Thought you might enjoy some last thoughts about the UK. I thought that you might like a chance to to share some of her thoughts. Even though she is Scottishly self-deprecating. She has a much nicer view of Americans than we deserve. However, she has a writer's license to describe the characters as she sees fit. I have some of her pictures (some are really lovely) to put up after this entry. Enjoy!
Rowan writes:
Funny – I have been thinking about the differences between Americans and Brits – the preconceptions built up through bumbling up against arbitrary TV shows and celebrity articles, world events, literature and a few first-hand meetings. I first met American peeps working for the Elderhostel company, when I was making coffee for the retired professionals coming over to Scotland to study a short course in history at the university. I liked them a lot. They were so different from British pensioners, as we call retired people. British professional retired types would not likely acknowledge the waitress – wouldn’t ask her what she was studying, as they would assume that she’d reached her ultimate goal in life. There is nothing wrong with making coffee to earn a living, but the elderly Americans assumed I was studying, using it as a stepping stone to getting somewhere else.
The American peeps were tanned, and launched into the air like redwood saplings – tall rangy old men in sandals – old British guys don’t wear sandals. They wore shorts, the Americans, men and women, wrinkly and proud. They were tanned and healthy and happy in themselves. The old ladies had pompoms sticking out of the backs of their tennis shoes. They wore tennis shoes! Lovely ones I would have coveted myself. I did covet them. British women over a certain age don’t wear tennies, but wear special elderly versions of them which are robbed of the edgy bounce the Converse versions have, and which come in tan and navy wide fitting, designed to go with sleeveless crimplene frocks.
Those old Americans still had zap. They had bounce. Their hair was well-cut, they wore bright lippy, they had pom-pom socks. They wore shorts! They talked loudly of home, over the top of the guide pointing out the lovely scenery as they passed. There were elections at home. They talked, admired, and talked some more, and I learned a lot. I learned about the sun they brought with them in their crinkly smiles; their interest in foreign climes; their lively curiosity about other people – a gentle humorous curiosity which revelled in listening to unusual accents, teasing out differing expectations on life. The interest was touching, because it was based on a premise of kindness, a companionable appreciation of the good in human diversity, but a homely gathering in of like-ness, a sharing of something warm and common and good. They had heart and they had soul, these elderly doctors and lawyers and architects and teachers. They were cool.
The retired peeps – they flew in the face of the trashy tv image of Americans as brash and materialistic. The image of all the women as Krystle Carrington or Alexis Colby – all shoulder pads and lippy and hair stiff with hairspray – image being all. Okay – Krystle had the hair and shoulder-pads, but she was a nice woman. She had worked in a shop before she met Blake Carrington. She knew where it was at. I guess my impressions were sort of overlaid over the years – the Hollywooded image – big jewellery, big hair, big heels. Big demands. Americans are thought here to make big demands, when they are merely being justifiably assertive. Americans are not fobbed off with crap, like we are. We look up meltingly into the eyes of the waiter and tell him that yes, the meal was lovely, when it was inedible. When the lasagne al forno has a frozen core of which the planet Pluto would be proud. There are hairs in the salad and a cigarette butt in the ciabatta; fingernail in the butter and a band-aid in the cream. Yeh, and I’d ordered something totally different, cos I’m a vegetarian but that’s okay. Yes, meat is great, really, and the meal was lovely. Have a £5 tip.
I knew my friend Bob would have no veneer of falseness – she wouldn’t be clicking along in four-inch patent red pumps complaining about the weather. She looked after herself, and took a pride in herself, her clothes, but in the sense of knowing who she was, what she felt comfortable in, what she liked. I knew she was no hairspray slave, cos she said she had wild curly hair; but you know, it is hard to shake off visions sometimes. I knew she was a successful professional in her field. Perhaps she would appear just for the hell of it in a sharp suit, and then I would have to go buy something similar, just to keep up, as I am a mite competitive. Thankfully, she did not!
I learned a lot from Bob. I learned that asking politely gets you want you want, without internal monologues which cause ulcers, and ultimately waste time. Good sightseeing time! Bob was a great time manager. Perhaps that is an American trait. We Brits are the kings and queens of, “where’s the day gone?” We blink in inactivity, thinking our way around how to get things done, how to approach peeps that might be able to help. Americans are more dynamic – energetic, focussed. I would have to say that this is de troowf, based on true empiricist principles and a sample study group of one. Americans talk quickly and get things done quickly and treat their time on this earth with respect. The one I’ve met, anyway – and the retired students in their colourful woollens – men in pink, bigoodness – and cardigans… American men wear cardigans and look good in them. I want pom-pom socks and the nerve to wear shorts when I’m 43, let alone 73, like those dapper and cute old gals. They were fun.
