her on a second-hand clothes crawl, instead of the lovely old palace. (Should I delete the word lovely? It is only making me feel more guilty. Ugly. It is an ugly old eyesore and blot on the landscape. Now I feel worse, for telling such a whopper.)

Well, at least the foostie old clothes are Scottish. We schlep at a fast pace along vaguely familiar streets, popping in and out of little musty shops, but seeing nothing as nice as in the first one, which was well-stocked and nicely set-out. The others are a bit, well, shoddy and sad.

Bob says:
As we walk along, I see this great building. I ran across the street and ducked in. I just liked it. As I walked into the doorway, I was stopped in my tracks. I came out and asked Rowan and she said that we were at the University.

I was at the University of Edinburgh.

Maybe because I have spent so much time at school, I have an affinity for such places. I wonder what it would be like to study at such an ancient site.

I don't know why the door way was green, but it looked really neat.

This is the view that I saw as I passed through two old wooden doors. I would love to have seen this in the daylight. Again, you can imagine robed figures striding across the flagstones, lecturing or rushing to class. I nip back to Rowan who is waiting, pretty much perishing with the cold, on the sidewalk.

We enter a discount store called LIDL, which is a German discount store. It is kind of like a Big Lots!, but with food. Maybe like Food for Less ...There are interestingly different things than I can get at home. It is set out kind of funny, and you cannot get out unless you go through the check-out line. Which stretches all the way back to the back wall. We are torn, because we don't want to cut in line, and we don't want to wait in line when we are not buying anything. We are in a quandary. I run back to the entrance, but you cannot get out once you are in, except for the exit ... at the check out. As we are aware of the time passing, we politely push past the multitudes (which did NOT part like the Red Sea) and left. I lead, not making eye contact, and Rowan follows me, miserable in the light of the fact that we are being rude. We find a bookstore, and are inexorably drawn in.

Rowan writes:

We find a great bookshop, where we have a quick coffee, and I find a copy of the book I have been looking for for Bob, Daniel Defoe’s “A Journal of the Plague Year.” It is a book which fascinated me as a student, and is a journalistic account of the Great Plague in London, which preceded the Great Fire of London in 1666. Defoe is credited as the first investigative journalist.

Bob says:

The coffee is hot and good and we slowly thaw out. I think that we are both a little quiet -- part of my mind is already on getting home. I miss everyone, but I have had an extraordinary time. It has been otherwordly. I considered the long haul back to the train station, and decide to visit the restroom. I clomp along the wooden floors in my nifty new boots and consider getting my son a book that I have seen a lot of ... "The Dangerous Book for Boys". I glance through it and decide that he will like it, but also that it is heavy. I will get him a copy when I get home.

There is something dead sexy about wearing a pair of black biker-type boots and jeans that puts a spring in my step, even for a woman of my advanced years. I think I can get a nice gleam in my husband's eyes with these. And kick some butt if necessary. Pickpockets beware!

So, I was wondering if I should put this in, but in the interest of examining cultural differences, I am going to discuss the restrooms in Scotland. First of all, they are not cubicles, like in the US. They are more like little rooms. Very little rooms. Micro-mini rooms. On the one hand, there is a sense of security when you wedge yourself, straddling the toilet, into the room. You have to do some fancy aerobic moves to close the door. If you have a purse or bag, you are risking a back injury as you contort in order to get the door closed. Thank heavens I am no bigger than I am, or I fear that I would end up needing some sort of extraction device, like the Jaws of Life, to get out.

The door makes a nice solid sound when it closes, more like the sound of a front door at home than a public restroom. So, it feels secure, if a little dark. However it also feels a little claustrophobic.I cannot help but think that a person from the UK would feel a bit exposed and vulnerable in our public restrooms here at home. I make a mental note to tell Rowan this, so she will not be surprised if she comes to the US some day.

Some time back, Rowan and I were talking about napkins versus serviettes, and started a discussion about what to call bathrooms. I stubbornly insist on using the word restrooms -- I cannot use the commonly used term there of "toilet". Ugh. I even like washroom -- even though it connotes a washing up rather than other functions. I actually like lavatory, even though it automatically conjures up elementary school and the trough-like sinks that you can turn on by stepping a a little bar. I loved those ...

Rowan writes:

So - I am going to raise the topic of acceptable mid-atlantic terms for bathroom. I completely understand your frisson of reticent distaste when faced with transatlantic terms for bathroom. Those need, in all cultures, to meet a set of individual criteria, and to be accepted as polite in the general population one is at large amongst. It is a delicate subject...but fascinating, all the same.

