On Hostels

Gabriella Miyares (whose illustrious blog is linked on the right) and crew descended on Scotland last weekend for a three day highland romp. Sunday night meant catching up over beverages and backpackers fare at The Castle Arms, and as things go, we ended up going out and doing a little faceshaking. It was a UNC invasion and Edinburgh wasn't ready.

I ended up crashing with them at High Street Hostel and catching the train back the next afternoon. It's been almost a year and a half since I stayed in a hostel, and I had forgotten how infuriating they can be. I can say that Scottish hostels (particularly MacBackpackers hostels) are probably the best in Europe: the breakfasts are filling, the people are sufficiently eccentric, and the beds have two pillows instead of one. I had the best sleep of my entire life in the Lochbuie guest house in Kyleakin on the Isle of Skye (although that may or may not have been because of the entire bottle of Cairn o'Mohr wine I had with dinner), and the Fort William hostel is lovely and worth mention as well.

I'd say the worst hostels in Europe -- if you're asking -- are in Poland, but I guess that kind of goes without saying. That story is long, a little gruesome, and has nothing to do with last weekend, so if you really want to know about Polish hostels you can email me or visit www.don'tstayhere.com/Poland.

The tricky thing about hostels, no matter how wonderful they can be, is how you are generally forced to share a room full of bunkbeds with twelve or thirteen total strangers, and more often than not those strangers fall into one of four categories:

1. The Wake Up Early and Unzip My Bag 47 Times Man (also known as Plastic Bag Man)

This person generally sets their sleek travel world clock to 0700 hours, slips in their earplugs, and drifts off into a precision sleep in order to have plenty of rest for a new day chockablock with cultural enrichment and intelligent observation. They can be spotted by their matching North Face gear and flesh-coloured money belt. Sometimes, if they are/were an English major, they can be found in the lobby jotting down witty anecdotes in their travel moleskin and sipping a mug of complimentary tea (no sugar).

They usually wake up in the morning without so much as a yawn, spring to the bathroom, and come back to dress for the day (in more fresh North Face) after a splash of cold water and a quick sun-salutation. It is at this point that the zipping and unzipping process begins. Since this person is generally deeply OCD, every item in their backpack is compartmentalized through a complicated matrix of plastic bags, and so the next 30 to 45 minutes of your morning will be spent restlessly tossing and turning as Plastic Bag Man reorganizes 743 crinkly plastic bags. Just when you think that Plastic Bag Man is finished and headed for the door there is often a pause and then the whole process repeats itself, only this time he is doing it right beside your head.

2. The Get In At 4:30 AM And Flip On All The Lights Man

Ok, so I guess I can't rag on Lights Man too hard because I've totally been that person... but there's always at least one in every bunch. This is generally the person you see down at the check-in counter paying in pennies. More often than not they are wearing a damp woollen sweater and cordorouy pants (if male) or a spaghetti strap tank top and filthy, wrinkled jeans (if female). Usually their belongings are tied to the outside of their pack and everything about them smells and looks like whiskey. They usually throw their few possessions on the bunk and head out for the evening. They will not be seen again until they are stumbling up the stairs singing HERE I AM ROCK YOU LIKE A HURRICANE and carrying a stolen pint glass. They will then burst into the room, flip on the lights, wake everyone up, and pass out on their bed after taking off only one shoe. Oh, and they will always snore.

3. The Evil, Wicked Long-Term Stay Man

The one thing you must know about this rare breed is that they are without question the most fiercely territorial people you will ever meet. If they could get away with it they would probably pee on every bed in the room to mark their territory. In fact, I'm pretty sure this has happened at some point in the past. These are the people who live full-time in hostels for one reason or another, and generally are wretched and miserable. I should say, however, that my good friend Nigel lived in Castle Rock Hostel in Edinburgh for two months and he is a delight. I guess he is the exception. Please, if you are living long-term in a hostel and have mysteriously stumbled across this blog, shoot me an email and explain yourself.

