Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams

Today was one of those miraculous days when it feels like you could accomplish just about anything; even fighting off a cougar or surviving a car trip with more than four members of your immediate family.

I managed to get an early start on the Great Tour of Fife, meaning I had to take several trains and buses to take care of 27893 things in St Andrews and Cupar; incredibly important things like eating at my favorite sandwich joint, hugging Rob, and oh, officially matriculating as a postgraduate student at St Andrews. But more on that later.

Many of you have not yet met Nancy despite hearing so many great things about her. First of all, she is a photographer, and she five kinds of fabulous, so before you do anything else you need to go to her website by clicking here.

Moving on, here she is at home, laughing (and "looking like a mutant"):

And here she is on the street, kicking it with her red hot posse [me]:

[Despite appearing to be the height of a small child, she is in fact normal sized. I must have been up on a box, or at least the front step. God, I hope so.]

We have had the best time this week and she has been gracious enough to turn a blind eye to the Lauren Tornado which has ripped through her lounge and bedroom. I brought her the Great Gift of golden cowboy boots (pictured above) to soften the blow, so hopefully we can still be friends after this. (Please baby?) She has the most beautiful flat in Edinburgh, and probably anywhere, and here is what it looked like before I emptied the contents of my wardrobe onto it:


Last night after work we went to a charity "TaskForce" auction for Project Scotland. They had 27 various odd lots, like a pasta-making masterclass and a round of golf at St Andrews. We pooled our resources and, well, we bought a man! What can I say, it's slim pickins in Scotland. Kidding. Actually, we paid 30 pounds for a fellow named Ramsay (who works for the charity-- nothing shady!) to come and help us move my things out of her flat and into my new one this weekend. Hilarious. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. The official lot was "ten hours of manpower" -- ideally helping with DIY things like stripping floors and wallpapering. Poor fellow, he never imagined he would be carrying box after box of my shoes up three flights of stairs in Leith.

Needless to say, high on my purchase of a man named Ramsay, I had a pretty fantastic day today. I registered for my postgraduate modules this morning and I'm taking:

AH5083 Giorgione, with Peter Humfrey who you can read about here.

and,

AH4105 British Furniture History 1700-1840 with David Jones. Unfortunately, David isn't teaching his usual Thomas Chippendale course, but since I missed British Furniture last year I'm taking it now. BAM.

I am getting a Masters of Letters which means I have to take four taught modules along with writing my dissertation and from what I gathered at my meeting this morning, St Andrews students are encouraged to take modules outside their dissertation discipline. I find this somewhat bizarre, but the more Italian painting I get to learn about the better, no?

Gwen is coming to Edinburgh tomorrow morning and we are going together to get the keys to my new flat! I am excited about the new digs but rather blue that it is the last time I'll see Gwendolicious for a while. She's been such a regular character on the blog-- and in my life here as it were -- so I can't imagine Scotland without her! She's going back to California to be with her pugs and possibly get a job. She wants to work at Dreamworks, so if you can pull some strings for a fabulous, worldly-yet-sensible and also pretty-amazing-with-left-handed-stick-shift girl let me know. So long, Gwendolegend, I love you forever.

Right. Still struggling to get adjusted from jet lag, so I'm off for now. I will end with this picture of Anne B circa 1973 because it is possibly the greatest photo ever and always makes me laugh:

This is also my way of saying THANK YOU to Annie for having me and Scott over for drinks, laughs, and furious ping pong whilst I was back home. Fabulous.

On an unrelated note: the pub downstairs has been playing 'We Will Rock You' on a constant loop the whole time I've been writing this. Coincidence? I THINK NOT.

Old Leather Glove

Here I am, nestled in the warm bosom of Nancy's highland hospitality, and happy as a clam to be back in Edinburgh. As many of you know, I was dreading the transition back to life in Scotland, but as I rode into the city at the top of a double-decker bus I looked around at the cars turning left on red and the bustle of people going in and out of shops and breathed a tremendous sigh of relief. Returning to Scotland became a glorious homecoming rather than a transitory time of trepidation and stress; kind of like pulling on an old leather glove. Also, I would like to say that I have waited a long time to have someone meet me at the airport in Edinburgh, and that day finally came yesterday. If you have ever flown alone into a foreign country you know precisely what I mean -- and you know that finding someone waiting for you outside of customs is basically the best feeling ever.

