Time for walkies

In an effort to avoid reading The Second Treatise (I know, I'm a terrible excuse for a political theoretician), I took myself on another walk today. No goal, just ambling around town...

I went to Grey Friar's, a cemetery mostly known for Greyfriar's Bobby. While there, I realized just how suddenly it had become autumn:

So far no luck finding (ubiquitous stateside) pumpkin beer or lattes, but I am hoping someone will be willing to watch "Hocus Pocus" with me in a couple weeks. The overgrown American population here should be good for something.

I also went as far up Edinburgh Castle as I could, without actually paying the £10 to enter. That ish is crazy. Plus, there's a legend that if you go into the castle you won't graduate, so on balance not worth it. I did go into the gift shop and found the family clan tartan. We're MacGregors, so our plaid basically looks like Christmas wrapping paper:

Squinty.

Being from clan MacGregor also apparently means that our lands were taken from us because we just couldn't be trusted, and our most famous family member is this guy:

Hott.

Well, not this guy per se, because that's Liam Neeson, but the dude he's playing in the movie. Rob Roy. Him I'm descended from. The other William Wallace (Braveheart) you might say. Personally, I'd take Liam over Mel any day, especially since the latter is not so much "Ye mae naeva tak me frrrreeeeedom" these days as he is all racist and girlfriend-killy. Point: MacGregor.

Anyway, back in my room now and...still doing a pretty good job of avoiding Locke, I must say. Congrats me, for finding a way to invalidate my $40,000.00 reason to be here. Ugh. Uggghhhhh. Stupid Locke.

Theory

My reading this week has plunged me back into those icy waters of linguistic theory, first so tentatively explored in my junior year of undergraduate. I have to wonder if part of the reason this field affects me so deeply is because I seem to be made aware of it only when I am feeling completely cut off from friends and companionship; when I took my theory/criticism class in undergraduate, everyone I knew was abroad and I'd broken up with my boyfriend, and these dry discussions of the nature of the word only seemed to reinforce how alone I was. Now, I am still feeling vulnerably friendless, emotionally unstable and once again am confronted with the existential threat of Saussure. Dammit.

Still, ultimately I appreciate the almost visceral response that I tend to have to this area. I find myself terrified still by the implications of the idea that existence is predicated upon our reliance on an arbitrary system, namely, language. I can't help taking that thought to a nihilistic place where there is no meaning outside of the words, which are themselves meaningless. What I love is that I am frightened of an academic implication. It makes what I'm doing very real to me, because I can be affected by it in an emotional manner that, I think, is otherwise rare in scholarship.

The more recent upshot of returning to linguistic theory is that it has suddenly thrown the importance of the Enlightenment, which it looks like I'll be studying in detail this year, into the fore. I can imagine that the potential disconnect, the threat of the destruction of reality inherent in linguistic theory for me, is what people might have been feeling toward or in reaction to the ideas of the Enlightenment...or the Great Awakening, or the Reformation, or the American Revolution's ideals, or any new way of thinking that challenged the prevailing norm, the identity of a society.

What it makes clear is that it's real, in a sense that I think I sometimes lose when I study. It can seem so obvious, the ideas that are being grappled with in the past, that I forget they were shattering in the same sense that linguistics is to me now. Not shattering. It's like being cut loose from whatever ties you to your intellectual ground...

Imagine it. All of a sudden you are being told, urged, commanded to "know yourself," to treat yourself as a rational being capable of self-reflection and self-comprehension. But doesn't that mean you can fail to know yourself? And if there is no deity up there determining every aspect of your life for you, doesn't that mean that you can fuck up in previously literally unimaginable ways?  The stakes are much higher when all of a sudden you learn you're supposed to know what those stakes actually are.

I don't know, this post doesn't make much sense, and I'm sure it's not something that belongs in this forum. I just can't get over how disturbed I still am by the ideas of linguistic theory, and now realizing how that disturbance brings the foreign past into a place that I can understand and empathize with.

Oh, school. Heart.

Edumacation

Class today was really good. I mean, I managed to make a complete fool of myself every time I attempted to participate in discussion, coming off as some kind of deranged, illucid, ultra-privileged wannabe Zapatista, and also managed to mortally insult one of my professors, but aside from that, really, really good.

Thought-provoking, you know, thoughts being something that I haven't provoked (one of the few things?) for some time now. So even though I didn't seem capable of managing to connect the tips of my fingers, let alone serious intellectual thoughts, I took some very impressive notes. I even drew arrows.

