Lay Your Head On My Star-Spangled Shoulder

I am just a few hours away from hopping on a plane bound for the States and the excitement is palpable. It's been a rather USA themed-day. Kenneth and I had burgers for lunch at the new Gourmet Burger Kitchen on George Street; I may or may not have sung God Bless America on the bus; and now I'm cleaning up the flat in my new favorite t-shirt (pictured above) -- a birthday gift from the irreplaceable Bridget 'B-Force' Mohan.

I have a marathon journey tomorrow. If you were flying from Scotland to South Carolina would you go through Germany? Well, Orbitz does. I have a six hour layover in Frankfurt. The only German I know is "Albrecht Durer" and "Die Zauberflote," which means I'll be fine if the man at the information desk is a fan of apocalyptic woodcuts or late 18th century Singspiels.

If all goes according to plan I will be landing in Charleston, SC tomorrow evening around 7 o'clock. If that doesn't work out, I'll be the one in the I'm famous in Asheville, NC shirt wandering around Frankfurt muttering Pa-Pa-Pa-Pa-Papageno under my breath.

Merry Christmas dear Scottish ones; see you in 2008!

The Best Little Stories of 2007, Vol 1

I was scrolling back through the blog recently and noticed a trend; that is, a lot of the smaller anecdotes from last year were tragically lost in the shuffle of major themes. I also managed to leave out a lot of the larger anecdotes -- particularly those occuring during trips abroad -- and that, my friends, is a grave error.

So, as the year comes to a close, I thought I would rectify those omissions with a new series: TBSO2007. And hopefully I will make it past volume 1.

Most of what is missing are the funny things that Jamie and I did together. Man, living with her was the best. What's that song? You don't know what you got 'till it's gone? Yeah, it's like that. We shared a bedroom and literally never fought. We travelled to Paris, Amsterdam, London, and followed The Avett Brothers around the UK in a manner not unlike a pack of pre-teen girls. Everything was a photo or fashion opportunity, and everything was funny. It was a great semester.

I knew it was going to be big fun from the moment I went to pick her up at the train station in Edinburgh. She had been travelling for days; every flight out of North Carolina was delayed, and after missing her connection in Manchester she decided to get on the train with what must have been a hundred suitcases and at least fourteen gallons of hair product (her unswerving devotion to product is one of the things I love most). We rolled loudly through the station with bottles flying everywhere, laughing crazily and generally letting Scotland know that Jamie Had Arrived. As we turned a corner a pidgeon flew at our feet. Jamie ran at it wildly and yelled 'get out of my way pidgeon! You don't know me!' -- and lo, our catchphrase for the next four months was born.

Everywhere we went after that; the Union, Tesco, the Musee de Cluny in Paris; we said it: "You don't know me, tuesday night Bop!" or "You don't know me, Den Haag!" It worked for everything.

By the time spring break rolled around we were itching to go someplace exotic, or at least somewhere that wasn't the three narrow streets of St Andrews. We decided to storm London, Paris and Amsterdam, as we knew native speakers in all three cities (it's the Queen's English in London, you see) and airline tickets were relatively cheap. In London we would see Harry Potter naked, dance the night away in chav heaven, and visit Botticelli at the National Gallery. Paris meant trips to the Louvre, taking lovers' walks along the Pont Neuf, and having baguette fights in the Jardin de Luxembourg. In Amsterdam we would visit the Anne Frank House, tiptoe through the tulips, and examine Vermeer's interiors. Oh, and, of course, spend some time hooker watching after we light up a big fat doobie. I know you were thinking it.

[Somewhere in Durham, North Carolina my grandmother just said 'Oh Lauren!' at her computer screen.]

We had been travelling for 10 days by the time we got to Amsterdam, and my throw-caution-to-the-wind traveling style had backfired big time in the accommodation department. We had arrived in town on a Friday afternoon (rookie mistake) and every rentable bed in the city that didn't belong to a window hooker was taken. We walked up and down the Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal until we were visibly perspiring and Dutch words started to look reasonable. It was at that point I knew the madness was setting in. I've been traveling around on a shoestring for a while now and never, ever have I been so defeated.

[Ok, that's not true, I once spent a lonely night on the floor of the Bad Schandau train station in the middle of the Czech Republic, my arms and legs wound through the straps of my backpack to ward off thieves, clutching a handful of money, and praying for daylight. That was maybe a little worse... but at least I wasn't so sweaty.]

I finally took us back to a place I had stayed two years before (the name escaped me then, and does to this day, but I remembered it because it was above a gay bar called The Getto) and practically begged the owner to find us a bed. All I will say about the hotel owner is that his name is Otto, he has a formidable beard, and he looks exactly like the type of man who might own a crumbly motel in Amsterdam. He also has cats. Lots of them.

Otto explained to us that he didn't have a bed left in this motel, but for a nominal fee he could rent us a small apartment across the city for the weekend. He could have charged us 80 euros to sleep in his beard with the cats and I would have said yes, so we happily trundled across town with Otto and his jolly wife to check out our new digs.

