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.

I Can Feel It

This new Cadbury commercial destroys me with laughter. I'm left with so many questions; mainly: why can't I gorilla rock? British television never ceases to amuse and delight me.

Hey, how's everyone doing? I imagine I'll get internet eventually. Until then you can content yourself with the image of me cooking by candlelight because I blew two fuses trying to change a lightbulb. How many Americans does it take to change a lightbulb? Just the one as long as her name isn't Lauren. Frailty, thy name is masters degree student.

Into The Heart of Borneo

Several orders of business:

1. No other way to say it: living in a big city is crazy a-sane. I drove through Fife this past weekend and realized with some measure of alarm that the leaves were changing and I had missed them! I suppose it's easy to forget about seasons when you're too busy holding a protective fistful of keys in your pocket on the bus home. Nearly undone by a sudden and violent urge to reconnect with mother Earth, I explored Leith yesterday and was delighted to find the World's Largest Park just three blocks from my flat. And this isn't just some old park; no-- there was grass and trees and a football field! Every part of my Western North Carolina heart exploded when I saw the ground carpeted with dead leaves; I considered eating a few handfuls for good measure.


2. Following the theme that seemed to be expanding yesterday (man's relation to nature; specifically my own) I went again to see the Richard Long exhibit at the National Gallery. Another artist who works in the environment like Andy Goldsworthy, Long’s work always seems to strike me as more physical. This might sound a touch daft considering many of his works consist just as descriptions of walks, or events on walks. However, the materiality of his art - the journey that he has undertaken to produce those descriptions - are so important in his work. Without the underpinning of our belief that he has slogged through these routes his work becomes just a literary event.

See the National Gallery website here.

I measure it on google maps and it seems I walk an average of five miles a day just going round-trip to the office. The more I walk in this urban landscape the more I can draw from Long's work. This second visit to the exhibit pulled back many more layers of the onion, and I'd say I'm as close as I might ever be to accepting Long's work. I think understanding and accepting are two different things. Which leads me to my next question: why am I not fitter?

[Above: one of Long's earlier pieces. I had a vicious battle with someone in tutorial last year about whether or not Long was a Romantic based on this image. The only thing I remember was shouting "he bloody well isn't -- he's ripping the heads off of flowers!" I am nothing if not eloquent and dignified.]

3. Have you heard this new Radiohead? Well, you ought to: www.inrainbows.com
You can name your own price and download it from the website which I find to be equally cool and unsettling. It felt like I was standing in front of the bookshelf in that Latvian youth hostel all over again, the sign reading "Honur system! Plees Return Books," with the burly proprietor eying me down. I paid five pounds for the album. Is that too much? Too little? Why do they want to make people feel uneasy? Or maybe I'm just missing the point entirely. Either way, the album rawks. Scott and I saw them at Bonnaroo summer-before-last where they played a good bit of the new tunes. I'm glad to have them for my very own. All I Need is my new jam.

Right; it's Giorgione time. Or as I like to say, GO time.

The Flower of Scotland!

Edinburgh was just announced as the best place to live in the UK!

Read about it here

We held our fists up in triumph on Iona Street.
Eat your heart out, London!

The Auctioneer Has Left the Building

I met Eric Knowles yesterday. If you are like me and my mother and a handful of other hard partying people I know, you spend your Sundays watching Antiques Roadshow on PBS and know exactly who I'm talking about. If there is anything better than dozing on the couch listening to the odd members of the general public winge about their great aunt's tractor collection then I'd like to know what that is.

Back to Knowles; he's basically the Elvis of the Antiques world in Britain, or so Kenneth says. He used to work for Bonhams and now ekes out a living on such illustrious programs as Cash in the Attic, Going For a Song and, erm, Antiques Roadshow. He has also written books and generally has quite a lot to say about the things you might pull out of your crawl space.

I met him in the stairwell as I was running upstairs at work. He's about eight inches shorter than me (but honestly, who isn't) and has that air about him of "I'm on TV, what of it?" We had idle chat about where I was from ("you are obviously not from around here") and he asked me if Charleston is in North Carolina. No, I said, it's in South Carolina; to which he said But the real question is, can you? -- meaning: can you dance the Charleston? -- to which I brazenly replied (without thinking) Aaaalll night long!