4. The Perenially Naked Man

This one pretty much explains itself. There is always one, and he is usually German.

VIVA LA NIGHT HIKE

On Friday night I went on a night hike through the jungles of Fife with the indefatigable Casey Hull and a merry bunch of Breakaway-ers. We took a late night bus to Strathkinness, a village about 7 miles due West of St. Andrews, and wound our way back to town through moonlit pastures, spooky woods, and the hallowed ground of the old course (ssshh). The weather was perfect: crisp and quiet. The stars were out. How picturesque! you might be saying to yourself. And it was!

Dramatic? Yes.
Serene? Not quite.
Well, it was dark. And slippery. I fell down a lot.

Casey took about 50 pictures during the hike and most of them are of me in various stages of falling down.

Here I am falling over a log:


... careening over a rock wall:


... stumbling over a dead body:


... holding on to something upright and praying for daylight:


... embracing my fate and doing a preemptive lean:


I will close with a group shot of almost total blackness. We're lined up on the bridge to a castle. I'm the one with my arm stuck out like a dumb American. It was spooky, y'all! Breakaway says Happy Halloween!

Bike It

So, you may or may not know this about Europe, but having a bike is kind of a big deal. I wouldn't go as far as to say that Scotland is anything like Amsterdam as far as bike-riders go, but I can say with confidence that the student/bike ratio in St. Andrews is extraordinarily higher than it is at UNC. I had a bike at UNC, and man was I a wizard with that thing. It was my dad's mountain bike from circa 1984 (when mountain bikes were NEW and fad-ish) and had an amazingly heavy frame that was most likely made of solid iron ore. It must have weighed about 85 pounds, but when I was on it, well, it hummed. I could get from the front porch of my house in Carrboro to the doors of Greenlaw in about four minutes flat. I could ride it through 5 o'clock traffic while wearing platform shoes, a skirt, and a blindfold. I was that good.

Anyways, one of the first things I missed when I got here was having a bike. It is a thirty minute walk to town from my building, uphill, and on most days I spend an average of 2 hours just getting back and forth from class. Ridiculous? Yes! So, the hunt for a bike began.

Now, I need to establish some things for you. First of all, the exchange rate. It's ridiculous. I can't buy a new bike for anything less that 100 pounds (or 99.99 if you don't like rounding up) and with the exchange rate that makes a new - yet still pretty crappy - bike cost around 200 dollars. I know, whaaa? Then I have to shell out even more for a lock, a mud-flap (essential in the torrential Scottish rain), and a head light (also nessecary in Scotland because come November it will start getting dark around 3 pm). I don't know about you, but the thought of spending 200 dollars on a poor man's mountain bike is not my idea of transportation.

Ok, second of all: everyone wants a bike in this town. Technically St. Andrews is a "city" because it has a cathedral in it... but that cathedral was torn down during the reformation and all that remains is a burnt-out shell standing by the shore. See for yourself:

So basically St. Andrews is a glorified town. If I was in a city I imagine the pool of bikes would be proportianately higher and getting one for your very own would resemble less of a blackmarket operation, but for now suffice it to say that there are probably 35 bikes in St. Andrews and 564 people who want one.

I started looking online at the St. A's messageboards about three weeks ago. I checked the "Swap Stuff" thread every day, but somehow each time a bike would go up I would get beaten to it by 431 other people who were probably, like me, sitting in front of their computers pale-faced, unwashed, and hitting the refresh button over and over again.

Two days ago, however, my luck turned. I logged on and saw 'Ladies' Bike For Sale! 40 Quid!' right at the top. No replies! Posted 2 minutes ago! I sprung. The girl sounded a little flustered when I called her up a mere three minutes after the add appeared. It probably didn't help that I started out with "HI- HI- YESIAMCALLINGABOUTTHEBIKE! PLEASEOHGODPLEASE DON'T SELL IT!!" Anyways, we arranged a "meeting" on a "streetcorner" at 5 pm the next day. The end of our conversation went something like this:

Her: Great, so I'll meet you then. [long pause; sounded like something heavy fell over in the background] It's forty quid. [she continues in a barely audible whisper] bring the caaash.
Me: um, ok... [bells go off in head; this sounds most certainly like some kind of bad deal is going to go down. Suddenly hoping that 'used bike' doesn't mean something else in Scottish.]