I don’t think Americans second-guess themselves so much. Perhaps the sun warms their backs and shines upon their hearts. Again, I sense it now as a Christian warmth in my buddy, an assuredness in being watched-over. Meeting her has been a blessing.The peace in Bob and the sense of fun and joy in life, was patently visible in her. Bob is smart and funny, and has an amused signature eyebrow-raise which lets you know she’s aware that one is blethering, or in the throes of a characteristic defensive-twitchy British bluster-fest, defending some quirky element of our national psyche. We are quick to take a mild offence about the littlest things, but we don’t parade it. Well, so we are a napkin-needy nation? So be it. (Internal flounce.)However, we are quick to chortle over it, and Bob and I had many good belly-laughs about this aspect of British-ness, and other aspects our national identities. I was struck, on the American website we met on, Graycharles.com, how tolerant of each other’s foibles everyone was; what a happy and diverse vibe that created. Sometimes someone would make a bald statement which would offend the sensibilities of peeps here left right and centre, regarding the music/musician in question, but the other posters would kindly nudge them into a more realistic point of view. Perhaps it is a tolerance born of weight of numbers, perhaps it is more that that. Americans spring and Brits shuffle. Yanks are natty mules and we are slippers. The Big Slipper. I am coming to visit the US, will buy my glorious tennies and help avoid the big slippery slope.
It was innnteresting to read on the Thursday Dundee thread that Brits eat differently. Hadn't realised that! Do Americans turn the fork to the concave side and shovel the food on to it in a more practical and realistic fashion? I have always wondered why forks have to be turned over in the UK so that you have to balance food on the convex side. When we are by ourselves and not in company, I'd bet a multipack of Cadbury's Crunchies (9 bars per pack) that 99% of Brits would use the fork scoopy side up. It is a sort of public etiquette thing, mashing it on to the curved side and sticking it in ones mooth before it all slides off onto one's shirt, or if in a restaurant, the tablecloth. I think polite British fork-culture is responsible for a great many duodenal ulcers - stress related, for the most part. Dropping food is a no no, so it has to be precariously balanced then popped in at the speed of light to avoid droppage and consequent mortification.
Can't decide whether the distance-driving thing makes Americans more patient than us Brits, or more impatient. You want to get somewhere, so you get up and go. But you are prepared for the journey to take half a lifetime. We take a more defeatist outlook from the outset, and try to diminish the appeal of the destination, to avoid making the journey in the first-place, a sort of misplaced anti-travel stoicism. Actually emerging onto a motorway and going on a long journey (long being an issue in itself) is thus viewed by the driver as a small act of heroism. I think we are just a leetle unadventurous, cos when we do actually get up and go, we generally appreciate new horizons and are galvanised with a shot of Transatlantic oomph. However, it has been known to go the other way, with some of our visitors. As Caesar said, reflecting on a visit to Northern Britain, "I came, I struggled up off my behind, I just about saw, but it was raining, so I put off conquering till another day." Actually, we Picts were too skeery for dem Romans. They built walls to keep us from stravaigin aboot England on their braw new Roman roads.
Dynamism, peepel: dynamism. Is it true that there is actually more caffeine in tea? Hae ma doots. We are ploddy, as a nation, but we get there, sort of, and enjoy a good grumble along the way.
As Bob said, it is great to travel with a friend and learn about their world, whilst seeing places and people new to both. I would likely never have seen London had Bob not come to visit – that is a thought that is making me sit up, but it is potentially highly likely. My prejudices about London being full of sleazy gentlemen in Victorian dress leering from carriages after sunset, and thoroughfares and stations full of footpads (love that word) and loud ladies in shabby silk décolleté gowns selling roses, were all quickly shattered. The other prejudices, about sullen hordes of commuters thumping visitors with their briefcases and not apologizing, cos they were stressed out and hadn’t seen a tree for a year, were also quashed. London was bright and busy, but quirky and polite. And, like the little boy in the rhyme, I stood in my shoes and I wondered.
I am looking forward to visiting the US and people-watching. I have a real appreciation of the way the Americans interacted on GC and Monkbot. Perhaps fellow Monkbot and Stravaiger Eire Claire and I could be seen as displaced Americans. J Perhaps our forebears were thrown off the Mayflower at the last minute for being drunk or having too much luggage. Methinks, however, that my Puritan ancestor had bladder issues, and had resisted the onboard porthole porta-potty in favour of nipping ashore to use the harbour restroom. She emerged lighter of ballast just in time to see the ship rounding the headland without her.
