The National Gallery is home to my favorite painting, Botticelli's Venus and Mars, so naturally we went for a visit.
Marcus looks dubious.
If I see one more yokel in a flesh-colored moneybelt trying to fight upstream on the tube like a salmon ready to spawn I will have to hand in my passport.
We also celebrated belated Thanksgiving at Marcus' flat. Gabriella took an epic bus journey to be with us as well. It was just like Thanksgiving at home, only with less turkey and more British people. I made roast chicken, stuffing, sweet potatoes, cheese biscuits, Mama Dip's green beans, cranberry, and cheese cake. Gabriella's face in this picture pretty much sums it all up:
Ovens in England are fan-operated. Who knew? I miss the good ol' clunker at 600 N Greensboro. Remember when it caught on fire? Good times. I am happy to report that I survived cooking thanksgiving in England; temperature and measurement conversions included. Hurrah!
Stairs up to the flat. Penthouse? I like to think so.
Room with a view.
The world's largest bed in the world's largest bedroom. I can see the beach from that window. I can also see lots of the goings-on of my neighbors.
The kitchen has some lovely Scandinavian art on the walls.
Caleb lives on my windowseat. He also likes this picture because "you can't see my face." Oh, and it's dark at 4 pm.
It's that big: the world's largest bed. Oh, and it came with approximately 94 pillows of various sizes. None of them fit my pillowcases. See also some more Scandinavian textile art. Oh, and those are my clothes drying on racks. How old world, you might say.
And here's a picture of an academic family crammed in a phone box, just for good measure.
Surrounded by fog at the summit of the day's first Munro
The skiing in Scotland is so much better than say, Switzerland.
Panorama-mania continues. This is my favorite.
No doubt these fellas are tucking in to a giant plate of biscuits n' gravy... Nothing like a little sawmill to cure a hangover! Looking at this picture was honestly shocking for me. I haven't seen people like this in quite some time. Maybe it's the civil war hats, and maybe it's the deadly pink striped polo and blazer combo... but all I know is I really want a country ham biscuit right about now. Seriously, it felt like 20 years of being Southern slammed right down on top of me. I spend my time here covering up the accent, suppressing the use of "y'all" as much as possible, and using words like "queue" and "mobile"... but I can't deny that I know exactly what those hats mean. And I know a lot of people who wear them with pride.
And all I could think was What kind of strange double life am I living? And where do I belong now? You have to remember that these kids just paraded down a medieval cobblestone street wearing costumes and carrying giant objects with long Latin inscriptions. They are from places with names like Pickletillum and East Yorkshire. Most of them have never heard of Stonewall Jackson or Cracker Barrel (both of equal importance in my mind), and yet these are the people I eat, study, and live with.
This is the lounge. The flat comes fully furnished (most in the UK do), so I get to call that fabulous armoire my very own for 6-12 months. It's a fourth floor walk-up in an Edwardian building. That bay window looks out over the street and lets in plenty of golden Scottish sunshine.
This is the kitchen, with beautiful hardwood floors, a window-seat, and a sweet view over town. There is even a washing machine! Heaven!
Each first year (or at least those who choose to take part - it is not compulsory) is adopted by an academic mother and academic father - who are usually, but not always, in their third or fourth year. In one form or another, Raisin Weekend has been around since the very earliest days of the university. It was, and still is, a "rite of passage" for new students.
On Raisin Sunday, first years spend the day with their academic parents. First of all, they attend a tea party with their mother at which, traditionally, not much tea but a great deal of alcohol is consumed. Later, the children are collected by their fathers and the evening is spent in the drinking of yet more alcohol.
In return for their parents' kindnesses, the first year is expected to give them each a bottle of wine. This is deemed the modern equivalent of a pound of raisins (actually, the modern equivalent of a pound of raisins IS a pound of raisins) which was the usual gift way back in the mists of time when students had a bland diet (has this changed much?)
On the following day (handily called Raisin Monday) and after being woken up, sobered up, cleaned up, and dressed up in outlandish clothes, freshers are presented with their Raisin Receipts. These are written in Latin and is a way of acknowledging the gift of raisins. They always used to be on parchment. Nowadays, almost certainly, the receipt will be something large, embarrassing and cumbersome which has to be carried around.After all this largesse, children are paraded through the town until they arrive at Sallies Quad. En route, third years, fourth years and graduates of the university (if they are wearing their gowns) can stop any fresher and examine their Raisin Receipt. If they find a mistake in it then they can demand that the Gaudeamus be sung as punishment. Once at Sallies Quad, between 11 and 12 o'clock, a foam fight nearly always breaks out - it's almost traditional. The striking of 12 o'clock means the end of the fun for another year, and sees students slowly drifting off. Parents perhaps to have photos developed. Freshers, almost certainly, to sleep.
I am EXHAUSTED tonight and Raisin Weekend hasn't even started yet! Danger.
This is the chair of my life. I hope to die sitting in it, or something along those lines. It is made of Elm and "other woods" and is positively beautiful.
This is Market Street and, as the name would denote, is where all the shops are. Check the cobblestones and the hundreds of little chimneys. Where am I again?
That's right, I'm in SunTanDrews.
My path from English to Art History... walking on the left like a good Scot.
Who shells she shells by the shea shore? Those are classrooms on the right, frigid water on the left, and cliffs of death in-between.
Those sidewalks are getting medieval on you.
Danger: I walk along cliffs to get to class. That's the North Sea, y'all
And then there are the cathedral ruins at the end of town...
No big deal, just take a left when you pass through the FOURTEENTH CENTURY ARCH.
This is inside St. Mary's College, the part of the University where the cupboard is kept! Fun fact: that tree was planted by Mary, Queen of Scots.
This photo was viciously stolen from Gwen, but it is a good show of Scotland in the rain. This is what St. Andrews looks like every three days or so. It's not so bad, but that's because I'm really tall so my face is further away from puddles [wha?]
Time check: it's 4:30 in the afternoon and it's DARK. Please also note the glorious curtains I have in my room. They are magnificent and a living testament to the taste and good judgement of whoever selected them.