So: in my first legitimate meeting with someone from Antiques Roadshow I managed to talk about Satsuma Ware AND make a mildly suggestive joke. All things considered, I'd say it was a resounding success.

Brushes with obscure celebrity notwithstanding it's been a pretty ho-hum few days. Work, work, and more work. I realized today that my birthday is in exactly two weeks. If you would like to send me gifts of sweetmeats and/or hate mail you can reach me via the jolly postal service at:

37 Iona St 1F2
Leith, Edinburgh
EH6 8SP
Scotland

I believe I have finally reached that age where my birthday creeps up on me like a credit card payment or a dentist appointment. I used to start counting down in June but these days I can't even tell you what day of the week it's going to be. Where has the magic gone? I can say with some confidence that I am definitely looking forward to the cake.

School-wise I'm really, really enjoying my studying for my Giorgione class. After so much time away from painting, specifically Renaissance painting, it's wonderful to be back. Giorgione is one of the most fascinating and enigmatic figures in the Venetian Renaissance; he flamed to life for ten years, completely revolutionized everything, and then died of the plague. There are only ten paintings that are firmly attributed to him, and twenty more that might be, and basically no one knows where he was trained or how he decided to dispose of hundreds of years of tradition and lay the foundations for western art as we know it today. I can't read enough about him -- and there is plenty to read. I have an insatiable hunger for all of it, and it's nice to feel that again. If you are in the market for a decent book on Giorgione I would suggest this one.

Incidentally, the painting on the cover -- The Tempesta -- is the topic of my first lecture. Which I should probably start working on. Yes, probably.

It's Just So Complicated

Kenneth and I had late night build-your-own fajitas at a 'Mexican' restaurant in Edinburgh. His verdict: "It's just so complicated, I don't know what to do."

Incidentally, that's how I feel about most things Scottish; so despite the tortillas I'd say it's still USA 1, Scotland 400.

That's About Right

Oh, Scotland.

This was all we talked about at work today.

Qualifications Include Being Six Feet Tall & Blonde

I recently found out that I have to give three lectures as part of my degree course. How am I even remotely qualified to do something like that? I imagine it will go like this:

Me: Right, are there any questions?
Student: How are you even remotely qualified to do something like this?

... or similar.

I should probably make them call me Dr. for more street cred. Respek, Art History.

Flat Stanley

Any day of the week you can find me hurrying up and down this street on my way to work, school, and play. I took this in black and white as that was pretty much the color of everything anyways. When it rains in Scotland it's a bleak affair, but that does not diminish my delight in the new flat:
Hello! Welcome to my sun-filled corridor. I just washed a load of whites, and there they are hanging up to dry. Sure, you can iron them, that would be great.

Please have a seat on my ridiculously ugly leather sofa. Hey, your parents called from 1986 and they want the furniture they had in their basement back.

Would you like to eat a meal with me? Hold on while I clear off every important document pertaining to my immigration... Looking at this now I imagine I could have cleaned up a little, but hindsight is 20/20.

Hey! The kitchen is tidy at least. That stove is a real clunker; almost worse than the one in Cupar. I have to light it with matches. When was the last time you did that?

At least there is produce, bran, and plenty of it. Give the people what they want! Pictures of pears!
My bedroom is actually quite large, but this is the only picture fit to eat. I have a big wardrobe and matching dresser in there too. Since this photo was taken I got new drapes. Excitement abounds. Yes, I took a nap on top of my recently made bed.

So that's the flat. I also have a bathroom, but I'll spare you. Come visit!

When you're at work,

do you need a mini map of Scotland to identify such places as Killiecrankie and Ballachulish?

Because I do.

This is the view from my window. I would say it's so-so.

Help me. I'm surrounded by Scottish ceramics experts and all I can see are piles of antiques. I'm so hungry, and so cold.
In other news, they opened an office in Dubai. I love curry.

The wind that blows from here to California

I selfishly luxuriated in the long days of Scottish "summer" and almost forgot that come wintertime the sun would start setting before I left work in the afternoon. I would be more upset, I imagine, if the sunsets weren't so gal durn beautiful.

The sun sets over Leith... how can a neighborhood this beautiful be dodgy?

Ok, maybe not George Street, but still Scotland (Glen Nevis with Breakaway)

Photos of the flat to come...

