There was some "reshuffling" at the auction house last week. The good news is I survived the midnight purge from overseas and -- hooray! -- found out today that they are offering me a better job upon my return. I will be working in the valuations department which is a plum opportunity to get real hands-on experience with clients and appraisals. BAM!
As much as the people at work love to poke fun at me for being the Enthusiastic American, I can't help but think this is all one big joke. I'll come back and they'll be wearing American flags like capes (true story) and saying things like "why don't you just have a YAARD SAAALE" in their best nasal-y American accents.
[You see, British people would never dream of putting their possessions out in front of their homes and selling them off, so the concept of a yard sale is high comedy for a group of professionals who make a living selling other people's things for them. Yard sales are thus totally taboo and outrageously American. So, naturally, it is something I suffer for.]
That reminds me, I heard there was a killer yard sale over in Hendersonville today. I think I'll go check it out. They make fun of us for our ways, but at least I don't have to pay a 40 percent tax to the Crown on a box of used records I buy from someone's driveway... so who's laughing now United Kingdom?!
POSH: do you know where this word comes from? Lord knows I've heard it roll torpidly from the lips of most of Prince William's privileged cousins in the streets of St Andrews, but I never gave it a second thought.
I went out to my dad's motorcycle shop yesterday and Scott, who is an owner and runs the shop and also reads my blog, educated me on the elusive British slang. Apparently the word originated from wealthy ship passengers requesting "Port Out - Starboard Home" in order to keep the sun out of their cabins in the days before air conditioning. I love it.
On a related note, here is the website for the shop. You can see a cracking photo of my father being totally PC as usual. Scott has enlisted me to re-vamp their website, so maybe check back in a week or two for more totally PC photos. I'm thinking of renaming the site "Acme Does Motorcycles." Thoughts?
Last weekend I got to see Jamie's new place in Chapel Hill. Luckily Jamie was in it. We went out and had Big Fun on Franklin Street and I can't believe she's not coming back with me to Edinburgh. My time in Scotland will not be the same without her. Maybe I'll actually get some work done?
Kenneth, my friend at work in Edinburgh, sent my copy of the Scottish Sale Catalog to my house here. What a star! It's about 300 pages and fabulous. I can't wait to see what things actually end up going for.
I still have four weeks at home at least, so if I haven't seen you yet we should probably get together. That means you. Keep your fingers crossed for the provisional visa office! Until then: Cheers, dahling as the posh people say.
Reverse culture shock. I could go on for days. Some lines from Robert Frost have been echoing through my troubled, half-Euro-half-Southern mind for the last few weeks and they are:
Something we were withholding made us weak, Until we found it was ourselves We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender.
I can't remember the title of the poem, just that it is about being American and it was read at Kennedy's Inauguration in 1961. The more I learn about furniture (for instance, the 342 different types of legs found on a dining table) the more I find those things I used to know about English Literature have slipped off into the impenetrable recesses of my mind. Regardless, those four lines have stuck with me and for good reason.
During my first few days at home I had some significant trouble re-entering my life here. Waiters were uncomfortably friendly, Wal-Mart was overwhelming, traffic was oppressive, and man, the sun was a-blazing. I went to the bank and requested to withdraw forty pounds -- not dollars -- and the large black lady at the counter looked over at me and said "honey, I wish it was that easy!" She chuckled at me all the way out the door and I sat in the car feeling stupefied. How complete can a transformation be? I constantly find myself saying "that would never happen in Scotland" and my mom, bless her, keeps her eye-rolling to herself. It's not that I'm being snooty, but seriously, America is pretty darn weird. I'll be honest: in a lot of ways, I thought that getting back on a plane to Scotland wouldn't be half bad.
And then I drove through the Western North Carolina mountains one evening. I saw the sun glinting off of Shining Rock, the wilderness where my dad and I spent large portions of my childhood setting up camp and exploring; and I realized that the wind through the treetops along the parkway was the same breeze that cooled my face when my mom and I used to take picnics to Pink Beds and lie with our feet in the water for hours. I rediscovered my inexorable bond with this land; it invigorates and sustains me and is the place behind all of my fondest memories. I trailed my hand out the window of the moving car and surrendered. I surrendered to my past, my childhood filled with river-swimming and wondrous adventure, my three rollicking years at UNC, to all of the incandescent, generous souls who have contributed to my growth, and most of all to my mountain home... and in doing so I found salvation.
I am so happy to be here and to be amongst the people who shaped me and who continue to support me as I crash headlong into a life I never dreamed of or planned for myself. You are with me always and I promise that one day I will come back home.