"Restroom", to me, doesn't denote an opportunity to relinquish the contents of an over-full bladder, and I shall return to this.

"Toilet" is pretty much a standard term over here. No frills, but not descending into the nether regions of the vulgar, such as "bog" or "cludgie". "Toilet" is spartan and minimalist, no frills (would frills be the boogie?) pared down, bared to the wind.

Brrr. :D

I do not wholly subscribe to this word, I must admit. It does have a clinical baldness, a regulation soul-shrivelling meanness about it. It yells its function from the treetops. There is need for a little mystery in life, as regards the "doonstairs department". Toilets are a prime example of this. We all know what they are for, but want to be distanced from sharing a mutual awareness therof with a complete stranger, when asking directions."Bathroom", then, is a little superior to the coldly utilitarian-porcelain connotations of the T-word.

We are a nation of euphemism lovers in the UK, though, and tend to use "Loo" if we are being notably polite. The Queen was once asked how she referred to the place in question, and she replied that she used her own word, the "loo". It became disseminated into popular culture. If you use that word, everyone automatically assumes you are a bit prissy, maybe, but an all-round decent spud who isn't going to leave paper towels all over the floor and steal the soap.

Another of our euphemisms is, "the smallest room". I like that one, cos it's funny, but it is kinda mega-prissy.

Another very popular one, is to ask where the "ladies" is - I think you say "ladies room"? The latter would be understood over here.

"Restroom" would have us pondering, tho. If you were in a public building, you might be taken to the staffroom and given tea, for fear you had a fainting spell coming on. It would involve a bit of a double-take, a few-seconds of processing before the penny would drop. There seems to be a lack of vision involved here, on our part. Perhaps it is just that the word "rest" would not fit well with our national conceptualisation of the pedestals in question. We want to just um...wee and go. Rest denotes a sense of relaxation, and we are a nation of tense and twitchy public convenience users - not surprising, considering the condition of most of them. Yours are maybe much nicer. OOh - public convenience!! Sigh. My argument is nullified. What could be more euphemistically convoluted than that? Hee hee. Now I need to go put down my third can of diet Dr Pepper and head um ... well ...

Hmmmm...now I sit and ponder, tho, methinks I like 'toilet' better than "lavatory", even if it was originally latin for washroom - "washroom" is okay - water-closet is not.

Bob says:

(Rowan did not know about the joys of Diet Dr. Pepper before she met me. Just sayin'. When she first tried it, she made considering Tigger noises, like when Tigger is trying all of the different foods to see which ones Tiggers like best. "Marizpanish" was her conclusion.)

Back to Edinburgh ...

Rowan writes:

We find a very nice Indian shop, with lovely swirly skirts in vivid hues, large wire earrings and jewelled pens. Bob looks at the skirts, and I decide on a couple of the pens. Outside the shop, it is pretty dark. We head back to the station, clutching our purchases. I am chuffed not to have grossly overspent!

(Bob says: On the other hand, I am the pleased owner of two reversible silk skirts that will go nicely with a t-shirt and sandals in the blistering heat of summer.)

We have really appreciated all the glories of Edinburgh, and there is still so much yet too see…the Scottish Parliament building (a wildly cool and innovative design) Holyrood Palace, Arthur’s Seat, the national Museum of Scotland. There is no fountain in Edinburgh as there is in Rome, to toss coins into to ensure a return visit, but we will be back for sure – all the unseen sights await, and the magical chicken pakora :D. Dundee does better white puddings, but the Edinburgh pakora is something special. A grand vista to set upon one’s knees on a lamp post on a winter’s day in a fine old city.

Bob says:
We walk back briskly to the train station. It has been a wonderful day, but an emotional one as well. I think that we saw as much as was possible of Edinburgh in the short amount of time that we had. We accomplished the main task, which was to see St. Giles, but we had a lovely and very full day. We get back to the station and I bought some Cadbury chocolates for the kids and some reading material for the plane trip. The Cadbury might not make it home, though.

It is cold in Waverly Station, and I leave the little gift/book shop, purchases in hand, to find that I have lost Rowan. For reals. The station is not that big, but for whatever reason, I cannot see her. At all. I have become used to navigating the traveling part of the trip, and although I know that she is a big girl, as the time for the train to leave draws closer, I panic. Just a little. I am relieved when I find her and we sprint for the platform -- they have closed the platform that we have used before and we have to run, and I mean run, to the platform, with no more than a minute to spare. The station staff are not especially helpful as we negotiate the crowds.