Yeah. Arrows. I own this bitch.

All kidding aside, it's really, really exciting to be back in an academic setting. I still entertain COPIOUS doubts about my ability to actually be a contributing member of this world, but I feel very happy to be a part of it, however long it lasts. Which...if I continue to come off as an idiot in discussions and to insult my professors...may not be very long.



Thought for the day:
The American Revolution was not about taxation or representation. Rather, the war for independence was the result of American sulking after being excluded from the English social scene. So our proudest moment was actually a giant, militarized temper tantrum. This...makes too much sense to completely ignore.

...Cause it's pretty

I accomplished very little today. I wanted to go to Arthur's Seat but...somehow it didn't happen. I blame leprechans.

Anyway, as per usual I ended up wandering around town on my own for several hours. During said wandering I explored the Princes Street Gardens, which are quite lovely:




The Latin on the seal translates to "No one can harm me unpunished" and it's been used in several different Scottish regiments and chivalric orders. I think it's a pretty good motto regardless of who you are, but I might choose to translate it as "Don't even, bitch."

Other than that, not much going on, this lazy Sunday. Now that my antibiotics are done I'm trying to convince people to go to the pub down the road for a pint and, wouldn't you know it, they are all doing the reading they put off while they were getting snookered all last week. Jeez.

More requests from afar

Aside from this morning's parcel adventures, didn't really have much planned for the day. So I decided to take a run down the list of requested activities people are sending me.

Activity #1: Finding the dollhouse my mother remembers from 1967

Apparently when my mother came to Edinburgh as a child, she went to a museum and saw a giant dollhouse that was so detailed it had another dollhouse inside it, and it blew her kiddish mind. She's been asking me if I can find that dollhouse again and the answer is...maybe. I went to the Museum of Childhood today, which was full of kids (duh, right? Well, I didn't anticipate it) and stressful. They did have a whole exhibit case about dollhouses, and some were quite large, and I looked in every room of each little tiny house, but I couldn't find a micro dollhouse. However, the biggest, coolest-looking dollhouse was closed, and so I suspect, if I was in the right place, that was the one. Sorry Mom, I did what I could.

BUT.

I did find what has to be the creepiest museum exhibit of all time, an exhibit that will haunt my dreams forever. It was at the top of the building, and when I got up there I was all alone. It was a dark room filled with life-size dioramas of children in period costume. The mannequins were...terrifying, it was dark and they were piping in simultaneously music box tunes and a recording of schoolkids repeating the times tables by rote. I have never been so frightened.

Dead eyes.

Activity #2: Scottish tablet.

This culinary creation request comes via my old roommate, who I believe may have made it a personal goal to learn about every single candy ever made or marketed. Good onya, girl. She sent me an article about Scottish tablet, a very sweet, very creamy kind of traditional fudge. Well. They are NOT KIDDING about it being sweet. I found some in a department store and broke off a piece, and the closest thing I can compare it to is candy corn, but the texture is much smoother, and makes you worry about it getting stuck to your teeth. Because if that happens, it's over. Cavity city. I...don't think tablet will become a regular thing.

Sugar like whoa.

So, thanks to my mother and my old roommate for managing to give me lifelong nightmares and a mouthful of rotting teeth, in the same day. Good looking out, guys. No, I'm kidding, it was fun to track this stuff down and I'd like to do more, so please, dear readers, send stuff my way. It's like those "Choose your own adventure books" only with more complaining.

LOOKIT WHAT I GOT

Katie Hart does not wait for packages to come to her. No, my friends, she goes to the packages. I'm kinda like Mohammed that way. I got up at six this morning--SIX--to take a bus out to the parcel depot where my mythical package was being held. Maybe it's a holdover from crew, but I like being up early, before the streets fill up with people.

Those depot goons didn't even know what hit them. I was there when they opened, got my package, back on the bus and home by 10am. And here it is!

The contents: one set of fleecy sheets, one duvet cover, CANDY, and various hooks and room organizers, all as itemized for customs (which, my mother will be glad to hear, did not eat my sweeties).

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to my parents for sending everything to me! See how much better my room looks? Now it's like an army barracks instead of a prison cell. Movin' on up!

Cheers!

This one goes out to all the lovers...

I woke up early. I drank extra coffee, so that I would be wide-awake. I put on my game face (um...foundation). And I wore my most comfortable pants. I was ready.
Ready for what, you ask?