So, I have seen the UK capitals from all sorts of angles: under arches in antique bookshops; gazing up at the battlements of the Tower of London; listening to echoing footfalls in amazing museums; travelling on tube trains; exploring old bookshops and tacky souvenir shops; singing along to Mamma Mia at the Prince of Wales Theatre. It was a blast. Edinburgh was a blast, too: hefty fortresses; stunning stained-glass; breathtaking art; fragrant festive markets, outdoor skating and Ferris wheels. It is on my doorstep, this jewel of a city, but there was no fun going back unless, as Bob says, you can go with a friend and see it through their eyes as well as your own, and appreciate it all anew.
Just warning you that this is a booooring entry. Just some plane pictures and stuff ...
It has been a long week and a half. It is hard to believe that I have been away for almost two weeks. I miss my family and am eager to see them. When I am making a big trip, I begin thinking about it the day before and am halfway there on the first day of travel. Last night, I did a quick mental pack and did a little organizing. I am a little anxious about getting on the road -- I have visions of long customs lines and other unanticipated delays. Part of me will be very, very glad to be on the plane.
When I get up, it is very cold and there is frost on the ground for the first time. I hope that it is not too slick driving to the airport. My plane leaves at ten and I want to be there an hour and a half early, just to stave off any problems. I get washed and packed in record time. I have my two bags, one of which has my posters in it, rolled up in a cardboard tube. My ultra-dangerous lip balm is in a plastic sandwich bag.
After breakfast, Rowan's stepdad comes to take us to the airport, which again, is very kind of him. Her mom and stepdad have been marvelous to allow us to stravaig aboot, by watching the kids as needed. It has been a wonderful visit, all the way around. We crunch out to the car and load up. I give Lena a hug good bye and leave enriched with her artwork.
This trip is a little different from the trip in -- Rowan and I are not meeting each other in 3D for the first time; we are no longer a little ill-at-ease with each other. We are quiet, and we chat of this and that. I think that we are both tired and I am a little preoccupied with travel thoughts ... do I have my passport, what time is it at home, will I have a good seatmate, am I going to get hung up in customs? That kind of stuff. This time we take the freeway, not the back roads to Edinburgh, and make good time. I wonder if I will be brave enough to drive the next time I come here.
I look at the car clock and start to get a little nervous -- it is much later than I had hoped. Instead of having an hour buffer, it looks like I am going to have substantially less. I begin to hyperventilate a little. I am not sure how we have lost so much time. When we drive into the airport, I stifle the urge to yell, "stop the car!" and merely say, in a tense sort of way, that I will get out. Although they do not have to do so, Rowan and her stepdad say that they will park and meet me in the terminal. I grab my cases and trundle off to the ticket counter. It takes a while to get to the ticket counter -- the signs are a little confusing, and I am nervous because I am much later than I would like to be. The line is looooong, and some of the people in front of me are leaving on a later flight, and I am just about to have a panic attack.
I looked at the clock in disbelief -- it is an hour earlier than I had thought -- an hour earlier than the car clock in Rowan's stepdad's car. I realize that his clock is an hour late. I am not late, but am just right -- just as I am handing over my passport and reeling from the blood rushing to my head, Rowan and comes to say good-bye.
I am not a fan of long good-byes, so I thank her stepdad, most sincerely, for his help. He went above and beyond in the hospitality department. Rowan and I hug goodbye, and I tell her that I will let her know when I get home. It is quick, because I am close to the front of the line, and I shoo her away -- my mind is already occupied with the trip home. We will see each other again, for sure. They depart, and I watch them disappear into the crowd.
I am trying to impress the sound of Scottish voices in my mind -- and I remember what it was like to arrive in the airport for the first time. I don't feel much like a visitor. I have been enriched by the experience. It has been a great trip.
I get through the ticket counter -- there was some hang up, one I can't remember right now, but I had to wait for a bit at the counter. Oh, I remember, it was to do with the electronic boarding pass -- I had printed it out before I left the US, and there was some confusion about it, as the ticket people had apparently never seen such a thing. I am getting irritated. And worried. And when I get worried, I get irritated.