The trip back is not eventful -- but it was good to sit down. The train slowly empties out and we get to spread out more as we approach Dundee. The lights reflect in the water as we cross the Tay.

Tomorrow I will go home.

Stravaigin aboot Dundee

Thursday in Dundee

... Domesticity and a Night on the Town

For those of you who forget where Dundee is ...

a map ...




Here is a map of the city -- the downtown part. If you look closely, you can see the Overgate Centre and the Steeple Church, right in the middle... Yeah, it's a little blurry, but I have learned, through trial and error, that I cannot sharpen the image. Sorry.



Rowan lives outside of the city. She gets to where she needs to go by bus or by taxi or under her own steam.

Rowan writes:

Thursday dawns, and we are to spend a day in Dundee, after the glories of London and Edinburgh. Dundonians are known for being dismissive about their city. I have always been amongst the peeps that have risen to its defence. It is a post-industrial city, now high-flying in its bio-science sphere. There are more people with degrees per head of population in Dundee that anywheres else, seemingly, which is partly due to the bio-science institute and the numbers of staff it is pulling in, as well as the qualified staff employed by Ninewells, the local teaching hospital, and the other professionals and former students scattered in posts throughout the city. There are also those not contributing to the labour market, but still belettered – I am not sure if they are represented in the figures. Anyways – Dundee is a city on the turn.

I remember a favourite Science Fiction book I devoured as a teenager in the Seventies. The Earth had stopped turning, and one half remained in darkness, whilst the other half was bathed in light. The protagonist was a respected scientist on the light side, and when he ambled over to the dark side, he had a flipside life as a magician. Dundee has its light and dark sides. The issue is bringing them together.Dundee is an interesting clash of cultures – the remnants of the meltdown of local industries, resulting in the large numbers of long-term unemployed, often second generation. They have little in common with those who are at the sharp end of the new industries, such as bio-science innovation and medical research. The co-existence is, however, companionable – Dundonians are generally amenable types, shuffling along, conversing openly with strangers at bus stops and in spontaneous chats struck up in shops. Dundee is a curious mix of the old and the very shiny new. Jute dust still seems to blow down some of the old dark streets, where the abandoned jute mills have not yet been converted into tiny, be-broadbanded but claustrophobia-inducing flatlets.

Bob says:
I woke up early and had an on-line chat with my husband. I blearily went downstairs and found that Rowan had made tea to go with the toast and cereal. For some reason, she keeps putting out cheese for me, as if I am a cold-cut eater. I am not, but I politely take a slice of cheese to go with my carbohydrates. I wonder if she thinks that Americans have lunchmeat for breakfast. I take a peep into her refrigerator and look for things that I cannot find at home. Everything dairy has bio-something or others. Like active spoors -- you know, live bacteria to aid in digestion. I like the fact that the nutrition information is in kilocalories. I took my tea upstairs and said good-bye to my husband. I showed him the backyard with the laptop webcam. It is beautiful and green, but very little privacy. You can see into everyone's back yard. Everything is tidy, though. I miss my husband and I miss the kids. On my mobile plan, I can receive texts for free and can send them for about a dime. We have been keeping in touch by texting. I love technology. I told everyone to text me a lot. My sister, husband and kids have all been texting me multiple times a day. It is nice but makes me miss them. They feel a world away – in time and space. It is funny to be eight hours ahead of them – I am not used to being on this side of the time zone.

It is going to be a stay at home sort of day, as we are going back to Edinburgh tomorrow. It is my second to the last day in the UK. I will fly home on Saturday morning.

After breakfast, Rowan and I consider the game plan for the day. We are going to go to get some football scarves for my son and husband and I am interested to see what supermarkets look like in the UK. I love historical places, but I am always interested in how people live. I like to see what is different and the same. I am always a little uncomfortable to see American goods or innovations -- half pleased and half embarrassed. I don't want everything to look like home. It is like when you travel around and see that every strip mall has the same five shops. It is a little depressing -- I like regional differences. International differences are even better. After the store, we are going to go into town and wander around a little and then have lunch and get back to get ready for the evening's festivities. We are going to go see a pantomime, which seems to be a holiday tradition -- I am happy to see what will occur. We get ready to go and leave Rowan's house. I thought that you would like to know that Rowan has a garden gnome hidden in the greenery next to her front walk. I am not sure why he is wearing lipstick, though.