Ready...for THIS:

This, my friends, is the Elephant House cafe, also known as the BIRTHPLACE of HARRY POTTER. Yes folks, that's right, J.K. Rowling deposited her be-welfared self right in this very same place to begin writing the work that would one day count only the Bible and The Corrections before everyone realized what a downer it was, as its rivals.

She may have sat right here:

Can you see the castle? Hogwarts, perhaps?

She may have ordered and eaten these things:

Hot chocolate and the famous bacon rolls

She...probably wasn't with my flatmate.

Coffee and bacon rolls are yummy!

But this is what she saw when creating the magical universe that we were soon to know and love so well:

Which...makes me wonder why there are emphatically no elephants in the books themselves. Anyway, Harry Potter aside (as if there is such a thing), it was a nice little cafe, where I had a very delicious breakfast before going on my quest through the entirety of the British Royal Mail bureaucracy. My package from my parents--MY PACKAGE--seems to have been misplaced and tomorrow I get to take a bus a hour to a shipping depot to find it, and if they think I won't turn that place UPSIDE-DOWN to get it, they have another thing coming. My mother said there's candy in that box. I wants it.

This post (the HP parts of it, anyway) brought to you by a friend from home, who requested this particular outing. Let it be known that I am now taking requests for things my readership (HA) would like to do in Edinburgh/Scotland by proxy. So if you've always wanted to see Arthur's Seat, now's your chance. If you've always wanted to try haggis or blood pudding...you might be on your own there.


Another palate cleanser (or, root canal, depending on your musical tastes):
Buskers in Scotland are different.

Distracted

I'm feeling a little distracted these last couple days, as the reality of the situation sinks in more and more and I am finally forced to give equal attention to more daily activities than just keeping myself alive and complaining about having to do that.

Had another class, this one in research methods. What I took away from this class was that a. I am unforgivably naive when approaching my sources during my research and b. apparently it is possible to plagarize yourself, which seems unfair. People are busy, damn it. If I write something and happen to like it enough to use it again, why is it considered plagarism? Why can't it be like an academic easter egg hunt for my (eventual) readership? Anyway, I am sure there was more to be learned from the class, but I was hungry and the professor had distractingly tiny feet, and so I...didn't really pay attention. I had better TURN UP and start getting my money's worth out of this experience, is what I told myself afterward, when I realized I'd spent a majority of the lecture wondering if the professor could comfortably wear women's shoes.

Today it poured and I was informed by the universe that neither my raincoat nor my rainboots are waterproof. Thanks. Thanks a LOT, world.

So mostly I stayed in my room and read for class. It was dull. The book itself was particularly dessicated, though there were some nugget-y bits about the natural rights of man and fears of devlution into anarchy, that made me sit up and take notice. Well, not sit up, as I was prone on my prison bunk, and not take notice, but...I focused my eyes a little more at those times. I'm a scholar.

Made dinner for the flatmates tonight, per our agreement. I punked out and made spaghetti and salad and garlic bread, which is actually about as much as I or this kitchen can handle, and anyway the two Chinese flatmates had never had pasta, so it really was a cultural experience. My other flatmate was drinking red wine with dinner and god, did I want some. Stupid antibiotics.

Anywhoodles, now it's almost bedtime. I've managed to avoid being intellectually productive for the last...five hours. Nice.

Gross

I just stood in front of the open refrigerator and mindlessly ate mashed pie from a tupperware with my fingers. Feeling at home in Scotland? I think so.

First Day

Today was the first day of school! I wore a special outfit! No, in fact I didn't even take a shower as the entire building was devoid of hot water when I woke up this morning. Britain! It is no longer WWII! Stop rationing shit.

Anyway, had my first class--Intellectual History of the American Revolution. Professor is an American, class is full of Americans (and a man who seems to be the school's token Scot, who looks like a very pink cross between Ziggy and the Penguin), talking about American history...why did I move across the world again?

Love child?

I think it may be harder than I anticipated to get back into the swing of school. Discussion was fairly good, especially for the first day, but I couldn't bring myself to speak up. I don't know, I guess I've gotten so used to mulling things over in my own mind, on my own time, that I wasn't ready to just spit thoughts up onto the seminar table. We spent most of the time talking about the difference (or lack thereof) between intellectual history and the history of ideas, the role of bias in historians' work, the responsibility to follow the evidence. People were very worked up about what seemed to be fairly obvious statements. The entire discussion seemed to hinge ultimately on the fact that any scholarship (hell, any life with any thought process at all) is about determining what counts. But that's also so obvious as to be worthless, and so I stayed put. I did mention liguistic theory at one point, only to receive a collective shudder from professor and class, so apparently we won't be going down that road, but if you plan to talk about biases it seems a useful place to look. I don't know, I mostly spent the time swinging between feeling smugly superior to their plebian thoughts, and like a (thankfully not gibbering) idiot, looking desperately left and right as I tried to follow the train of thought. Never a middle ground for me, nope.

