In my end is my beginning

This time, it's for good. I'm coming home. I am sitting here in Nancy's flat reveling in a moment that is so poignant and so perfectly cyclical that I wish I had the time or the energy to write a proper FINAL post, but the last few days have been such a crush of to-do's and goodbye's that I feel like I am running down a tight-rope to the end.

Tonight I said goodbye to everyone at Bonhams (there, I used the company name since I am no longer in their employ -- google me, I dare you!) and packed up the last few things in my flat. I went back upstairs to do a final sweep as the taxi idled outside on the cobblestones, and I couldn't help but feel such a terrific surge of excitement as I looked around at the empty tabletops. Let's go! Let's do this!

The thing is, I've had some really great news in the last few days. I found out I am eligible to continue on past my masters to pursue a PhD. What's more, I can do it from the States with the help of a department I have come to know and love. I'll have the freedom to pursue my topic on my own terms, and in my own time. I have so many happy little pots bubbling away on the fire of my enthusiasm.

For now, I'm just happy to spend these last few hours with Nancy and The Hound, doing what I have loved most about Scotland -- spending time with good friends. For my dear friends here: I have loved you with a fierceness that can only come at the intersection of so many divergent paths. I never anticipated living here, or meeting you, but now that I have I know that I wouldn't want it any other way. I love you. And for my family and friends at home: Get ready. Let's do this.

Love,

Lauren

Ready for this Jelly

Take it from me: website building is one of the best ways to avoid dissertation writing. That and heavy, heavy drinking.

Click here for academic fun.

Click here for awesome, ultimate, Big Time Fun. The kind of fun that makes you pump your fist in the air in triumph.

[I was just kidding about the heavy drinking. OR WAS I?]

Deep in the bowels of the St A's Library

Behold: the first peepings of my oral history project on the history of the St Andrews archives. The art department totally let me down on video equipment, hence the MTV-cribs style of cinematography. Regardless, the charm and sincerity of the Norman the Keeper of Muniments and Manuscripts is tangible.

I've had a pretty great time working on this project. The field work is finished-- now I just have eight hours of audio to transcribe and two hours worth of video to edit. Hey, it's still better than writing a 5,000 word paper. No, seriously.

Organic, Free Range Potatoes

The last few days have been a flurry of cleaning, folding, and cramming. I've moved nine times in the last two years, so I've got it down to a science by now. I was temporarily thrown off my game this afternoon by the discovery of Figure One: my new dining room centerpiece. I like it because it says "I'm all about class, but I'm also appreciate the miracle of nature."

What you see here is an actual sack of potatoes I discovered in the hidden compartment under my sink. And the really gross thing is (as if you needed one) that I wouldn't have had the first clue of this renegade potatosack's existence until its jack-and-the-beanstalk tentacles had blasted straight up through my countertop.

An interesting footnote to this situation is that I have no idea where the original potatoes even came from. I haven't bought a bag of them since at least 2004, and I can't remember Scott buying any when he was in town. They can't be a year old; wouldn't they be walking and talking by now if that were the case? So, if you are responsible for hiding a bag of (potentially magic) potatoes in the very back of the cabinet under my sink, please come forward. I just want to talk to you.

Plus que Parfait

I'm planning on shutting this site down when I move home . I'm doing it for several reasons, but mostly because it's called 'Lauren Does Scotland' and, well, I did it. Makes sense, right?

Time marches on! I've spent almost two and a half years here and it's time to move on. I have an all new set of priorities on my horizon. Most exciting, I suppose, is this:

There is a beautiful blue house waiting for me in Charleston, along with the makings of my masters dissertation, and all I can say is I can't wait to get back to the Carolinas.

This post is dedicated to Limited Edition Vanilla HobNobs

On the subject of things I will miss: British junk food! There some things (Marmite, for example) that I have spent the last two years strenuously avoiding, and even though Britain gets a bad rap for having some of the worst cuisine in the world, they sure know how to make a bangin' chocolate biscuit.