We set off, full of nice warm tea. Lena is in a good mood, holding my hand as we walk along. She is bright as a new penny. She asks questions in her grown-up, considering fashion. I still find her accent adorable. Rowan and I talk about kid’s TV, as Sam and Lena are about the same age -- shows we like and shows we abhor. She comments that you can tell that a show is from the US if the backyard fences are wooden. They would not generally be wooden in the UK, but would be stone or something that will not rot in the damp. I am much struck by this, and start to look around with new eyes. She is right – there are no wooden fences. I have a wooden fence – the desert air has desiccated it to such a degree that it might be petrified or nothing more than wood molecules. If you brush up against it, it might explode like a staked vampire on Buffy.

As we walk to the grocery store, I quiz Rowan about her life and habits. She walks to the store, except for those times that she takes a taxi because there is too much to carry back. It is about a ten-minute walk. When I was young and did not have money for a car, I remember having to take the bus to the store and haaaating it. Once, traveling back from the store, the bag tore and I vividly recall watching my apples roll around the aisles. However, this was when I was single and had only myself to worry about. I cannot imagine schlepping diapers and milk and cereal and youurt and bread to and fro. Yeesh. Rowan is striding along, clearly used to the trip. I again note that there is no grass in Lena’s school playground, which continues to surprise me – the countryside is sooo green, even in the winter. There is no playground at all, really. In the US, some parent would be suing because their first-grader skinned a knee on the blacktop. Again, it is a nice day – brisk and nippy, but not freezing and sleeting down rain. I thought that Scotland was supposed to be rainy. I am vaguely disappointed.



(This is a recent photo, as I did not have one of Rowan's street handy. Spring has engendered lovely flowering trees ...)

Rowan writes:

My house is in a street of post-war houses flung up to be flung down again at some ill-defined point in the future. They are concrete and steel, and faced with sheets of steel, and painted a rather groovy range of yellows. The odd one here and there is a toffee colour, a scattered few a sort of milk chocolate. It is like walking down the two halves of an enormous banana toffee lollipop, or sailing downstream on a river of caramel sauce between matching bergs of vanilla ice cream. It has not been rescinded – the funny steel houses seem to be here to stay.

Not far off, is my local supermarket. I am fairly well stocked up, but Bob wants to get football scarves, and they have very nice Scotland ones in the Asda supermarket. As I do not drive, we will be going by Shanks’s pony. Bob is a good schlepper, as has been established, and she is very city-curious. However, she permits herself a little eye-roll at the schlep through the streets towards superstore retaildom. It is not a schlep of very great interest, I agree, and I see Bob’s point of schlepping to see and experience being a worthwhile end, as opposed to a slog. Trekking to the grocery store without a car is indubitably a slog, much as I attempt to introduce a bit of spin to proceedings and call it a workout. I need to get a car. I need to shrug of the last vestiges of Luddism and hit the open road.

It is a sort of down at heel area. Nice enough, better than it used to be – the houses and gardens mostly very neat and looked after. There is one sporting an abandoned shopping trolley, and I talk loudly and point to something on the other side of the street to divert attention. A nice, sleepy down-at heel area of decent public housing.

Bob says:
(Rowan is secretly delighted by the limos. She finds the pink one all kinds of funny. I cannot imagine negotiating a roundabout in one of these.)

Here are a couple of shots that I took as we walked toward the store. And I should say that Rowan is incorrect when she says that I rolled my eyes at walking to the store. I categorically deny this. I might have been shaking my head at the idea of negotiating children and shopping through the streets of Dundee, but that was not eye rolling. I think that she is projecting ...

Rowan's idea of down at heel and mine are sorta worlds apart. But my mailbox just got tagged, and we used to have speed freaks in the abandoned motel behind our house, so I might be a little jaundiced. To me, down at heel means having only one broken-down vehicle in front of the house.

The houses seem charming and the streets are clean. Yards are well-kempt, with the occasional over-the-top ornamentation. I like it when people take their yards seriously as a part of self-expression, either crowded with toys or brimming with plants and garden statues. People have started to put out Christmas decorations. I miss home for a moment, and wonder if my husband and the kids have thought about putting up the lights.

We cross the streets and emerge next to the Asda store. Rowan can tell you about it, but it has recently been bought by Walmart. And Tesco carries Target brands. Americans are taking over the world, one cheap t-shirt and liter of soda at a time. A couple of months ago, Rowan sent me a football scarf for my daughter and we have managed to misplace it – it was a lovely blue with a St. Andrew’s cross …

We are getting Tartan Army scarves in honor of the National Scottish soccer team. According to the website,

“The Tartan Army are travelling supporters of the Scottish national football team. They were named the World's Friendliest Fans during the 1998 World Cup, and have won numerous awards over the years for their combination of rabid support and friendly nature. This friendly attitude is all the more surprising bearing in mind their team’s track record, which is often neatly summed up as glorious failure. * Some say that the amicability of the Tartan Army is due to the large volumes of alcohol imbibed before, during, and after a game, a fact that few members would dispute. Countries drawn against Scotland welcome the arrival of their fans. Scotland away matches are generally accompanied by a low level of policing due to their good behaviour over the years.”