I have returned to the bosom of my dear family; skin white as the driven snow, sun bright enough to wear sunglasses. Life is good.
I'll be dormant for a while until my return to the blessed Isle in mid-September. Until then, be well, and if you're nearby my mountain home give me a shout! Mama T will cook you up some grits.
Ah yes, the Glasgow Airport "bombings." You may have noticed a few weeks ago when a couple of radical Muslim MDs from Paisley tried to drive a flaming car into the side of Glasgow Airport. I was on a train to London when it happened and learned of it only when I got a call from my mother saying simply "they tried to bomb Glasgow, be careful." The news made a ripple in Scotland for a few days and was mostly forgotten about or laughed off, but the emails kept coming from the States asking if I had been the latest casualty in the war on terror.
It was the same at work; all of our valuers who have clients in the States were bombarded with emails and calls asking whether or not everyone was ok, and had anyone in our families been affected by the attack? I was intrigued by this onslaught of concern and asked my mom about news coverage of the incident in the States. "Yeah, it's been on 24 hours a day over here. Your grandparents are very concerned." What is the deal, CNN? I watched BBC news that night and it went something like this:
"Tonight's top stories: A cricket match in Wembley was unexpectedly delayed when a mischievous pair of corgies stormed the pitch! Ha ha! Jolly Good! In Wales, a man reported 'extreme thirst' after being trapped in a salt mine for close to three hours, and in Scotland, some doctors drove a flaming car into the side of Glasgow Airport. Marvelous!"
I rode the train to Edinburgh on Monday and worked a full day with many intelligent, informed people and did not hear a single mention of the incident. What gives, Amurica? Why does the US media insist on creating a culture of fear? Take a page from the BBC and let's have a little more corgie, a little less terror.
The biggest phenomenon to come out of the whole ordeal was John Smeaton; or, as my mom calls him, 'a man to love.' I'm sure you've heard of him by now, but if you've been living in a basement in Wisconsin surrounded by automatic weapons and stores of dehydrated food, Smeaton is the average-Joe baggage handler who was skyrocketed to international media fame when he didn't hesitate to drop the fag he was smoking and give the would-be terrorists a proper 'Weegie beating for trying to mess with his people. I believe he kicked the man about the head and neck -- while he was on fire no less -- until the 'Polis' could subdue the attackers and take them into custody.
Here is a clip from the BBC with Smeaton's cogent explanation of Scotland's stance on terror which is basically, don't mess with us because we will beat the everliving crap out of you:
Can I just say that things like this make me love Scotland all the more? There are parts of it that infuriate me, notably the lack of free refills, but when it comes to terror, man, we'll set about ye. I'm told that apparently the above clip had to have subtitles in the States which is also hilarious.
So, in conclusion: don't try to come between a Glasgwegian and his 40 pound mini-break to Ibiza because you will be beaten viciously about the neck and shoulders. You heard it here first.
Oh, and here's the BBC's tribute to John Smeaton. My favorite part is the little chuckle that the male newscaster makes right at the very end. Listen closely.
I'm looking out my window at work at this rather apocolyptic sight. The kilt store's on fire y'all!
I was in there yesterday looking for gifts to bring back to the States and I thought to myself "man, these are some cheap kilts." They must go up like gangbusters.
So, besides the tartan bonfire it's just a regular old day in Scotland. I had a long conversation on the train this morning with a Chilean man who teaches Management at St Andrews. He was on his way to a conference in the States, so we spoke at length about those subjects I love so much: Iraq, global warming, and the world's perception of Americans abroad. The latter is something I spend about 43% of my day dealing with, and frankly, I'm tired of defending myself. The conversation invariably ends with the other person telling me how dissimilar I am to other Americans they have met, which always makes me wonder what kinds of people are floating around out there and what are they doing? Most, if not all, of my American friends are frightfully engaged and intelligent people. Why is it always a surprise when we aren't gun-wielding, Bush-loving, ten-gallon-hat-wearing miscreants with a white tennis shoe problem?
Ack, well. I didn't have any preconceived notions about Chileans, so I told him I enjoyed their wine. "Thank you," he said, "we are very proud of it."
Though raised in the Dirty South, I am currently working for the [gay] man at an undisclosed auction house in Edinburgh, Scotland. It's very serious work 23 percent of the time. Also, I am 2002-2003 North Carolina duck-duck-goose champion, going for a threepeat and then on the road to nationals.
How many days until Lauren moves back to the States?
(Fran and I are laughing, that's who)