I suppose it's not limited to junk food. When my ex-hallmate Kvetchka went back to Russia, she stuck a whole pineapple in her suitcase. British fruits and vegetables are, on the whole, cheap and delicious. Someone told me recently that produce in the US has to travel too far by truck, and that is why our economy is in the toilet and Heidi Montag was recently called a "feminist hero" by the New York Times (further signs of the apocalypse include the Aliza Shvarts controversy and Bush's appearance on Deal or No Deal) . Most of my veg is flown overnight from Spain and Morocco by the fine folks at Tesco. Some people say Tesco is destroying the UK, but I say crisp African beans for all!

While we're on the subject of crispness: I'm fairly certain that Britain makes some of the greatest breakfast cereals on earth. I recently bought some kind of gravelly maple-pecan-oat masterpiece that turns your milk into liquid gold. US cereals are the manufactured boy band of breakfast food next to these hearty concoctions.

In Mexico, Canada, and the EU, Coca Cola is sweetened with sugarcane. In the United States, with corn syrup. Drinking a British Coca Cola Light is like swimming in an infinity pool of deliciousness somewhere on the Mediterranean shore. Words cannot describe a plain Coke. Wait: how about "Pleasure Teat"?

The availability of Thai and Indian food items rivals the countries themselves. I spent the whole month of February licking chicken tikka straight out of my frying pan. It is just that good.

Other British brands I will miss include Soap and Glory bath products. They make this pink sugar delight aptly called 'The Scrub of Your Life' -- and it so, so is. The packaging is sassy and well written, with names like 'The Clean of England' and 'The Righteous Butter'. Their products are tested by "three dirty rotten scoundrels south of the Thames." Who doesn't love a good pun? It's like monty python for your shower. I'm smuggling a few items back in my suitcase (one for you, Jamie).

Ten days! I can't believe it. I've been packing a little bit every night in the hopes that I can just slip my keys through the letterbox and hop in a taxi on the 10th. My latest coup includes finding a low cost shipping company that will deliver my rococo mirror to Charleston. I was going to be very sad to leave that behind. Seriously, ten days?

This is your job.

Nancy took about four hundred photos during last week's sale for a spread in Scottish Field. I am quite taken with them, and so share them with you. I could talk all day about what sale days are like but I think these photos speak for themselves:

Wanted: Sledgehammer

OMG you guys. This time last year I was eating strawberries and clotted cream on the sidelines of the Barclays Wealth polo tournament. This year? Well:

This is where the magic happens. [Behold my open suitcase to the right... a harbinger of happiness and relaxation to come.]

I always felt a small measure of guilt over the relative ease of my senior year at St Andrews. We only had four hours of class per week in that Elysium of endless youth. If I hadn't created such a difficult schedule for myself with curator jobs, auction houses, and endless nights of wild partying I could have stayed in bed for four and five days at a time, no problem. My leg muscles could have completely atrophied.

But this year, this year, is such a different story. The masters curriculum has humbled me. I stupidly thought I knew a thing or two about art history, and that getting a masters degree would be a snap. Well, the first rule of art history is to forget everything you ever knew about art history. A solid background in Marxism is more important than that introductory course on impressionism, and don't even pretend like you know how to write footnotes. It has been a difficult year.

The good news is that I recently got two major papers back and did well on both (against all odds), and one of my professors is urging me to develop my work into a longer article. We talked at length about it last week, but it is his initial commentary on my hard copy that makes me laugh:

"...I am certain there is an article here. The larger project, however, would have to draw out the theoretical issues in these furniture notations; the link between material culture and social class, and the opportunity for an object to convey a given status. And so the relationship between ownership and power. Really a fine work on a very obscure topic. You will appreciate that I feel this can be taken to a deeper level -- a potent and original sociological analysis. You hint at this but don't fully deliver. But, I was fascinated by this relatively bizarre topic and want to reward your insight and endeavour."