(* -- does this make anyone else want to say, "This is Sparta!", or is it just me?)

Shoshana said that she got the scarf at Asda, so off to Asda we go. We go in and the store is smaller than I expected – not even close to the average Walmart. More like a large grocery store than a supercenter, I would say. Maybe a leeetle bit bigger. I have to be really careful, because I am going to sound like a Terrible American Snob. And I don’t mean to, but I gots to calls them as I sees them. Asda looks like a discount store, but at twice the price. I am not being stunned by the prices anymore, but I cannot help calculating the difference between the UK and the US. The Scots are getting gypped, but royally. We wander through the aisles and the selection is only fair – not large at all.

However, I am very pleased at the selections of Christmas Crackers. I have heard of them, but never actually pulled one open. I was tempted to take a box or two back for the kids, but limited suitcase space and common sense prevailed. As a funny side note, we went to visit friends in Bakersfield over the Winter Break and they had Christmas crackers! We snapped them open and read each other the lame jokes and ended up with lovely paper crowns. Mine was green. It was fetching.

So, as we wandered around the store, I looked to see what was the same and different – different foods and labels. There was practically a whole aisle devoted to sauces that I had never heard of – I was happy to see brown sauce. And curry sauces and frozen things that I don't recognize.

Rowan was still looking for a camera and we stopped to look at those displayed. They were overpriced.

We had a list of things to get, including a paper tube for carrying some posters that I had obtained. I had some maps for Sam, as he loves maps. Rowan very sweetly donated to the map collection and gave me a very cool poster of "Birds of Prey of Great Britian" for a friend of mine who is a falconer. I think he will like it. I forget what else we had to get, but prolly tape, too.

Scotch tape … : D

Rowan did not find that nearly as funny as I did, but she humored me.

Anyway, we were not finding the scarves, and Rowan was getting anxious, so I asked a sales clerk if they had any. Rowan is the type of person who would look forever and then stagger out in an exhausted daze. I ask people. She does not like to put people out, and I figure that is what they are getting paid for. Just another little cultural difference. After due effort, the nice sales lady found the scarves in the back. I got two. As we waited, we looked around, and I tried to soak in the atmosphere.

If you are paying very close attention, you will have noted that there seem to be two main vegetable staples of the Scottish diet. (Or at least Rowan's Scottish diet.)

They are

Now don't get me wrong. I like potatoes as much as the next person.

And, although beans leave me a little cold (a result, I think, too many servings of beenie-weenie-cheesie as a child), I will eat them. My sister calls me a bean hater, but this is not at all true. I just don't love them. I did not see all that many vegetables while traveling in the UK. Actually, I don't even think of potatoes as a vegetable, but I am sure that they must be.

Rowan told me about how, a while back, people were investigating the dietary habits and mortality rates. It was found that people who had lower incomes tended to not have a lot of fresh fruit and vegetables in their diet. Theories abounded as to why this would be. Finally some bright spark in the public health department realized that people don't eat these items because they were heavy. And people had to carry them all the way from the bus to their homes. It is funny how things like having a car or good roads impact something like the variety in a diet and therefore health. I was reminded of this when I looked around.

It seems that it is a more pervasive a problem – Rowan sent me an article about how far behind the Scots are in terms of their consumption of fresh fruit and vegetables. Asda rolled out a new initiative to try to get the numbers up to snuff.

I think that I can shed a little light on the problem.

Um.

The produce in Asda is a bit, well ... um ... Actually, the produce might kinda suck.

There. I said it.

… and costs an arm and a leg and a few other bits and pieces of important anatomy.

Glad that I could help.

Now, I should give a caveat, because the produce at home in Walmart sux. That is just my opinion, so please don't try to sue me. I am entitled, as an American, to have a completely uninformed and closely-held opinion. I will shop at Walmart, but will only buy produce there in dire circumstances. I am not going to mention that I bought bananas there this week and one of them literally exploded in a cloud of little, hostile, persistent fruit flies. Bleck. So, it might just be Asda/Walmart produce quality that I saw. The produce is supposed to be famous in Scotland, but it was not to be found in Asda.