As we crossed the canal into the Red Light District I thought man, this is funny, we're in the Red Light District. Red Light District. Man. Hilarious. The prostitutes watched us pass with their steely gaze; one even tapped the glass like she was eyeing me at the zoo. Jamie managed to catch my reaction on film at the precise moment when I saw Otto reach for the door of our place, and they say a picture is worth a thousand words, so here it is:

[I like to think I look ironic and spontaneous, but the truth is if you could have heard my thoughts it would have sounded like this: ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod]

He took us through a series of six -- SIX -- locked doors to a third floor apartment that was surprisingly lush by our standards. We even had a tiny kitchen for making pancakes in the morning! My initial horror turned into infinite delight when I realized that we were staying in the Dutch Fort Knox and you could look down from our windows and see four different brothels. The people watching! My god! We showered and got ready to go back out (ok, Jamie showered and I just changed my pants) and Jamie managed again to capture my mood perfectly as we left the apartment:

Nice to meet you -- The name's Lauren and I'm darn glad to be here!

Charlie came down on the train from his home in Leiden and we hit the town for a big night out. There was dancing, Febo, and a man on fire. Since we're not 19 anymore we were ready for bed by 3 am, and Charlie offered to walk us back to the apartment and spend the night on the floor by the door for protection (good on him). By the time we got back to the apartment the brothels were in full swing. Immune to the hypnotic pull of the women in windows, Charlie fell asleep on our couch while Jamie and I moved idly to the window to witness the goings-on three floors below. We leaned our heads against the glass and stared down like people possessed, watching the stag parties and German tourists stumble by in raucous droves.

We must have stood there for an hour when Jamie broke the absorbed silence with a cry of panic: "Lauren! They're watching us!" Sure enough, a handful of working ladies had spotted us in our rear window glory and were glaring menacingly in our direction. I'm fairly certain one woman even pantomimed a stabbing motion as if to say simply, I Will Cut You. Jamie and I looked at each other in abject terror and simultaneously hit the floor -- anything to get out of the sight lines of the angry hookers before they could remember our faces well enough to describe them to their knuckle-cracking boyfriends. As we lay on the floor I looked at Jamie and said "what if they come up here and stab us for real?" She looked back at me, stood up slowly, and yelled out the cracked window: YOU DON'T KNOW ME RED LIGHT DISTRICT!

A Storm Cloud Hanging in Dystrophy

... I've been off the grid this past week due to a computer outage. Fed up with the Microsoft troubleshooter I decided to simply restore my computer to factory settings. I tell you what, nothing says 'Merry Christmas' like what is effectively a brand new computer. This is the third time I've had to wipe out my hard drive in two years. Discuss.

Anyways, just a wee note to say I'M BACK and I'm flying home on Wednesday!

Hundreds and Thousands

I've heard low rumours that my day-to-day movements are still mired in obscurity and you, dear readers, don't like it one bit. As attractive as it is to be a mysterious and elusive international citizen (in my mind, someone not unlike Pussy Galore), I thought I would write about my typical day -- in this case, today -- in an effort to clear up any misconceptions. I'm not sure how entertaining it will be, but everyone seems to like reality TV despite it being essentially boring, so here you go:

7:32 am: Wake up with pillow creases on my cheek. My bed is from Ikea and is nothing more than a glorified futon. The mattress is rock-hard and I sleep rougher on that slab of foam than I ever have before. I wake up befuddled and busted after the mattress beats up on me all night. But it's not the mattress's fault, really. It's mine. I make him do it. God, I love him.

7:33 - 8:27: Try on approximately 347 possible outfits, discard them all, and instead wear the same outfit (with a change of shirt) from yesterday.

8:32: Finish up breakfast of porrage oats and a pint of milky tea; wrap myself up in scarves, gloves, hats (plural), wellies; grab handbag and waddle out the door.

8:34: Stop at the fruitierers around the corner from my flat and buy three oranges. I go in that shop every morning, and I have never seen the shopkeeper off the phone. He wears a turban, but I'm not being racist.

8:36: Battle my way up Leith Walk through the hoardes of commuters, homeless, and people who are still weaving about, drunk from the night before. There is headstand-bucket man and burnt-face lady to contend with. Everyone wants a piece of me and it is often quite windy. The sun won't rise for another hour, so it's easy to feel like you never went to sleep and instead are just popping to the grocery store for some milk after a long day of work -- WAIT, YOU'RE GOING TO WORK AGAIN.

8:42: Step in dog poo, attempt removal on the side of a building. Just so happens it is the Louis Vuitton store.

8:54: Turn the corner onto George Street and break into a sprint. It's less of a sprint and more of that crazed-puppet-skip you do when you're running in a pencil skirt and three inch heels. In that last fifty yards I have been known to knock down bankers, executives, tourists and lines of school children. I don't discriminate; I am an equal opportunity hurrier.

9:02: Breeze through reception as if I haven't been running Forrest Gump-style down the poshest street in Edinburgh and wait seven minutes for the ancient lift (elevator) to groan its way down to the lobby.

9:04: Arrive at desk, hang up coat, put the kettle on. I have officially become addicted to tea. I'm not a person with many habits or addictions -- I can barely remember to floss -- but I find myself so desperate for a cup of tea in the morning that it borders on something much more dangerous.

9:06: Start up computer and gaze lovingly at my bursting in-tray. Black out for the next three hours.

12:06: It is lunch time? When did that happen? What have I been doing? Why are there 463 untitled excel spreadsheets open on my desktop?

12:06: Call Nancy and arrange to have lunch somewhere nice. In this case, a wee pub called Amicus Apple that is just around the corner from work. No one is just going to give you a two hour lunch break. You have to make that time yourself.