As much as I love the decorative arts, I still chuckle to myself every time someone suggests I ascribe defensible sociological traits to a little ol' chair. To suggest that furniture was the secret currency of a bygone era is a popular viewpoint for many furniture historians, and one that leaves me out in the cold most of the time. I'm all, "it's just a chair you guys." Oh, and I love how he (a photographic historian) calls my topic "obscure" and "bizarre." Comedy!

In these last few turbulent days I am juggling four epic projects, the bulk of which I have to finish before flying home on the 10th. I've never drowned, or come close to drowning, but I imagine if I were to do so that it might feel a little like this.

Think good thoughts for me, and I'll see you on the other side.

Great Scottish Adventure Vol. 4,367

Two Weeks and Five Days

Emotions are running high as the countdown continues. I got a little misty on the train yesterday as we crossed the Forth rail bridge, knowing I only had two more train trips to St Andrews in my future. Sure, I'll return to Scotland; but I'll never be a living, working student here again. And that makes me a little sad.

Things I Will Miss About Scotland (an evolving catalogue):
- The view from the art history postgraduate workroom. It is phenomenal. The school is built on a cliff overlooking the North Sea, and on a sunny day you can see the West Sands stretching gold all the way to the horizon.
- The little burst of excitement I get every time I walk out the door of my flat on Iona Street when the pavement is slick and the cars are rushing past on the cobblestones. It makes me feel vital and connected to the heart of this pulsing, foreign city.
- Walking along Howard Place, Shandwick Place, South Castle Street, Kirk Wynd, and all the countless ho-hum corners of Fife and West Lothian that sheltered me and my friends as we carved out our mutual and disparate experiences.
- Being in such close and easy proximity to masses of rich and studied culture. Titian is on my doorstep; I could pick up a rock and hit Holyrood Palace. At the root of my desire to move here was the lure of that proximity, and it hasn't let me down. I've become inured with it, and -- gasp -- find myself taking it for granted.
- I am sad I won't be here for another Scottish summer, as wet and foggy as they may be. The sun rises at 4 and sets at 11 and everyone is a little batty as a result. I had the best time knocking around the picturesque backroads of Fife in the eternal daylight.
- I will miss the uninhibited freedom of living overseas. I have made my own way here, on my own terms. That, above all things, has been my greatest accomplishment.

Would you trust this face with your estate jewelry?

Not in that turtleneck.

These were taken at Monday night's private view for the April Fine Sales. Can I show you something in a weathered 15th century oak?

My Steady's in the Nay-aye-Vee

I believe it was T.S. Eliot who called April the "cruelest month" *

Well, he be trippin.

So far, April has been pretty hilarious. I traveled all the way to Newport, Rhode Island to watch Scott get Naval officer-ed. It was a rigid affair punctuated by big brass, finger foods, and perfect posture. I successfully tamed the urge to holler out inappropriately during the ceremony (something along the lines of "WAY TO GO BABY! WAY TO GO! IN YOUR FACE, NAVY!") and the whole affair went off without a hitch. As for the rest of the weekend, we had many excellent meals at many fine dining establishments, and even played darts in the back room of a dimly-lit pub without losing any eyes. Newport for the win!

Navy Officer-ing is serious, serious business.

Now that-- THAT-- is a big flag. (First salute).

Me and the ladies of Officer Families at Thursday's reception. Represent.


Well done 08-08.

After the weekend's shenanigans we found ourselves at a crossroads: continue to march along quiet as church mice, or run wild into the stratosphere?

Clearly, the latter.

Next post: To Scotland!

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* I quote T.S Eliot almost exclusively on this blog. Like, what is THAT about? Well, I used to have this ratty old copy of his portable works stashed in the closet at my dad's house. I read it almost every night I was over there from age 10 until, well, now. It was that or Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret. I know, tough call.

Tasty Castle Teaser

We're back from our wicked sojourn through Southern Scotland. Included in the itinerary was a stay at this modest travel inn. They had a killer continental breakfast. We had a pretty freakin' amazing time.