I may have to duck after saying this, but the produce at Asda was very, very, very sad. It all looked unhappy – limp and sparse. And when Rowan mentioned how much better the produce was than it used to be, I just kept my Big Californian Mouth Shut. The produce aisle in Asda made me want to run to the nearest Albertsons produce section and roll around in the oranges and kiwi and strawberries and broccoli. I could feel the nutrition being leached right out of my system. No wonder Scots are a little pale. I think that I got a little pale because of the prices. Granted, I had to do a bit of fancy converting from kilos to pounds and pounds to dollars, but the prices were outrageous. Honestly. If I lived there, I would make my kids suck on the gnawed apple cores – I can see myself admonishing them that the stems are really good! And full of chewy fiber-goodness.

However, I digress.

Rowan writes:

The Asda store is now part of the Walmart chain, or so the large display board outside proclaims. The Asda chain buy in a lot of local stuff, but also tend, like most local supermarkets, to buy in what the customer wants. You can buy potato crisps in any flavour dreamed up by the inventively greedy. Thai green chilli, sweet Thai red chilli, balsamic vinegar and sweet braised onion, roast Peking duck, along with the tried and tested varieties like good old cheese and onion and salt and vinegar. We still have, rather unaccountably, a collection of flavoured hand cooked kettle chips. Hand cooked means under-flavoured, shiny and unacceptably greasy. Who buys them?

They sound up-market, so maybe folks who have never bought them and think they sound good, buy them to give to folks when they go visiting.

We wander amongst the staple wares on show in the supermarket. I often come here for whole roast chickens, with various flavours. I like the garlic and herb and the barbecue. I am keen to know what Bob has to say about the place.

Bob says:

We left the store, after successful forage. I am going to point out that Rowan did NOT tell me about the Peking Duck potato chips, or I would have had some. Even though they sound a little odd. I enjoyed browsing through the newspapers on the way out. We were getting a little hungry and went into town for lunch. We were on a bit of a schedule, as we had to beat Aidan (Rowan’s son) home. Rowan is funny about food – there was a place that looked good – it had been recommended by a taxi-driver and she recognized it. It was a fish and chips place, and once we got there, she peered in and declared that it looked dodgy. I, myself, saw nothing wrong with it.

Rowan writes:

We have to be home in time for my son coming home from school at three. We also want lunch. The time is short – we have two hours to zip into town, eat, and then zip home. At night, we are going to see a pantomime at the local repertory theatre.

We get a taxi into town and quiz the taxi driver about good places to get fish and chips. I have a little café in mind, but have heard through the grapevine that it has undergone a change of management and gone downhill. The chatty taxi driver suggests one of the nice pubs in the Westport area of the city, not far from the wee café. I remember them from teacher-training days – we used to go as a group sometimes for a pub lunch after class. There is a nice one called Mickey Coyles which has a nice roaring fire and good food.

We get out of the taxi and I survey the little cafe from a safe distance. Although famous for good fish and chips, I have never eaten in here before. It is sort of customer-visible – you can see peeps eating if you look through the windows (not to be unexpected, I know...) there is just something sort of grim and Spartan about it. It has an air of seriousness, somehow. And it is generally full of older folks, eating seriously and staring out of the windows…or so it seemed to me when I was a student, schlepping past on my way to uni. Some of that vibe has remained. And it looks small…I like space around me, if I can, in eatery places. Don’t know why...perhaps it is just a little munching anonymity. Just don’t want anyone but my companions seeing how much grub I am actually putting away.

I decide against the little café, feeling a little guilty, as time is short. I want lunch to be nice for Bob, and just wish we had more time to chill over our food, rather than having to rush. We wend out way up to the pubs, all on the same street. I know we will get a nice atmospheric lunch here, and am chuffed. It is a bit of a hike, and Lena is complaining a little, but she is pacified with the thought of a nice lunch. Sadly, when we get to the door, the polite barman informs us that it is not licensed for children. O_o We have to schlep off back toward town and plan C. Plan C? I am hastily searching about for someplace very quick to eat and settle on Debenham’s restaurant. Debenham’s is a department store I like. It has trendy fashionable stuff, very expensive tailored stuff for well-heeled wifies and also nice quality normal stuff for folks like me who like long denim skirts and tops. It caters for all age and budgets, then. I ought to have just said that at the beginning! Anyway, it is a good old-fashioned format of a store, bright and up to date, with an internet café, and stuff.