1:06: Could only take an hour for lunch; not as much of a BAMF as I thought. Start valuation for Erchless Castle in Argyll. Get hung up on spelling of 'Kircudbright' (pronounced Kur-koo-bree) halfway through the contents of the East Wing.

1:17: Charles, our senior valuer, calls from the road to ask about something; unfortunately he is driving through the midlands where they are still banging rocks together to make fire so a cell phone signal is out of the question. I hear "Hallo... gothic chairs ........ buy them, however ..... poppycock ...... cheers old bean." I hang up on him. I have difficulty understanding Charles when he is standing beside me. He talks like Hugh Grant, only deeper and more choppy. He also stores his canoe in the basement.

1:27: Laugh again about how everyone I work with sounds like Christina from Ugly Betty.

1:41: Find myself yet again in a situation where being an American is to my disadvantage: I have to address a letter to a man named Major Lord Sir James Falconer. Is it Sir Falconer, Lord James? Major F? Yo Jamie? I phone our managing director and ask her because she is posh, and I like to look as colonial as possible to the people in charge. She says it is Sir James and laughs that far-away laugh that means "you silly Yank."

1:45: Sign and address the letter four different times in an effort to get the S just right. You only get to write a letter to a knight so many times in your life.

2:02: Worry I am getting carpel tunnel, so spend four or fifteen minutes working out a way to raise my computer screen to eye level. End up stacking monitor on top of a pile of old Christie's catalogs, one of which has misspelled 'furniture' on the spine... wonder which proofreader got fired in May of 2000 and what they are doing now. Probably working for us.

2:27: Nancy calls and says she is FREAKING OUT because a painting she wanted from last week's sale was unsold and she could probably get it on re-offer for £100. We go downstairs to look at it. I tell her I hate Asian art (but not Asian people; again, not racist) and she says she loves it. We are at an impasse, so I say "I think it would look lovely in your flat" because that's the truth, Asian art or no.

2:39: Drink seventh cup of tea for the day, wonder where my steady hands have gone.

3:01: Neil makes fun of me for the 893rd time about the two expensive Japanese ceramics I destroyed last week. I didn't tell you about that, did I? Shame. Literally everyone at the office has a story about breaking a priceless antique. Kenneth snapped a table in half on his first day. I was something of a golden child for making it as long as I did without smashing anything, so needless to say that when I fell, I fell hard. When I was lotting up for the ceramics sale last week I managed to drop the detachable base of a cast-iron urn from the top of a high shelf. If it had hit the carpet it would have been fine, but somehow it managed to land smack dab in the middle of a pile of 16th century porcelain. The top two plates were destroyed -- and I don't mean they broke into several jagged pieces that could possibly be glued back together -- I mean they were reduced to a fine, 16th century handpainted powder. Our managing director was in the next room, too. After the terrible, heart-rending crash that sounded like what I imagine the end of days must sound like, she yelled "WHAT HAVE YOU DESTROYED." It wasn't a question.

3:02: I apologize for the 13287th time about reducing two valuable plates to fairy dust.

3:09: Call Nancy in her office so she can console me about the plates. She asks, "did you do it because they were Asian?"

4:12: Kenneth wanders around the fourth floor, stopping at everyone's desk to say hello. He gives me a piece of gum. He goes over to Bruce and asks if he wants a piece of gum. Bruce says "how old are you, aren't you coming up on 30 now?"

4:18: Attach images for the Seaward valuation and marvel over crap that clutters the homes of the wealthy. A white panther skin? Candlesticks made of silver-mounted ostrich feet? Yeah, I'd have both.

4:33: Wander downstairs to drop off a pile of letters that need posting and go to cast my vote for the office awards. Decide who to nominate for 'Rear of the Year' and then wonder whether they mean 'Great Bum of the Year' or 'Biggest Jerk of the Year' as these are quite dispirate interpretations. I nominate Iain because he could go either way.

4:45: Realize I have approximately four more hours worth of work to get through and only 45 minutes left in the day.

4:46: Debate the merits of staying late, remember I did it the last four nights, and put the kettle on.

5:30 Having spent the rest of the day writing this blog, I realize that even if I wanted to tell you about some of the things I work on during the day I couldn't. When I was hired I signed a confidentiality contract and, well, there's nothing like writing a blog about things you aren't legally allowed to talk about to make sure you get fired. Antiques dealing is serious business; don't let the swanky parties and foppish outfits fool you. If you betray us, we will break your legs.

Ok, maybe not. Regardless, it's 5:31, I'm going home.

Chapter Two: My Day in St Andrews -- oooh!

Britain 1, USA 0

-----Original Message-----
From: Harriet B
Sent: 10 December 2007 12:10
To: Edinburgh Office
Subject: Awards 2007


Dear All,

For those of you missing from the Monday morning meeting (and an extra reminder to those who were present):

At our Christmas party this Thursday there will also be an awards ceremony. Being democratic, I have devised a sophisticated voting system on the filing cabinet beside my desk. When you have time, please complete a voting form and put in the ballot box by 4pm Thursday.

Many thanks,

Harriet


-----Original Message-----
From: Lauren N
Sent: 10 December 2007 12:11
To: Harriet B
Subject: RE: Awards 2007


If you need any advice on running a proper democracy I will be available all week.

with love from The Mighty U.S.A.