Anyways, I'll spare you the particulars. We met, it wasn't sketchy at all, and I bought the bike from her right there on the street corner. So desperate was I for a bike, in fact, that I didn't even bother to ride it around a little bit beforehand -- a gross error on my part and one that I found myself paying for in spades as I wobbled my way home.

The bike was about five sizes too small for me even with the seat raised all the way up, so as soon as I started out I got the singular sensation of feeling my right knee slam into the bottom of my jaw. And then the left... and so on as I pedaled my way down North Street. "This will not do" I thought with a chuckle, and then in a blare of horns and skidding of tires I realized I was riding down the right hand side of the road like any well adjusted American would do. It was at that moment, with a knee in my jaw and a look of mixed emotions, that I realized the brakes didn't work too well.

I will have to try to resell the bike online tomorrow. I have been composing the add in my head and I think it will go something like this:

Ladies' Bike For Sale! 50 quid! Must go to someone under 4'11" who enjoys living on the edge if ya know what I mean. Call to arrange meeting. Bring caaaaash.

Glen Lyon with Breakaway: The Photo Tour

This Sunday I dragged myself out of bed at 6:30 to join the rest of the Breakaway-ers for a day of heather-trampling and hillwalking in Glen Lyon. I would write more, but my whole body is sore and typing is difficult. It was absolutely stunning. Weather was gorgeous, people were lovely, and I am woefully out of shape... but I'll let the photos speak for themselves:

(click on photo to make bigger and increase awe-factor)

Early morning in St. Andrews (leaving my building)

Here we go!

Up through the clouds

Well that's real nice.

We are headed for that peak in the clouds...

THE SUMMIT.

Did I mention that I pretty much love the highlands?

Run away!

The descent

Something bad happened here...

To the pub!

This last photo was taken by one Nick Dunstone. That's me right thar taking a photo like a regular japanese tourist.

Live it, love it.

Special Photos For Special Moments

Meghan snapped this photo of me as I opened my birthday care package from one Adam Austin. Let's just say I was very excited to see the Hidden Valley. Also included: instant grits, luzianne, mast general store candy, and bisquick. Bring on the southern foodstuffs, ma'am!

Let's see... some other things have happened since Wednesday besides getting a box full of ranch in the mail, but they all seem to pale in comparison. Thursday was my day of Scottish furniture and it was (of course) fabulous. I am going to a furniture auction next Wednesday evening with my professor at a place called MacGregors. Goal? A kist or a kreepie stool. I'm not sure how I will get these items back, but I do know that I basically have to have at least one of them in my posession before the end of term. Kists are sort of like American blanket chests and kreepie stools are basically low, handmade wooden stools. Scottish furniture has replaced Ranch as my new (and slightly healthier) obsession.

Tonight I'm going to a CALGARY STAMPEDE PARTY replete with country western tunes, handlebar mustaches, and good ol' fashioned Scottish boot-scootin'. Sadly I left all my western wear in North Carolina, so I may just go in normal clothes with a bandana tied around my face like a bandit. I just have to remember to take the bandana off if I want to go anywhere else because I will probably be arrested.

Tomorrow I'm off on a Breakaway day trip to Glen Lyon. Stay tuned for sweet pics! Hooray!

Boozeday Tuesday

Tuesday in St. Andrews is called Boozeday. Wednesday is a university-sanctioned free day (so the athletic clubs can travel about and play matches), and pretty much everybody goes out on Tuesday night. Alice, Emily, Meghan, and I joined the throngs yesterday evening for a "quiet bev" at the Lizard... and as it goes, we found ourselves at Tesco around midnight buying danishes and flapjack. In related news, we have changed Boozeday Tuesday to Tesco Tuesday and vowed to go to the gym at least three times this week.