The restaurant is expensive, and the fish and chips I order are a bit dry and greasy. Bob has something that looks a little more interesting, involving stilton cheese. Lena has a kids’ box filled with bits and pieces. Bob seems to be finding her meal fairly palatable, and I eat mine, as is my wont, greasy or otherwise. We make a sharp exit and get a taxi home to be in time for Aidan getting home from school. The pantomime will start in a few hours – I am hoping it will be entertaining. I had a small part in a pantomime as a child, and enjoyed the experience, though I don’t think I’ve ever been to watch one, as other than a very small child myself. They are a sort of festive tradition in the UK. The pantomime we are going to see is a version of the fairytale Hansel and Gretel. I am sure Lena will like it. She is a bit of a diva, and has a penchant for quality musicals starring Julie Andrews and Dick van Dyke.

Bob says:

I find it hilarious that Rowan does not know where to get good fish and chips. I know that I would be able to discuss the merits of the best hamburger in town or the best chimichanga.

This is the intersection that we got out at -- near the Overgate Centre.

Once again, we ended up downtown, near the Steeple Church, which I still love. Hi, Steeple Peeple!

Debenhams is a nice department store – comparable to a Penney’s, I would think. It is funny to see tea towels with Scottish sayings on them and other souvenir-y stuff. It is a little incongruous. We end up in the café and have lunch. Lena is doing well, and selects her lunch with the seriousness such an event merits. She has definite preferences. I select something with chicken and potatoes and Stilton cheese. I have never had Stilton cheese. Rowan says that it is like bleu cheese, but milder. I like bleu cheese, so I try it. In our discussion of food, I discover that Scots like lasagna with chips (fries). Just sayin’. I have never had pasta and potatoes. It violates all kinds of food rules. I am seriously shaken by such an idea. My lunch was fine – sort of cafeteria-type food, which I love. The only thing that I do not like about cafeteria food is when different kinds of food bumps into each other. I avoided this by not getting any rolley food. Rowan’s peas roll into her fish and I feel sorry for her. We shared a Christmas cake with lots of powdered sugar for dessert, (a stollen) as I had never had one. It was pretty darned sweet. But good.

We got back to Rowan’s house and just sort of lazed around until it was time to go to the pantomime. Lena drew some pictures. She is a natural artist, as you can see. Her art is remarkably detailed and pretty advanced, developmentally speaking. What is interesting to me is how she just dashes off her drawings. Her hands have no problem translating what her eyes see – she is nonchalant and often draws while she is doing other things, such as watching TV. Soon it is time to get ready for dinner out and then the pantomime.

Rowan writes:

Pantomime has a loooong tradition in the UK. It has several conventions which are intended to introduce humour and incongruity before the jokes even start to fly. The story being told is related via much slapstick and cross-dressing, in a mildly vulgar and generally all-round silly way. There are levels of jokes for children and parents, sweet throwing, a lot of built up bust-lines and heaps and heaps of greasepaint and wacky wigs, boots and crinolines.

The most important person in a pantomime is the pantomime dame. She is never the named protagonist, but the supporting lead, the powerful female figure, and is played by a man, to comedy effect. The pantomime dame in Aladdin, for example, Widow Twankey, runs a laundry, and has ample opportunity to bemoan the condition of the male underwear and socks which come under her daily scrutiny. There are layers of laughs in pantomime, archaic, and formulaic, but recognisably so. It is sort of “I know” theatre. There is a nice relaxed anticipatory vibe.

The Pantomime Dame is a bloke – the Principal Boy is a woman. She is the male lead. In Aladdin, Aladdin would traditionally be played by a woman, as would the prince in Cinderella. This tradition is changing now, and the roles becoming more familiarly gender-oriented. Panto is losing its light-hearted cross-dressing tradition.

The pantomime we are going to see is at the local repertory theatre.

I have seen some very good performances there over the years, my favourite being the Scots version of Moliere’s play, “Le Malade Imaginaire”, translated as the Hypochondriac. The medical jokes and cynicism flew, the acting was superb. I went back to see it a second time.

Before the panto, we have our evening meal in the little restaurant in the theatre foyer. Bob has pizza with anchovies, and I have a Moroccan dish which has lumps of sweet potato in it. It is spicy and very nice. Lena is feeling very important, and gets to sit and crayon as she eats. As I have somehow booked us in for the meal too early for us to go straight into the theatre, Bob suggest a short walk through the pre-Christmas shopping centre close by, to stretch our legs. Sitting contemplating yet another coffee is not her style. There is a nice new Starbucks in the centre, and we will have our coffee on the hoof.