-----Original Message-----
From: Harriet B
Sent: 10 December 2007 12:12
To: Lauren N
Subject: RE: Awards 2007


many thanks, L. perhaps you could help with counting the votes? ;)

HATTIE B!

Two Days in St Andrews: A Retrospective

Fellow Giorgione scholars.

The view from class.

Evelyn.

Slide exam.

David: deep thoughts.

Leuchars train station.

Our wayward scholar!

I Am Quite Gangster Myself

I'm not one to crave foods, but today I was pretty certain that if I did not get a turkey in my mouth I would most likely die. Goes to show you can only refute your god-given American Holidays for so long. I stopped by Tesco on the way home from work and picked up two turkey breasts, grilled them, and ate them within the hour. Bless you, pilgrims. I ate them the way we used to eat salisbury steak in the grade school cafeteria: spearing them with a fork and eating all the way around it like a turkey popsicle. Now that I've finished I can't stop thinking about stuffing. And yams. And pie. Mmm pie.

IN OTHER NEWS: Last night was the private view (or "PV" as the smooth operators call it) for the December fine sales. I descended from my fourth floor valuations cocoon to sip free wine and stalk the canape waitress around the first floor sale room. It was good fun; about 250 people showed up to do basically the same thing I did, though they did an excellent job of pretending to look at the items up for sale. Several funny things happened; particularly the Ikea clothes racks collapsing one after another under the weight of so many fine coats, but the prize winner was the little old lady who tried to steal a wheel of brie by placing it under her hat. A whole wheel! I also talked to a very intoxicated man whom Iain has dubbed "the last bastion of pure Englishness" about what it was like to deal antiques during WWII. He told me a funny story about finding an original copy of Ruskin in a tiny cottage in Pittenweem, and when he went to consign it his car blew up "because of the damn Germans." As I was placing that gentleman in a cab, David Jones arrived from Cupar and we shut the place down discussing the merits of wych elm dining chairs. Ah, furniture, an addiction undying!

I'd like to say a word or two about the Christmas spirit and that is, don't worry about Edinburgh, we've got it covered. On my way to and from work I would say I walk underneath approximately 4.8 million christmas lights. It's very festive. Princes Street Gardens, the lovely rolling park in the middle of town, has been crammed to bursting with a get-up that puts the NC State Fair to shame. There are fair rides, a German market and an ice skating rink. We tried to go ice skating on Sunday but were understandably deterred by the hoardes of inexperienced skaters with razor-sharp blades strapped to their uncontrollable feet.

In the merry spirit of the season I've taken a few photos around town to share with you, including this one of my work place, since very few of you have actually seen it:I should say, for the record, that Iain's office is in the basement and not underneath a BMW. The first four floors are salerooms and at the moment it's chockablock with some mighty fine antiques. Sadly they will be mostly sold by the end of the week, but I will always be thankful for the little time we had together.

Here is the Princes Street Gardens she-bang. Check out that FERRIS WHEEL.

See the ice skating rink? Go there and you have a good chance of having one or more fingers sliced off. Give the Scots some skates and they go crazy!

This was taken as I left work today, looking down George Street from the office:

As my dad says, Merry Christmas Dammit.

This rather inviting place is called The Dome, and it is a particularly fabulous pub just down the way from work. I'm pretty sure they pipe in the smell of cinnamon, because for real, it is the best smelling pub I've ever been to. It's like Bath and Body Works in there. Makes me want a christmas cookie something fierce. Here is what the inside looks like, just imagine the cinnamon smell and you're there:

Unlike my former neighbors, I wouldn't mind if they left their lights up all year.

And on a completely unrelated note, THIS glorious shop front is my favorite shop front in the whole world. Who needs Christmas lights when you have A THIRD EYE:

G Brigade is a Nepalese restaurant at the top of Leith Walk. I pass it every day. I'm pretty convinced I need to eat there at least once before I leave. The real question is whether I really feel that way or are the eyes making me believe it? I'm not sure. Feeling suddenly sleepy.... turkey or Gurkha Brigade? You tell me.

It's Saturday and It Isn't Raining!

What's Your Name? Where Am I?

[Give the people what they want: Scottish West coast sunsets mmm ooooh]

You know those weeks where you wake up on Friday and think, “Really? That was fast” -- and I don't mean that you are confused because it happened so quickly, but that you actually can't remember the last four days. Then you think "man, I hope I didn't blog anything stupid while I was blacked out" and you look and you didn't. Phew. This was one of those weeks for me.

The thing is, as I grow older and start doing things like "working" and "standing in line at the post office," the blog becomes harder to write. Life in Scotland is at times exotic and hilarious, but lately it's been frustrating and monotonous. Turns out working part time at a difficult job while being a full-time masters student is not the tiptoe through a rose garden I thought it would be. And I want to give you rose gardens! I want to make you laugh! Trouble is, a desk job and a pile of reference books won't cut it.

The truth is, I work all the time. When I'm not working I am reading, and when I'm not reading I am sleeping uncomfortably on public transit, and when all of that is finished I collapse into my Ikea bed and start all over again. Last year I had time to teach myself to play the banjo, curate a folk museum, throw dinner parties, travel to far-flung places, swim in the North Sea at 4 o'clock in the morning, and write (what I considered might be) humorous entries about my new life in an odd little country where the men wore skirts and the traditions were baffling. And it was fun! It was so much fun.