I had a great day today. I joined the Breakaway Club (see the website here) and signed up for the trip to Glen Lyon on Sunday. Everyone I met at the meeting was warm and enthusiastic, and I can't wait to get back out in the highlands, so I'm excited about the trip this weekend. Hurrah! The Great Outdoors!

Alice [pictured above] and I hopped in her car this afternoon and scooted across the Tay bridge to Dundee for the afternoon. We spent some time trying on piles of beautiful things at Zara and Topshop (mmm, pilgrimmage) and had an enormous dinner of pizza and salad in the town square. We had the best time dancing in the car on the way back and laughing when we both got chills at the first glimpse of St. Andrews. I wish I could box her up and bring her back to North Carolina for a day or two, because you would all think she is the absolute tip tops. A typical Alice voicemail goes something like this: "Hiiiiiii lovey! I want all the goss! -- something totally unintelligible-- OK See you in a min' byyyeeee! Loads of love!" and then she drives up to my dorm at approximately 250 miles per hour and we tear off, blasting Ludacris and scattering pedestrians and golfers in our wake.

Anyways, word is slowly leaking out about the job I'm considering applying for (part time curator at the nearby Folk Museum) so I'm just going to mention it here and let you know that I'll keep you posted. The application isn't due until October 30th, so I have a few more days to get things together before I turn it in. They are asking for people with postgraduate degrees, so I'm pretty confident I won't get it, but I think it is worth going through the process just for the experience. Right? Right. Well, cross your fingers anyways.

OH -- guess who gets to see the Avett Brothers on New Years eve? Yeah, this girl. Holla.

Love and miss, darlings. And don't eat a whole box of danishes, even if you didn't have dinner and everyone else is doing it. You will have to be rolled back to your room and hate yourself for at least a day. And that's the truth.

A Night in LATVIJA (raises fist triumphantly)

So I went to Latvia this weekend. Turns out there's not much there, but now if anyone ever asks "hey, have you been to Latvia?" I can say yes. Similarly, if anyone ever asks "have you ever been to Estonia?" I can say no, but I've been to Latvia and they are very near to each other.

Latvia was actually very beautiful and very... Slavic? There's nothing like leaving Western Europe Proper to really feel like you're not in Kansas anymore. The signs are completely unintelligable. You know how when you're in Amsterdam and you're looking for the bathroom and you see a sign that says something like "VonToileets" you think oh, that must be it? Well, that doesn't happen in Latvia. I was in the train station trying to figure out where my hostel was on the map, and I had to choose from three streets dubiously named Brivibas Bulvaris, Valku iela, and Strienieku iela. It seems to me that when the powers at be set about naming the streets in Riga that they just let their cat walk across the keyboard a few times and went with it.

I walked to the tourist information center (on Ratslaukums iela?!) to get a map and change some money. The streets in Riga are amazingly serene. I had a great stroll through the city and was struck by the number of people walking along with smiles on their faces. No one was talking on a cell phone or listening to an ipod. They travelled in twos and threes, conversing pleasantly and generally enjoying the late Saturday weather. And they have a reason to be happy -- Latvia celebrates its 37th year of independence in 2006. They have been conquered and reconquered so many times over the years that the last 37 have been the longest stretch of freedom the country has ever had. Isn't that amazing? Riga is pretty much the only city of note in the whole country, but it makes up for it in street after street of beautiful Art Nouveau architecture and Soviet Realist sculptures.