Finally I get through the ticket line with my two bags and poster tube. When I say two bags, I mean one carry-on and my purse. Please remember that I just left the ticket counter with these items, clearly observed by all of the counter personnel. There is a little pub-ish place where I get a coffee (I remember when Rowan and I peeked in on the way to London) and a mini-Boots, which I quickly look into, again remembering walking through with Rowan. I finish my coffee quickly and I get to the security screening line and am informed that you are only allowed to have one bag. I goggled at the person. I just left the ticket counter and all of my luggage is checked. I stomp over to some chairs and begin throwing away unnecessary items -- not that there are many (good-bye tuna and sweetcorn sandwich that Rowan made for me) -- and manage to cram everything into one bag. Thankfully, I travel light, but it was not an easy task. I have to cram, and I do mean cram stuff into my larger bag. I can't zip it. Things are stacked on the top of my open bag, but I only have one bag, so technically it is all good. The same amount of stuff in one bag is less dangerous than the same amount of stuff in two bags, apparently. My poster tube is laying across the top of my bag and there is just enough room to get my fingers at the top of the handle to carry it. Not the most comfortable arrangement, but workable. I have no idea why they did not tell me that I could only take one bag at the ticket counter ... grrrrr. I might have hated the people at the baggage counter for a moment or two.
We don't have to take our shoes off, for a mercy, but we have to practically strip when getting our bags x-rayed.
I get into the second waiting room and once again curse the lack of wheels on my bag. I get a slice of quiche, as I am starving. I nostalgically over-pay and I settle in to read for a bit before getting on the plane. I check the boarding information like one hundred times, waiting to find that I have messed up the time. Finally, I get on the plane and find, to my delight, that I have a whole seat to myself. No seatmate! Bliss. I rearrange my stuff and settle in to read. Here are some shots outside the plane as we take off over Edinburgh.
This is the city as we leave. I think it is lovely. I heart Edinburgh.
Straightening out over the Firth of Forth.
And over the countryside.
Pretty, no?
I feel like I am wrapping things up, taking pictures of the countryside as I leave, impressing the images on my mind.
These are the colors that I remember from the window of the train.
And we turn to head out over the Atlantic. I am officially a trans-Atlantic traveler. Hard to imagine that, really.
I always like being above the clouds. It is a nice trip so far -- the extra space is a bonus. About now, I have pulled out my magazines that I did not read on the way out. I have a copy of People Magazine that I brought from home -- the Sexiest Man or something issue. I look at the cover and then do a double-take. There is a familiar, but unexpected face on the magazine cover. I burst out laughing, because my husband has taken a picture of himself and glued it on the cover. It is hilarious and I miss him quite desperately. I am soooo glad that I did not throw the magazine away in the Great Edinburgh Airport Divesture.
The flight attendant comes by later, and sees the magazine and makes a comment about the cover, saying something about George Clooney, I think it was. Laughing, I show her my husband's handiwork. She is so impressed that she takes it back to the back of the plane to show to the rest of the crew. It is a big hit and she tells me that I have a keeper. I know -- after 17 and a half years, my husband still makes me laugh as much as ever. He is smart and funny and kind and does not grudge his wife trans-Atlantic flights. There is no way that I would be as accommodating, I have to say. I will have to make it up to him ...
The flight seems much faster this time, and very quickly, we are over the ocean. I look up from my book and I catch the first glimpse of land -- I know it for Greenland this time. I remember the flight attendant on the trip in saying that if it is green, it is Iceland and if it is white, it is Greenland. It seems a long time ago.
It looks white to me.
I wonder where we are ... When does Greenland become Canada? Or Newfoundland or Nova Scotia or wherever it is that we are. Should I be more embarrassed at my lack of knowledge?
I am irresistibly reminded of the Penguin Encounter at Sea World. I love that place.
I wonder what those lines are -- roads?
Where is Jack Bauer when you need him?! The plane does not seem to be threatening to shoot us down, though.
It is still there, and I am a little nervous. Don't they have laws about planes being too close to each other? That plane is practically looking up our nose.
I ask the flight attendant what she thinks that the straight lines are, and we think it must be a road, but it looks all snowy. The flight attendants are much nicer on the way back than they were on the way out. We talk about her recent trip to Edinburgh, her first with her husband.
Well, I looked out the window as we went south to Atlanta, but nothing much more interesting or picture worthy. I waved hello to all of the Southern Monkbots as I flew over. When they said that we were over Mississippi, I waved. Hi, Shelley!