Bottom line: now, as I wade through the detritus of my postgraduate life, sometimes I just don't feel funny. Sometimes I feel anxious, or overwhelmed, or exhausted, or nostalgic, or homesick. And none of those things are amusing.

Here are a few posts I could have written this week:

Monday: Today I Said Goodbye To Scott

Mood: Gutted

Tuesday: Today I Worked

Mood: Anxious, Gutted

Wednesday: Today I Went To Class

Mood: Bored, and a little disenfranchised

Thursday: Today I Ate a Whole Bell Pepper

Mood: Cheerful; maybe it was the ranch dressing

The good news is that in the absence of spontaneous dinner parties and mysterious jet-setting I have managed to find a decent equilibrium. I am well rested, my clothes are washed and folded, and I'm getting ready to go see a movie with a group of good and rather hilarious people. I continue to love my life here despite its pitfalls and as my dad always said (though I think he pilfered it from Tom Hanks): "it's the hard that makes it great; if it was easy everyone would do it." So: onwards and upwards! And here's one more image... let's call it a nightcap:

Because Fitness Is Next To Godliness

I went to the gym. And not just any gym; a Scottish gym, and it was hilarious.

The illustrious Jo T, international event planner to the stars, gave me and Nancy two leftover gift bags from a recent job. Included in the bag was a free pass to The Scotsman gym, newly built in the centre of town and rumoured to be something of a fitness mecca.

Where do I begin? Ok. Let me start by saying that I used to work at a gym. Many of you remember my long days of lifeguarding for cardiac patients at the Wellness Center, and a select few of you used to sneak in the back with me on my days off to frolic in the steam rooms and sip smoothies on the indoor track. The place was as sleek and polished as a robot arm and there are days when I really miss it. With warm memories of Wellness fermenting in my belly it was with some excitement that I climbed the long flight of iron stairs into the lobby of the Scotsman to meet Jo and Kirsty for a swim.

The first thing I saw was a man with a lower back tattoo; or, as we say in NC, a "tramp stamp." He was completely nude except for a whisper of blue swimming trunks and was eating what appeared to be a chicken leg. As we passed the weight room, I spotted another gentleman lifting weights while wearing what was most likely a cardigan sweater embroidered with festive sprays of flowers. It was with some trepidation that I realized we weren't in Meadowmont anymore. This was no robot arm.

Turns out the gym -- just like the schools, the bars, the banks, the post offices, the public transportion, the grocery stores, and everything else in this little country -- is decidedly Scottish and dammit if they aren't proud of it just the way it is. What did you say, American? You want clearly demarcated lanes in your lap pool? And a few underwater lights so you don't run into the wall? Not in Scotland, you don't. And that's the way it is. We'll set about you. Oh, we'll fool you with the juice bar and the free hair products in the showers, but don't forget that this is still Scotland and things that are supposed to be relatively easy are reduced to twisted maelstroms of confusion for absolutely no reason at all.

Whoa, I didn't mean to go there.

However: after the initial adjustment period where I laughed a lot and said things like "WHAAAT? FOR REAL?" we had a pretty great time paddling around the murky blackness of the swimming pool (I wasn't kidding when I said there weren't any lights) and jumped happily from the sauna to the steam room to the arctic shower and back again. I left feeling renewed and refreshed, just as if I had been at the Wellness Center. I guess you don't always need personalized fitness plans, free cardio bar class, and an endless supply of kiwi fruit to have a good gym experience. Turns out any old pool will do, as long as it's with a few good friends. (Cue triumphant synthesizer).

Like Lady Lazarus

There's only one thing that can keep me away from the blog for so long. And no, it's not Cracker Barrel; it's the love of a really good man. Scott and I rang in Thanksgiving '07 with bread and cheese in the park. For dessert we had original compositions and lame black and white photography by yours truly.

You can't beat that with a stick.

Hey, What Did You Do This Weekend?

We mostly shook our faces.

Pour Myself A Cup of Ambition

This week is reading week at St Andrews, which means we get a week off from classes to "study," and since I don't have any exams to be reading for I have decided to fly to the Seychelle -- wait, no, hold on... oh that's right, I'll be working 40 hours.

I have a formidable mound of valuations to work through, so I'm feeling a bit relieved to have so much time at my disposal. Perhaps I will be able to take tea breaks and eat lunch slower. My God, has it really come to this? Am I really writing about how thankful I am for 40 hours of spine-crushing work? What is at the bottom of this slippery slope? Financial security, personal fufillment and job satisfaction OR mental burn-out, self loathing and that sneaking suspicion that no one really wants to talk to you at the pub, because all you talk about is oh my god work and more work and so much soul-obliterating work? Here is a picture of me at my desk holding a gun. I'll let you decide:
[I realize that the most worrying aspect of this photo is that wretched pashmina -- spare me, the building is drafty. Also: check out my sweet headphones. I'm listening to the mannered, dulcet tones of Charles and drifting in and out of consciousness.]

The real point of this post was to talk about TV licenses and the fact that I don't have one. I feel like I may have explained the TV license at some point, but here's the refresher: British cable is always piped into your house, it's just a matter of hooking up your TV and tuning in. The catch is that you have to pay a yearly fee of something around 150 pounds to watch legally. How do they monitor that? you might ask. In a nutshell, the TV licensing authorities drive around in a big black van and if they see in their records that you haven't paid up, they wait until a big rugby game or the Big Brother 8 finale is on and they shoot you in the neck with a poison dart. Ok maybe not. They use some kind of Orwellian radar gun to measure whether or not your TV is on, and then they read your thoughts.