I got to my hostel as the sun was setting, and, I'm not sure how to tell you this, but it was called Friendly Fun Frank's. You can check out their website here. The hostel is run by a group of fantastic aussies, and I got handed a free pint with my room key. Amazing! I met some great folks in the commons (French Canadians and a South African) and went out for a drink with them. We went to a place called Pulkvedim Neviens Neraksta (say THAT three times fast after a couple cocktails!) and I tried the Latvian national liquor called Balzams. Balzams, they tell me, is made from berries and herbs. I find this hard to believe, however, because I've had lots of berries and herbs in various combinations throughout my life (even those red ones your mom tells you not to eat in the woods) and I've never had anything that tasted quite so much like cat piss. It was awful! I should have known better, seeing as it was the French Canadians who were trying to get me to drink it and you know those Canadians will drink anything. Even cat piss.

Anyways, we staggered back to the hostel (passing Riga's only gay club called -- get this-- XXL! You have to ring a buzzer to be let in through the "back door." Heavens!) and said our goodbyes for the evening. I snuggled up in my sleep sheet and slept like a lamb.

The next morning I decided to have a walk around the city Lonely Planet-style before catching my flight back that afternoon. I walked along the river to the Freedom Monument (Brivibas Piemineklis), passing old Soviet monuments on the way. There is a rather striking monument to Lenin's bodyguards called the Latvian Riflemen Monument (Latviesu Strelnieku Laukums) . It is severely carved from a big block of granite and looks very much like something a Soviet would make. I felt oppressed just looking at it:

I wandered around for an hour or so ruminating on the Soviets... Latvia is the closest I've ever been to Russia and it was kind of exciting. I took a Russian history class at UNC and grew up with a father (a Russian history major) who would buy me books like War and Peace and Nicholas and Alexandra if I promised to read them (I did). So, being this close to Russia was kind of like being in New York City and knowing that someone famous was in at least a five mile radius of you, it was just a matter of getting to where they were.

I stopped for lunch at a small shop that I could not tell you the name of, but it could have been something along the lines of Ujfdkyslhhaiela Sandwich shop. I had a delicious dough pocket filled with meat, potatoes, and carrots. I also had one of THOSE conversations (you know the type where you look ignorant) with the owner that went something like this:

Me: (non-verbal pointing at sandwich under glass)
Owner: You want this?
Me: Oh! (flustered, he speaks english!) Yes, please.
Owner: Where are you from?
Me: (pause) ...I'm French Canadian
Owner: Ah, oui? Vous parlez francais?
Me: Oui, oui!
Owner: (something totally unintelligable, could have been French)
Me: (smiles benevolently) er, um...How much?
Owner: (Holds up five fingers) quatre LS.
Me: Ok, thank you very much! Goodbye!
Owner: Au revoir! Bon chance!

I am always doing this. Telling people I am Swedish or French Canadian and then digging my own grave. It was nice though, he was very sweet and his sandwich was excellent. After gulping down my dough pocket I had a few more hours to walk around so I strolled haphazardly through the city looking at the architectureand groping produce in the market.


Anyways, I'll end there. My flight back was uneventful, and it turns out the most expensive thing I had to buy all weekend was my bus ticket back to St. Andrews! Would I go to Latvia again? Probably not. Am I glad I went? You betcha.

Do you know what I heard the other day? You can travel to Iran now. Who's up for it?

Latvia?

I think I might go to Riga this weekend-- the plane flight only costs 99p! That might be because no one really wants to go to Latvia in October, but I think it's worth a go.

Ok, I really want to go because of the soundtrack to Ragtime: The Musical. But don't tell anyone. Maybe I can find Tata and his little girl.

I'm also thinking of going to Santa Maria de Compostela in Spain and having a look at the great pilgrimmage cathedral. Easyjet flies right in there too!

Other than planning clandestine, last-minute jet sets, I've just been reading heaps of Jane Austen and looking at lots of slides of Scottish chairs. People keep asking me what I want for my birthday (seriously y'all it's coming up) and now I can tell you-- I want an Orkney chair. They are partially made of straw and look kind of like a basket. You can see one here.

Aren't they funny? I sat in one for two hours today during tutorial and it was excruciatingly painful. The pain of sitting in one, however, does nothing to diminish the aesthetic and cultural value of the Orkney chair. They kind of remind me of the baskets you can buy in the slave market in Charleston... do I smell a thesis?