Ewan and the New Digs

I'd like to introduce you to my new neighbourhood: an illustrious place called Leith. Leith was once its own separate burgh, but sometime in the early 20th century the bigwigs of the docklands decided that it was too difficult hacking it on their own so they incorporated into Edinburgh and I'm sure the garbage pick-up has been just as terrible ever since.

If you are at all familiar with the novels of Irvine Welsh then you are probably quite familiar with Leith, and also with heroin, and I applaud you for your literary moxie. His novel Trainspotting is set partially in Leith, as is the movie starring Ewan MacGregor, and I was stunned to see in this clip my exact path to work in the morning:



I am usually running like that too, only I am wearing heels and am not high on heroin nor supporting my habit with petty theft. I am also not as nimble and lithe as Ewan, so I suppose the similarities end at Leith.

I live a few steps from Leith Walk, a street best described in the article below from myedinburgh.net:

Leith has been described as "halfway between decay and the future". Until recently Leith Walk (the stretch between Princes Street and Leith) has shown more signs of decay than anything else.

But something strange is happening on Leith Walk - in between betting shops and greasy spoons brightly painted shop fronts are appearing, chrome and glass blocks adorn bar/restaurants. Now obviously glass blocks have been around for so long in most areas that they're practically old fashioned - just not on Leith Walk. For several hundred years Leith was separate from Edinburgh, in 1833 it became a burgh in it's own right and in 1920 it was incorporated into Edinburgh. Halfway up Leith Walk was The Boundary Bar, so called because it marked the boundary of Leith and Edinburgh. Inside the pub there was actually a line showing the boundary and before licensing laws were changed people would shuffle over the line to the Leith side to get extra drinking time. Earlier this year The Boundary Bar was re-opened after being closed down and done up. Previously it was one of Irvine Welsh's favourite drinking holes as well as having the reputation as being the most violent pub in Edinburgh. One tale/urban myth tells of a drinker beating another into unconsciousness, stamping on his head and leaving the pub, only to return to revive him with water and carry on the beating. It was a pub with a lot of history and many weren't impressed when it re-opened with a new name, 'City Limits' and laminate flooring. Other traditional pubs have had the same treatment and many of the regulars sit clutching pints looking confused the their new 'light and airy' surroundings. Sofas have found their way in and sticky carpets have been taken out. With more and more of the heavily fly-postered windows of boarded up shops being cleared it seems that the old school of Leith Walk are up and leaving too. Shops that have been there for years now display signs in their windows claiming "leaving Leith Walk before the yuppies move in" and "made an offer we couldn't refuse". New flats are springing up in every available space, most seem to be sold before the building is even finished, all are extortionately priced. Apparently having an overpriced home squeezed between the sorting office and Poundstretcher is very in on Leith Walk. Just across the road the bus depot lies empty waiting for developers, planning and residents committees to come to an agreement on just how many flats can or can't be crammed into the space. While it's still possible to get no end of second hand (dare I say stolen?) goods, a decent fry up or one of those lovely pictures with moving waterfall effect there's no doubt that the wind of change is howling up Leith Walk. The day a shop opened selling paper mache fish we knew things were never going to be the same again.

God, I'm so cutting edge I can't stand it. My flat is on a quiet lane called Iona street where there is a lumberyard and lots of young families. I haven't seen any yuppies yet, just quiet Scottish families with amiable dogs, and I definitely haven't seen anybody beaten unconscious and revived with water but I'll keep you posted.

The inside of my flat resembles what you might imagine Irvine Welsh's flat looked like in the early 80's so I won't post pictures just yet. I will say is a beautiful place with lots of light and I'm looking forward to my steady stream of visitors. I'll leave you with these photos of Edinburgh I took from the top of Calton Hill today, which is just a ten minute walk from my flat.

The castle is on the left with Princes Street to the right

Holla Hollyrood! That's the Queen's Palace y'all.

Oh! I went to my first day of classes as a postgraduate and it was surreal. I'm pleased with my module choices and doubly pleased that I managed to schedule them all in the same day, so I will only have to commute to St Andrews on Wednesdays. Also, they let postgraduates check out library books for a year! That seems like a mistake. So far that is the only postgraduate perk I've received, but I'm told there might be many more down the line including a free car and a personal undergraduate servant. Imagine that!

I have yet to set up internet in the flat so it's still email for now. Love.