Anyways, I live in fear of the TV licensing brigade. Having heard horror stories about large black-coated men banging on the door of your flat at 7 AM on a Sunday, I keep my TV permenantly unhooked and stashed in the corner. I've received one warning letter so far; two more and I'm a goner. When they come for me -- because it's not a matter of IF but WHEN -- I have my arguments ready. Basically it is this: I only get one channel, and it's not even a good one. BBC2 Scotland is not worth 150 pounds a year. Would YOU pay 150 pounds for Hollyoaks and I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here? Biff.

Today Was Big Fun

This photo of Nancy is possibly the greatest photo of all time. The people of Fife didn't know what hit them. And yes, that hoodie has eye holes and says "New York Legend."

Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me

I was speaking to my mom on the phone this morning and said the phrase "I have to go now if we're going to make it before the shop shuts." Is that a British thing to say? I don't even know anymore. What would we say in the US? "I have to go now if we're going to make it before the place is closed"? Before the store closes? Shop. Shuts. Cannot compute.

There must be other things I say that are similarly British. My contact with pureblood Americans is down roughly 89 percent this year. I am in an immersion situation a majority of the time. The point of this post is to say that I'm past the point where I realize I'm doing it, so please don't think I'm being pretentious.

This is what a British person might say:

Cheers for the fag old bean, I've got to pop round the shop before ringing mum; will you be having your tea at mine this evening?

Translation:

Thanks for the cigarette big guy, I gotta run to the store before calling ma; you wanna have dinner at my place tonight?

... Ok, maybe they don't always say old bean but a girl can dream.

Because Sometimes My Gran Likes To See Pictures of Me

Nancy took this photo of me at work today. Scott says I look tired. I have to admit that it was snapped during a moment of profound exhaustion, but I like to think I look pensive and complex. Come, lose yourself in my far-away gaze.

Editor's note: I am not wearing a wig.

Blessed Are the Cheesemakers

I'm writing a masters for my sins.

I was appointed postgraduate class representative a few weeks ago. I didn't ask to be, nor did I especially desire the position, nor do I even live in St Andrews, so it all seemed like one terrific charade to me. That is, until today, when I had to go to my first meeting.

I consulted my planner during my morning lecture and saw "TLA MEETING 1PM, ROOM 7" scrawled across today's block. I don't remember writing it, but that is neither here not there. The real mystery was, and remains to the time of writing, what TLA stands for.

Possibilities:
Teacher Love Assocation
The Last plAce you want to be
don'T faLl Asleep
The Largest pArade of egos

I considered raising my hand and asking, but everyone who is anyone was there, and frankly those people have quite a lot of say in whether or not I can graduate, so instead I continued to work quietly on my list of possible acronyms.

In the past, once or twice, I have been called easygoing. The phrase "laid back" has been thrown around quite a few times. The truth is, I am simply not a person who is going to swagger into a meeting like that with my guns blazing. That is, until people start being idiotic.

The issue of the short loan system was on the table. Professor Nameless was professing his shock and horror over the fact that sometimes -- gasp -- first year students will decide to simply skip out on assigned reading when faced with navigating the treacherous waters of the short loan system at the library.

[Editor's note: the St A's library is wretched. Aside from being architecturally grim, the collection is limited, the IT resources atrocious, and the photocopiers cost too much. Plus it shuts at odd hours and there aren't enough tables or plugs for laptops and the carpet is the color of cat pee. In a word, it is unusable. And smells of cat pee. DON'T GET ME STARTED ON SHORT LOAN.]

He was getting awfully worked up about it. One by one the student reps were attempting to explain to him why the prospect of checking a book out for four hours and then having the option of either spending a week's worth of food money on photocopying or sitting in cat pee and reading it straight through was not appealing. He could not see the problem from waaaay up on his high horse, you see, so I said evenly:

I think the real issue here is that you only require your students a passing grade of 5 in the first year. Raise the stakes and you'll get them reading.

[crickets]

Professor Nameless: I'm glad we have the postgraduate opinion, would anyone else like to weigh in?

Oh, the silent fury. I could have bent metal with my mind. See, this is what happens when I blaze my guns (does that even make any sense?) -- it's such a fruitless effort. I felt like I was on student council all over again, only with even less power, and the meeting was much longer and none of my friends were there.

In short: it was Totally LAme.


[ps: this post is dedicated to Bridget, former class representative, and someone who probably knows the real acronym]

The People; They've Taken to the Streets

You may remember my post a few months back about weird British holidays. Well, imagine my surprise when I left work late this evening and walked outside to find what appeared to be an angry mob burning a man alive in Princes Street Gardens. Having had my sense of horror forever warped by The Blair Witch Project in seventh grade, I wandered idly by, stopping only to take a photo before hopping on the bus.
Turns out it is Guy Fawkes Night. I would hazard a generalization and say it is a celebration somewhat similar to our July 4th -- only with a significant lack of bunting -- but that would no doubt anger my British readers.