In other (very) exciting news: I found a tiny delicatessen in town that carries American foodstuffs like jello, bisquick, and kraft macaroni and cheese! I KNOW! After a month of shoveling down mince pie and potato balls I almost cried when I saw the familiar blue of the kraft mac and cheese box winking at me from the top shelf. There was even a picture of Chuc E Cheese on the side-- Skee Ball! Animatron! Oh, the memories.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for experiencing foreign cultures and exotic foods... but I'm living in a catered hall where their idea of an entree is boiled cauliflower stewed in runny, yellow cheese. I paid five dollars for a box of macaroni and I am not ashamed. Oh, and to answer the inevitable question: no they did not carry ranch dressing. I asked.

Ok, off to more reading. I leave you with a picture of me being cold, as I see that the weather in North Carolina today is an agreeable 75 degrees. Soak it in, y'all.

o

CUPBOARD ADVENTURE

What else do you do when you have free access to a rare 16th century piece of furniture? Why, take a thumbs-up picture next to it, of course!

In other news... isn't it beautiful?!

That's all for today. I have about seventeen hours of work ahead of me. Love and miss, per usual.

Should I be concerned that the locals are wearing shorts?

Meghan and I went to Edinburgh this weekend to celebrate her birthday and get out of the St. Andrews bubble for a while. I've spent quite a bit of time in Edinburgh over the last two years or so, and it was nice to come to a place I have a working (albeit rustly) knowledge of. We did some shopping in New Town along Princes Street, walked the royal mile in Old Town, and had afternoon tea (twice!) in various tea rooms around town. Meghan hopped back on the bus home on Saturday evening and I walked back across town to see my Aussie loves at 11 Bread Street!!

Nige and Jo (pictured below devouring Edinburgher kebabs) are basically the most amazing friends of all time. They just got back from three months of travelling through all the places you would never think to go: Slovenia, Croatia, Romania, Turkey, Iran, and Morrocco.



I got to their flat around 6 and spent the next three hours laughing at all of their ridiculous travel stories. They rode camels in the desert, ran with the bulls in Pamplona, and went to a Pearl Jam concert in Croatia... basically, they are the type of people I would be if I had the ability to work ten months of a crap job for "three months of glory" (as Nige called it). I love, love, love hanging out with them whenever I get the chance, and this weekend was no exception. Oh, I guess I should mention that Alissa and Josh were there too and they are pretty fabulous as well.

Anyways, we went out around ten and managed to go to the two cheesiest clubs in all of Europe: Faith and Espionage. Espionage, as many of you know, is pretty much my lucky club (of Scottish volleyball team fame!) so we went there to see if that was still the case. Turns out NO so we hopped around for a while until 4 when we couldn't... go... any... further and came back home to crash.

We woke up on Sunday morning and watched BBC2 for a while before going to the Castle Arms for lunch. I hopped back on the train around 4 and got back in St. Andrews in plenty of time for dinner and homework! What a life it is to live this close to Edinburgh. Fabulous.

Ask me about my cupboard

So today was pretty much amazing... I'd like to start by giving a shout-out to everyone at Biltmore. You have no idea how many doors have been opened to me because of that internship. So many folks over here know of Biltmore, and as soon as it comes up in conversation (as it invariably does when talking about dec arts), my professor's eyes light up and they start taking me around town to show me things locked up in basements (so, doors are being opened both literally and figuratively I suppose).

I had my first Scottish Furniture class today and it totally reaffirmed my reasons for being here. I can justify packing up and leaving my family, my friends, and the life I had built in Chapel Hill for the few hours I spent in Room 6 today learning about chairs. There are only 8 people in my class for starters, a student-faculty ratio I haven't had the luxury of experiencing since my Asheville School days. We meet in a beautiful Edwardian room and sit around a giant mahogany table. The floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the gardens and the North Sea and slides are projected on a gilt-framed screen.