It is a nice crispy cold evening. The centre is busy with Christmas shoppers, although it is early in the month. We queue in Starbucks, and view the wares on show. Lena has flavoured milk, at “children’s temperature” which I think is a nice idea. Bob and I have coffee. I find it very nice indeed, and we schlep back along the bright corridor of the shopping mall towards the theatre. An unexpected but interesting interlude and yummy beverage-dom.

Bob says:

Rowan has explained about the cultural aspect of pantomimes, and I am happy to be going. Lena has not been to one before, and she is excited. We get to the theater and have a nice dinner. Rowan eats like a Brit, with her fork upside down, smushing little bits of everything onto the back, using her knife as food-pusher. It is pleasantly unfamiliar. It is like watching Iron Chef, when the judges use a fork, but you see that they way they use the fork is a little different. Rowan does not hold her fork like someone used to chopsticks, but it is just not the way an American would.

We finished and had time to get some coffee. I have not had a real cup of coffee in days, and the Starbucks is calling to me. It was delicious – I could feel the bite of the caffeine and a pleasant little buzz when it hit my bloodstream. Maybe I was just woozy from spending about seven dollars for it … but it was worth every penny.

We hustled back to the theater – it was just starting to fill up. The sidewalks were crowded – little groups and families with girls were dressed up in their theater best. One group was scampering along, coatless, trying to get into the warmth of the foyer. Theater-wear is not warm, and I shivered for the girls in their spaghetti-straps and high-heeled sandals. We passed a group of adolescents with hats decorated with Christmas lights and lit-up candy canes. Lena was excited. There were brightly colored houses on the walls inside of the foyer, colored, I would guess, by local school children. Lena looks them over with interest. I am guessing that she is already mentally designing hers.

Rowan writes:

Once inside, the pantomime unfolds. The audience are ready for a laugh. The stage-set is dark, very gothic, a sort of Black Forest, minus the gateau, although there are lots of those later, cakes and sweets galore. The gingerbread cottage is well-made, the acting good. It is all just a little dark for me. I don’t know why…perhaps it is just a little too far away from the traditional pantomime light-heartedness I remember from my youth. Light, colour, laughter ..frothy yellows and reds. Silly dance routines. Inexplicable water. Men in fake wigs and padded bras commenting on their lot in life. Somehow, it didn’t undermine – as someone who spent many years researching feminist issues in old dramas it would have jarred, if any jarrage was visible. it was just of itself, for itself, and extremely silly.

The Pantomime dame role in this panto was played by a woman – a dark role, as she was a malicious character, interesting in itself. I am having to rein myself in seriously here – doing an Odysseus tied to the mast sort of thing. The Sirens are singing, but don’t let me write a Marxiofeministpostmoderist critique of a jolly children’s show. I am just going to say that I was sort of ambivalent about it. Found it a wee bit overly vulgar in places, though it wouldn’t normally bother me – now, could that be that the toilet humour is usually the male reserve? Was there more of it than expected? Perhaps. One or two little things spooked me a little. Still, the sets were very good, the acting good, and the kids all enjoyed themselves.

We get a taxi home, and I wonder what Bob thought of the performance. We don’t really discuss it in detail. It is late, and we are still feeling a bit tired from all our jaunts of the previous days. The taxi driver is again jolly. Taxi drivers in Dundee generally are!

We made it home, and have a wee chat with mum who has been babysitting, then turn in. Friday will be another nice sightseeing away-day – we are going back to Edinburgh have a closer look at the Mile and St Giles. Yo!

Bob says:

Okay – about the pantomime. It was fun and a bit different. The crowd was clearly into it and was obvious that there are time-honored traditions that are observed – expected audience reactions. Lots of candy was thrown around. I enjoyed it, despite the fact that the humor was pretty broad. I found myself getting a little tired, though. The days of traveling were starting to catch up a little. We caught a taxi home and the driver and Rowan talked about the show. Lena managed to give a pretty good synopsis of the whole thing – she has a good memory for detail and explained the play with panache. I am glad that I got to see the pantomime and Lena had a good time. I crawled into bed with a sigh of relief. It was not too late, but I want to get up early tomorrow. It will be a busy day.

Tomorrow we go back to Edinburgh.


I am going to do a quick update, as it is spring already. Rowan sent me some lovely pictures, and I thought you might like to see them. First, she would like to emphasize the fact that one can get Mexican food in Scotland. She sent me this picture from Asda.

Yikes. And that is all I can say.

On a more aesthetic note, here are some lovely pictures of Dundee in the Spring. This is a picture of the Howff, which is a very old cemetery in town. I love this picture.

And a final picture of The Steeple Church in bloom. A very nice note to end on...