Allow me to rub old AP History neurons together and attempt an explanation of Guy Fawkes day: back in 1605 a handful of Catholics decided they would teach James I (Mary Queen of Scots' son by Henry, Lord Darnley) a thing or two, so they buried a large quantity of gunpowder underneath the Houses of Parliament with the intent of igniting it and reducing the surrounding buildings and their contents to Protestant-loving rubble. It was a poorly conceived plan which led to inevitable discovery and some good old fashioned torture in the Tower of London for the conspirators. Guy Fawkes was the hapless soul found guarding the combustibles, so naturally his effigy was the one I saw on top of the bonfire tonight.

The deliverance of the King and his family from certain death is celebrated with bonfires and fireworks (as the cacaphony outside my window might suggest), as well as a few slightly off-center traditions including THIS fabulous custom straight out of Ottery St Mary in Devonshire -- CARRYING THE FLAMING TAR BARREL. As far as traditions go, that one is pretty BAMF.

On a related note: this morning at work someone shouted wistfully 'Always remember the Fifth of November!' and I was completely baffled. 'What?' I thought, 'because the December catalog paste-up is due today?' It's odd to live in a place where sometimes you don't have a clue about what's happening until they're burning people in the streets.

And The Dundie Goes To

GARRETT MUNCE for the most amazing Halloween costume of all time: Tammy Faye Baker.

Just look at him! Glorious. I'm glad they're teaching you something at Parsons.

A close second is Ben McGlaughon as Miss Gently Pounding Rain:

Snaps of me as Amy Winehouse pale in comparison to these illustrious creations. PALE!

Winter Pollen and the Mannerless Monster

If last year's theme was "see everything, even Latvia" then this year's theme is "stay within driving distance." Last weekend was a trip through Perthshire ending at Loch Tay. Those two little kids are the best in Scotland. We chucked rocks and talked about Nessie.

Every time you come around here, Bling Bling

My cousin Freddy went and got himself engaged! The Cousin Connection continues to expand. I'm smiling a big dopey smile in the St Andrews library just for you guys. Congratulations!

Carvin' my way towards 30

I lectured today. I massacred some Italian words, too. I mean massacred. Not unlike Luigi from Mario Brothers. Would you lika some spaghetti?

This morning was my birthday. I suppose the rest of the day has been too, but it doesn't really feel like my birthday at all. For one thing, I woke up on a couch for the second year in a row -- a trend I should probably analyze and rectify -- and then I went straight to the slide library to pull out slides for my lecture.

I should say that I woke up on a couch because I decided late last night to stay in St Andrews in order to be in town early enough to go over my material before class at 10 am. I should also say that last night Rob Fett made me a pumpkin pie from scratch and I think I am in love with him. I'm not talking canned filling either; he scraped the messy innards from an actual vine-picked pumpkin to craft my delicious filling, poured it into a hand-made crust with crushed pecans, and baked it to a golden brown before my very eyes. Big ups to Rob for making my birthday eve into a night of culinary splendour as opposed to the 12 hour library freak-a-thon I had previously planned.

Playing through my head all day: the scene from When Harry Met Sally where Sally is upset and wails "but I'm going to be fooorty!" and Harry says, "in eight years!"

Well, I'm going to be thiiiiirty!
In eight years!

Thank you, my dear ones, for all of the sweet birthday cards, emails, etc. You've made my thirty-in-eight-years birthday a real hum-dinger.

The Ghost of Future Present: Attack of the Link!

Patrick Link is 23 years old today. We have been celebrating our birthdays together since we were 14 years old. 14! Three years of boarding school and four years of college later we have finally gone our bold and seperate ways. I am proud to call this award-winning playwright, this inspired and accomplished actor, my oldest and very best friend.

My god, this one forever! I bet you didn't know we were married, and that Patrick dressed like the Colonel at our wedding:Happy Birthday best friend. Grab some flab.

This Is What Panic Looks Like

I have to lecture on Wednesday for an hour on Giorgione, Durer, Leonardo Da Vinci and probably a few things I haven't even read about yet. Here's what I have accomplished in the meantime:

1. I decided on my Halloween costume. Amy Winehouse! Honestly, what is scarier? There was a time in my life when I wore eyeliner just a few strokes short of hers, so it won't be much of a stretch. All I have to do is buy the wig, rat it up, draw on some sick tats, and wear an outfit resembling the chaos of the bins at Victoria's Secret during semi-annual sale time. Score.

2. I discovered the best place to buy bread near my house. I started at Tesco and worked my way out in concentric circles, stumbling at last upon an absolute GEM of a place called Valvona & Crolla. Seriously. Stop reading this instant and go to their website. There is a considerable Italian presence in Scotland, particularly in my neighborhood, and little pasta shops and chippies called "Eatalia" are not uncommon, but I didn't know there was a mothership until today. You have to duck through a little hobbit door to get in, but once you're inside it is a cavernous place. The walls are stacked 30 feet high with all manners of jars and cans; strings of dried peppers and garlic hang amid clusters of copper pots from the ceiling. When Bridget goes to heaven it will probably look like Valvona & Crolla... with Ryan Adams on top of the meat counter, crooning to her in tight jeans.

3. I disassembled the pipes underneath my sink, cleaned them, and put them back together. WHY, I hear you asking. Well, I came home yesterday and made one of the grossest discoveries of my life: a small seed had taken root in the drain and GROWN into a PLANT, which was snaking out of the drain towards the window like the living organism it is. Oh, even writing about it now makes me ill. Furnished apartments are wonderful; you don't have to move couches up stairs, all your worldly possessions can fit into the back of a volkswagen, etc. HOWEVER -- when the person who lived there before you was a dirty rotten filth-lover, you sometimes come home to find living things growing in your sink. Anyways, here is a police sketch artist's rendering of the transgressor. (I'm not sure why the porage is by the sink).