My professor is named David Jones and he is the consummate British professor type: all tweed and beard and eyeglasses. His passion for the material is evident every time he changes slides because he gasps a little. He is as surprised and excited as we are about each new image, and you can't help but smile as you take notes. The other students in my class are dilligent and bright and will speak up without being called upon. They each have a different perspective on furniture based on their respective concentrations within the school; one guy, for instance, is specializing in illuminated manuscripts, so he got really excited when we started looking at furniture from the southwest of Scotland because the Irish influence down there creates amazing potential for overlap (strapwork, interlacing and the like). Anyways, it's basically the best class ever -- and I haven't even told you the good news yet!

Each week a different student has to present on a topic of their choosing from a list provided by David. Selecting week 8, for example, would mean writing a paper on Thomas Chippendale's Paxton Commission; for week 10 you have to compare and contrast the research approaches of I.F. Grant and Ross Noble. It's all very diverse and exciting.

I stayed after class with David this morning to talk about which week I should choose. I was leaning towards something from week 8 or 9 so that I would have plenty of time to prepare, but he urged me to do the topic for week 3 (next week!) -- writing a catalogue description of a piece of Scottish furniture from 1660-1840. Instantly, months of bath linens flashed before my eyes and I thought 'Yes! Yes, I can do that!'

Anyways, he suddenly got really excited and said 'well, if you worked at Biltmore you've certainly had some experience with handling historic furniture and the like, how would you like to do something from St. Andrews' collection?! I know the perfect piece! Come on!' -- and off he went. We walked quickly out of the Art History building, through an alley, across Market Street (where I tripped on cobblestones! The shame- the shame!) and into the courtyard of St. Mary's college. The courtyard of St. Mary's is very, very old, and in the middle is a gnarled old tree that was planted by Mary Queen of Scots. We ducked through an archway on the right and went down some winding stairs to the sub-basement. He knocked on a huge wooden door and pulled out an enormous jangly ring of ancient keys and unlocked the door.

We stepped into a musty old room with low, arched ceilings. The walls were filled with oil paintings and the floor was a jumble of antique furniture. "There we are," said David, pointing to a hulking mass on the far wall, "the St. Andrews cupboard."

-- Can I just take a minute and say that this has to be one of the coolest moments of my life? I mean, The St. Andrews Cupboard? WHA? Ok, onwards --

David flicked on the lamps and we picked our way across the room. It is an exquisitely carved cupboard, a little taller than I am, with elaborately vine and bud designs on the panels. "Do you see anything interesting about the panels on this cupboard?" asked David. I immediately picked out a large thistle on the lower left... and then a rosebud above it... and then a daisy on the upper right panel. I knew from the hours of Shakespeare lecture with Dr. Armitage that the rose had to represent the Tudor family (yes!), and that the thistle probably represented some aspect of Scotland... but I was stumped by the daisy. David launched into a long explanation of the flowers and how each represented a person (Rose: Tudor King, Thistle: James IV, Daisy: Margaret Tudor) and how the cupboard was thought to have been made circa 1503 for the royal marriage of James and Margaret. It was clearly made by a Scottish cabinetmaker, as the thistle is about five times bigger than either of the other flowers, which I find mildly amusing.

You can go here to see an image of the cupboard and a short object description...

Anyways, it is perhaps the most beautiful antique I have ever seen; probably moreso based on the fact that it is stuck in some old room in the basement of a classroom building. I poked around, opening the doors and looking at the hinges while David started flitting around the room and showing me other pieces... it was my best thirty minutes in St. Andrews so far.

So hurrah! I made an appointment to come back on Monday to take photographs and make notes. Check back for more images and general excitement.

Changing gears: this weekend (well, tomorrow really) I am going to Edinburgh to visit my Australian friends Nigel and Jo. They are winding up six months of travel through the wilds of places like Morrocco and Slovenia so we are planning a proper get-together so they can tell me about their trip and I can tell them about... my cupboard. I owe them copious amounts of free food and drink seeing as they carted me all around Scotland in March when I came to visit St. Andrews, and they are also basically two of the nicest people in the world. I can't wait to see them! I'm also excited because Meghan is going with me and her birthday is on the 7th, so reasons for celebration abound!