I was very excited to get off in Atlanta, as my cell phone finally worked properly. I had about two hours in Georgia, long enough to get some lunch and to stretch my legs. I collected my one over-stuffed bag and poster tube and went through Customs. You have to collect your bags and re-check them in as you enter the country. I re-organized my one heavy bag into the two original smaller bags and got a cart and trundled over to the baggage area. It took a long, and I do mean a long time to get my suitcases. I think that mine were the last to be put out. Visions of lost luggage began to dance through my head. I was really glad that I had my computer with me.
I rechecked the bags and went through security again. It is at this point that my poster tube was confiscated, as being oversized. Please remember that it was checked in at Edinburgh with no difficulty at all. I was re-routed through to the "oversized carryon" counter where it was taken away. I was assured that it would be at my final destination. I asked if that was for sure, and I was reassured that it was. I was not convinced, but three people swore to me that the poster tube would get there with no difficulty and would be waiting happily for me at my destination.
I went on through and got lunch while I waited. A young woman commented admiringly on the jacket that Rowan had given me, a lovely teal one with Celtic petroglyphs on it. She had been studying at the University of Edinburgh and found them familiar. She said that I was wearing all of her favorite symbols. She was traveling back to California, as well. I left messages for folks that I was alive and well and on the way home. Rowan emailed me, and it came through on my phone, and once again, I marveled at technology.
It was interesting to be in the US again and to hear Southern accents. There was a Scotswoman talking on a pay phone as I walked to the gate, and I got a little pang, realizing that I was not going to hear that accent for a while.
It was about a half an hour before we boarded that I was stuck with the realization that there was no address on my poster tube. I went to the counter and said that I thought that there was no way that my stuff was going to make it to my destination. I was asked to show my claim ticket, and admitted that I had not been given one. Apparently, I was supposed to get one, but the crack TSA staff took away my stuff and did not give me one, despite the fact that there were three of them clustered around me, telling me that my posters would get to California. How did they know? What was I thinking, to TRUST THE TSA?? I deserved to lose my stuff for that alone. Anyway, it took a number of phone calls to everywhere from lost and found to the Delta baggage counter to verify that my stuff was lost. I was very sad ...
I learned a valuable lesson though, about getting claim tickets and following your own instincts, even when you are confronted with the scary TSA people who have the power of life and travel and getting home over you.
I was on the phone, trying to hunt my stuff down, even as we were on the tarmac ready for departure. I was one of those obnoxious people who had a cell phone glued to her ear as if what she had to say was soooo important that she couldn't hang up. Needless to to say, my stuff was not waiting for me at home and every one that I spoke to agreed that the TSA had botched it. I ended up getting a claim reimbursed, but That Was Not The Point.
Ah well.
I got off the plane at home and was greeted by my husband and the boys. My husband looked very handsome and some part of me eased when I saw him. Being with him feels like home -- he snuck up on me, just to get the reaction. I was reminded that it had been a long time since we had seen each other. It was a lovely kiss hello. My youngest did the traditional "run across the airport" to greet me, and I got all choked up. Let's just say that he has good dramatic instincts, but it was heartfelt. My oldest boy gave me a hug and mumbled hello. It was so good to see them -- it felt like a million years that I had been gone and I was all full of new experiences.
So, I went off to the UK to see a friend that I met over the Internets, which, in general, is not a good idea. In this case, however, it was a very good one. We had a wonderful time, exploring London and Edinburgh and Dundee. It was an adventure for sure. Somehow, across a continent and an ocean, we have become fast friends. My husband says that we deserve each other -- which is a high compliment. We are both refugees from the academic feminist world and have small children. Rowan knows more about literature than I will ever know and has a wide sentimental streak combined with journalist's observing, wry, eye. We are both marching into the world of the middle-aged woman, sans elastic-waisted pants. I refuse. Rowan has a wonderful twisty sense of humor. She hates pizza and avocados (which I do not understand) and is enamored with a great turn of phrase. In a lot of ways, we are more similar than we are different. We "get" each other, which is a great basis for friendship. I like that she is smart and funny and has a bit of a kick to her gallop.
I would say that one of the best ways to see a new place is with a friend who lives there, and I got to do that. She also shared her world with me, seeing it fresh through my eyes. It is her turn next, so stay tuned. I wonder what Rowan will make of California?
We are planning our next stravaig, now that Rowan sees that the world is not too scary and strange. I think that she needs to come out this way soon. Dublin would be fun. London, of course, is a must-do. I have my eye on Spain, as well. I have barely scratched the surface of Scotland.
The world is a wide-open place, waiting to be explored.
(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 andda – 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.