I tried to pull it out but only managed to pull the top off -- it was at that point I realized I had to go in. Turns out pipes are a cinch to pull apart. Who knew? Anyways, I'm proud to say that my pipes are squeaky clean and foliage free.

4. I got in an altercation with a panhandler. Let me preface this with a few important facts: a) there are approximately a million panhandlers in Edinburgh, and they all work on Princes Street b) For the first few months I worked in the city I was incredibly generous to panhandlers. I once gave two pounds to the wandering rasta man for his moving rendition of 'No Woman No Cry' -- that's four dollars! c) the panhandlers probably make more than I do.

Ok, so this man approached me as I was sitting in Princes Street Gardens, soaking up the sunshine and waiting for Nancy to arrive. He wasn't the most eloquent panhandler. In fact, I wasn't sure why he was approaching me until I looked down and saw the cup in his hand. He didn't merely ask for change, opting instead for the latest trend in Edinburgh panhandling: the plaintive whine. I wish I could do justice to this tactic in writing. It is a tone of voice that both shames and accuses you. The first few times I heard it I felt awful and coughed up a few pence, but now it just fills me with unmitigated rage. I smiled and said no, not today, sorry, at which point he sidled closer and pitched his whine even higher. I looked at him and said firmly, NO, but he continued to push forward until his hand was practically under my nose. He was a big guy, too; well fed and wearing nice clothes. It was at this point that something fired in my brain and I stood up and shouted LEAVE ME ALONE (there may have been a swear word intermingled, but my grandmother reads this blog and I know how she feels about that -- it was warranted). A few hours later as I was walking home I thought back to the panhandler and felt guilty about my fierce rebuff. What would I do if my mom was panhandling and someone yelled at her? I would burn their house down, that's what.

Overcome with guilt, I ducked into Tesco to pick up some milk and as I was standing in line I looked over to the left and saw the panhandler in line. In line for liquor counter no less! My whole life people have been telling me not to give money to bums because they will go buy alcohol, and I always thought it was kind of mean to assume that about someone, but NO MORE. I was shocked and appalled. I stared at him with my mouth open, and if a look could light someone on fire then he would have been very badly burned. He bought two huge bottles of Bombay Sapphire and walked out. I can't even afford Bombay Sapphire! So what is the lesson learned from this? Don't give away your money and never trust anyone again ever.

5. I spent a valuable block of time writing this blog entry about plumbing and yelling at the homeless. Yeesh.

One For the Kids

If you've spoken to me recently I've no doubt made you aware of my latest and most embarassing discovery: the true meaning of the peace sign.

Back when I was kicking it on the mean streets of Chapel Hill, the cool kids simultaneously decided that flashing each other a sideways peace sign was the way to say Hello, I love you Man, or Would you like to borrow my John Mayer cd? It was at once an homage to the 80's -- the decade of our birth -- and a vague attempt to appear gangster, or as Michael Scott would say, "urban," and I embraced it with as much gusto as a WASP-y coed can muster.

Some examples (and throwbacks!):

I even did it in front of some Germans at the Reichstag in Berlin:

Ok, maybe that's a straightforward peace sign, but you get the point. It was my very own international sensation.

I was flashing them left and right when I got to Scotland, mostly to a lot of people I didn't know very well, and more importantly, to a lot of people who weren't raised on the mean streets of North Carolina. I continued to recieve blank stares in return. Not to be dissuaded, I flashed two at once (or, the "double dragon") in front of St Andrews cathedral one bright October day in 2006 in what I like to think is the last documented innocent peace sign:

You got me straight trippin, boo.

At last, a friend of mine who was raised far, far away from Compton and for whom the word "Puffy" will always describe the undereye region after a hard night out looked at me and said "why do you keep doing that to us."

It wasn't a question so much as a statement. She seemed vaguely offended. I was shocked.

"What?" I asked, "the peace sign?"

"Yes" she said. "I thought we were friends."

"It's an endearing hand gesture!" I offered lamely -- struggling in vain to describe the origins and connotations of the sideways peace sign -- "It's like, peace man, what's up, yeah!"

She looked at me incredulously and said "But.... don't you know what that means here?"

No, of course I don't know what it means. If I did I probably wouldn't have done it at that job interview or in my professor's office or standing in the choir loft at St Salvator's chapel as everyone filed out after evensong.

This has been a long set-up to my latest discovery: I have effectively given 'the finger' to approximately half the population of the United Kingdom.

Turns out that the backwards peace sign, or "bowfinger" as it is known here, has been an obscene gesture in these parts since the Roman occupation. It is said that the Romans, in a brutal campaign to crush the indigenous population into submission, cut the first two fingers of the right hand off of every man, rendering them incapable of drawing back a bowstring to defend themselves. The cocky Romans proceeded to prance about flashing their two bowfingers at the oppressed locals as if to say "yeah, take that, boo ya," and thus: a national symbol of defiance and the downfall of Lauren Macnorthup was born.

So: if you ever decide to move to Scotland, for god sakes don't spend the first year unknowingly flipping everyone off. Your embarassment will be positively staggering.