Anyways, until Monday, be happy and healthy.
Oh! And if you need to reach me while I am away you can call me on my mobile: 7928778350.

love

After the sun goes Doon

My other car is... my feet

Schedule changes abound! Turns out Scottish Furniture was NOT cancelled, so now I'm taking that instead of European Art from 1800-1915. With that illustrious addition my weekly schedule rounds out at a mere four hours of lecture time per week. I only have class on Tuesday and Thursday. Insane. To be fair, I have about 46 hours of homework, but still. Loves it.

Walking everywhere is really whipping me into shape -- And How! It takes about thirty minutes to walk to lecture from my building. It might take less time if I didn't detour along the old golf course... but I am sort of attached to that route. There is something restorative about strolling along the 18th hole and watching the life-long dreams of middle aged men play themselves out on the green. A golf tournament starts this week (apologies to those who keep track of these things, but I have no clue which one) and I've been watching the slow assembly of grand-stands and caddy shacks over the last few days. For such a snug little town, St. Andrews always seems to be bustling over some new task and welcoming everyone and asking if they want a drink. It's a sweet little community and I'm happy that it is my home.

Additionally, the standard brand of soap in Scotland is called Fairy. I am currently washing my clothes with non-bio Fairy detergent. This makes me laugh and only furthers my theory that Scotland is the perfect place for Patrick Harrison.

Love!

What kind of hotel is this?

After spending Saturday morning exploring death and the human/sheep ratio of greater Fife, I spent Saturday evening painting the town with Meghan and Alice. We had a wonderful late dinner at Bella Italia and went for drinks at The Raisin and The Victoria Cafe. The three of us may get a flat (plus one JAMIE GAUL if she gets accepted to the spring semester program!!) for next semester. Dorm living is... er... wearing on us.

After drinks with Alfie and John Galvin ("like John Calvin!") at VC, we made a stop at Tesco to pick up proper English breakfast food to make on Sunday morning. We all chipped in and got porridge, bacon, tea, brown sugar, and cream and drove -- did I mention Alice has a car! Hooray!-- back to Andrew Melville for Bridget Jones, face masks, and bed.

On Sunday morning we woke up and dressed for chapel (that means red cloaks, boys and girls) and went upstairs to the kitchen to cook up breakfast. Our intentions were always the best. I don't really want to go into the details of what happened in the next few minutes because it's very embarassing, but suffice it to say that some bacon got burned and, well, the fire alarm went off. Two hundred bedraggled, hungover college students were forced to rouse themselves from bed and gather on the front lawn. It could not have been worse. I still believe that if anyone were to point us out ("over here! They did it!") that the lot of them would have fallen on us like a pack of hungry dogs. There were people standing outside in the early morning rain wrapped in bedsheets. One girl got out there, locked her knees, and passed out. My mortification and horror was complete. The three of us stood there for a bit and then silently turned and went up the hill to church.

The church service at St. Salvator's Chapel was absolutely brilliant. Seeing everyone file into the chapel wearing their red cloaks is a sight. If you, like me, are a lover of pomp and circumstance then I would strongly suggest coming along to a service at St. Andrews. The sermon -- words that make and words that break -- was delivered by an honorary professor of theology from the university. It was without a doubt the best sermon I've ever heard. The chapel choir (all in red robes!) made me cry. It's so nice to find the beauty in church-going again. I think I'll go next Sunday as well.

Sunday afternoon we watched polo on the beach, but that's a story for another day. For now, I've got to run to town and see about changing my schedule again. Turns out the art history class I signed up for is a little rudimentary for my tastes. I'm going to see if I can finagle my way into a 4000 level seminar on something suitably fascinating. Cross your fingers!