I'm staying with dear Nancy until Friday, at which point I will be able to move down the road into my flat of dreams in Leith. We walked to work together yesterday morning, and I am pleased to say that my first day as a bona fide employee of an international auction house went amazingly well. I have a desk up on the fourth floor where I will spend my days diligently writing out valuation reports and proving to everyone that Americans are, in fact, an industrious and dedicated set. I am so glad I already know so much about what I'm doing; I can't imagine walking into this job without the three months' training I had this summer. My boss from the summer came by my desk to see how I was coping and said "well, once more into the fray!" -- and man, he isn't joking. I can't say much more about it except that I love it love it love it.

Internet access is a scant luxury in these parts, so if you really need to get in touch with me you can call me on my mobile: (44) 7928778350. I'm not sure when I'll have internet set up in the new flat, but it should be within the next two weeks.

I'll do a summer photo wrap-up very soon. Love and miss you.

I'm A Stranger Here Myself

Let's begin with a few lines from one of my favorite North Carolinians, David Sedaris:

"The woman spoke with a thick western North Carolina accent, which I used to discredit her authority. Here was a person for whom the word pen had two syllables. Her people undoubtedly drank from clay jugs and hollered for Paw when the vittles were ready."

I'm re-reading Me Talk Pretty One Day and that passage just slays me with laughter. Sedaris is from Raleigh, but it might as well be New York Ci-tay!

I wrote earlier about reverse culture shock: feeling horrified at restaurants, hearing one-syllable words magically become two, and those fleeting dreams of clinging desperately to the landing gear of the next flight out of Asheville. Well, (how should I say this?), I've been completely indoctrinated. Do you want to know how I know? I'll tell you:

Yesterday I watched seven - SEVEN - episodes of Making the Team: Becoming a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader on CMT (Country Music Television). What is it about these shows? I blacked out for five hours and when I awoke I found myself curled up on the couch dabbing at tears because Kelli told Brandi she was too fat to cheer.

Yes, it's a real show. And yes, it is the Gates of Hell.

Besides some intensive TV-watching (a vicious habit that took five weeks to conquer me after going so long without it), I've been a pretty busy ex-pat. My mom and I spent Labor Day weekend on the South Carolina shore soaking up the sun and eating far too much delicious seafood. We also managed to swing by Goose Creek to visit Scott who is not in costume and is, in fact, in the Navy:

He studies physics and nuclear fission and other things that are strictly classified. So zip it.

I know what you're all thinking, so I'll go ahead and say it: No, they don't wear the big bell-bottoms anymore. I know, I was disappointed too.

I stayed the week after labor day in downtown Charleston at the Huguenot Church offices. I need to publicly thank my uncle Fred for kindly arranging that for me, since it was basically the most glorious place to stay imaginable. I spent my days pounding the streets for research and my nights cozied up in a palatial three-story townhouse. Those Huguenots sure know how to do it. The back garden, seen here from the second-floor porch, was my favorite spot for reading and is a far cry from Cupar:

I managed to find time between dilligent note-taking and dozing in the solarium to have dinner with my favorite sailor who, it seems, found time between splitting atoms and saving the world to whisk me away to Folly Pier:

Can't say no to a man in day-glo!

Scott drove back up to Asheville with me the following weekend where we swam in rivers and dove from waterfalls in bacchanalian glee; pictures and words to follow in a separate post.

I am leaving Asheville tomorrow to visit my dear grandparents in Durham and then taking off for Scotland on Saturday.
Can you believe it?

American Gothic

Eat your heart out, Grant Wood.

No Laughing Matter

I return to Scotland in two weeks. Mercy Alive! The good news is that I've managed to drive approximately 4593 miles in the last few days and have finally kicked the habit of merging into the left lane when exiting parking lots.

I have heaps of photos to post from my strictly American exploits and my British readers can look forward to a decent explanation of grits and why we eat them, among other things.

I spent the last week in and around Charleston, South Carolina doing research for my masters. It was an exciting time filled with break-front chests and miles of mahogany, and I am feeling loads better about my preparation. Is this just the quiet before the storm?

Also: new link to the right! Read Avery's blog about life in Dijon, including an account of her trip to visit me out in the sticks.

so, COMING SOON: LAUREN DOES THE GREAT AMERICAN SOUTH