I took forty jabrillion photos in old school Lauren style which I will post in the next few days for your viewing pleasure. Right now I am busy packing up things for Scott to take back to the States. Deciding which of my antique plates will make the trip is turning into Sophie's Choice right in my living room. My attachment to ceramics borders on unnatural. Be glad you aren't here.

In other news: I move back in twenty seven days and it is blowing my mind.

Back, and more American than ever

Scott and I are back in Edinburgh for the next two weeks. We are kicking off Spring Break with four or five days of sleeping. Him because he just finished the three most grueling months of his life... me because I don't have any papers to write and this might be my last chance before May.

Check out that hat! Yeah!

What's that you say?

LAUREN FINISHED HER ESSAYS?

"If anyone loved me they would give me a peep for Easter" - Jamie Lynn Gaul

Easter always feels like a time of reflection for me... maybe because it is the point in the semester where I get gut-checked by essays and their ugly stepsister, annotated bibliographies.

My two favorite parts of Easter are wearing giant hats and getting to sing the Hallelujah chorus, and there is no place on earth where those two things go together better than St Mary's Episcopal Cathedral in the west end of Edinburgh. Behold:

It was a beautiful service yesterday, made even better by the superb hat watching.

Today I'm tying up loose ends academically and socially. Tomorrow is my last day of work before hopping on a plane back to the States to watch this guy get commissioned as a US Navy officer:

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the thousand yard stare. Careful; he can kill a man in 27 different ways.

Happy Easter to all, and I'll see some of you very soon!

The ticket done been purchased

I was cleared by my adviser and I'm coming home, for good, on May 10th. Check out my sophisticated countdown feature to the right. 48 days? That's insane.

Skunked

Many of you know about my ongoing struggle to find a decent hairdresser in Scotland. And if you don't know, you can just look at my dull blonde locks with scraggly ends and get a good idea. The problem with Scottish hairdressers is that they really, really want to take my thick lustrous hair and hack into it much like a topiary or side of beef. And that is really, really not something I am enthusiastic about.

The style over here calls for thin, stick-straight hair punctuated by an asymmetrical bang, often with the underside of the hair dyed significantly darker than the top. It's not the best look if you ask me, but it seems to be the only one that a Scottish hairdresser can pull off judging by the fact that I walk out with it every time; even when I ask for, I don't know, a simple trim. This is the best representation I could find:

What this photo is missing is the mullet-inspired longer pieces that stick to the neck, but the front part is right on. What I don't understand is that none of the hairdressers themselves have the style; in fact, they all have pretty fabulous hair. Which leads me to my next point: are they turning against us? Wait, here's a better shot:


Now just imagine the top part dyed platinum blonde and you're there.

Anyways, this has been a long set-up for the latest ridiculous thing to happen to me: I inadvertently GOT MY HAIR DYED LIKE A SKUNK. I went out of my way to find a hair dresser from New Zealand; it was the same woman, in fact, who had successfully chopped Jamie's hair off a few months ago. I took a train to Fife on my day off, brought pictures to guide her, and was vigilant throughout the process, but I still left the shop feeling like a whole mess of eurotrash had been dumped all over forehead. I would post pictures but it is just too depressing. Ok, fine, but just one. This is the face I make when I cannot imagine what could have posessed you to dye my hair with two such contrasting shades:

She literally begged to cut my hair, but I learned my lesson last year in Amsterdam in what I like to call "The Bad Bang Incident of 2007" and resisted. As I type this, corrective chemicals are hard at work on the chocolate layer, hopefully lightening it to a more palatable shade of dark blonde. As much fun as it is to walk around looking like a reject from Rock of Love, I think I'll pass.

The sky trades the moon for the sun

My plans for the summer and the next eighty years of my life continue to crystallize. The latest installment in "Lauren Grows Up and Makes a Life" includes a lovely new house in Charleston, South Carolina:

Carolina blue? On Carolina Street? ALRIGHT fates; I get it.

Looks like we're the sloppiest number on the block. As Michael Scott says, "where are all the hot people?"

I'm going to do some major dissertation writing in that house. It's so on. It's on like the former Soviet Republic of Azerbaijan.