I do think it will get better once I get my feet under me. One thing that can get in the way, but for which I am ultimately very grateful, is that I tend not to speak unless I have something to say (excepting this blog, of course), which seems relatively uncommon in academia, at least at this stage. That's an unkind and pretentious statement, I know--but it's also true. So I just need to wait until I feel I can contribute meaningfully, and then blow them all away with my insight and erudition.


As a palate cleanser, overheard between two little boys in short knickers and kneesocks on their way to school this morning:
Boy #1: Which do you think is the better game, Harry Potter or Star Wars?
Boy #2: Star Wars. It's easier to get into character.

L'Infirmerie

This post may not make any sense; I just took a Codine tab.

So today has been different. Apparently, in addition to my luggage, carry-on and hopes and dreams, I also brought with me to Edinburgh the beginning of an extremely aggressive infection (yay me!). All week, this spot of my back had been getting bigger and redder and more and more painful, until finally I had developed a Frankenstein-like walk to keep my shirt from touching it and things seemed to be a bit more than I could handle with hot compresses and band-aids (or plasters, as they call them here). You've heard wounds described as looking "angry"? Well if this thing had had ears, steam would have been coming out of them. Which, actually, might have helped relieve some of the pain.

Anyway.

Once it became clear that I needed medical attention (last night at 18:30 when I Skyped my mother in tears because I hadn't bent or turned from the waist in three days), I found myself in the unenviable position of being an uninsured American alone in a foreign country, with no doctor, no money and very little know-how. Managed to call the National Health System 24 hour line, spoke with a nurse, waited three hours, spoke with a nurse, was given an appointment at 10am this morning at the Royal Infirmery of Edinburgh. My mother told me not to think about the cost, just to go and that they would take care of it. I have good parents.

So I went. Let me tell you, and more explicitly any American who thinks that Obama's "socialist" leanings are detrimental to the country--I have never had a better experience with a government system, or a more reassuring interaction relating to a medical issue. I showed up ten minutes early, was seen five minutes after I arrived, instantly told what I could expect for treatment and then treated in the office (treatment accompanied by apologies from the doctor each time I expressed any discomfort, which actually became a little ridiculous as I was being a total baby and so he essentially spent half an hour begging my pardon), given antibiotics and a painkiller, and out again in less than twenty minutes, at no charge. No charge! It was honestly the best interaction I've had here yet, even though both doctor and nurse seemed horrified that this was one of my first experiences in Scotland. They were wonderful, and though it's unlikely that anyone from RIE outpatient facility 6 will ever read this blog, I thank you all from the bottom of my shriveled heart.

Now I am going to go to sleep, and dream about tomorrow, when I might be able to rotate from the waist. Here's hoping!

The making of friends

While I've been rapidly acquainting myself with Edinburgh itself, spending lots of time walking around and discovering how easy it is to get lost and unlost within a three block radius, I've been somewhat remiss in making the acquaintences of my fellow students. More than ever before I've found that I don't meet people easily, and the evenings here have been a little lonely.

I've met some folks in my residence, and if the first year of undergrad is any indication, I will most likely spend more time with them than anyone else I meet in my classes or elsewhere around campus. I like them, but I feel a bit old around them. Many are straight out of undergrad, and while I should congratulate them for realizing in three months what I took two years to learn, I tend to feel more like a wrinkled duenna around the lot of them. This is to the point where somehow since arriving I have managed to convince myself that I am 26 years old, instead of my (actual) age of 24, and I think that's how I've dealt with what seems to be a great discrepancy in approaches to this venture. Or, I'm just being stand-offish and smug.

So I went out on Friday night, or stayed in, as it were, to attend a potluck where everyone was encouraged to bring a dish from their home country. And so, not inclined to cook anything, I searched all over town for an apple pie that I could bring, finally finding one across town, thirty minutes before I was supposed to attend a compulsory building tour for my college. And so there I am, running across town with this bloody great pie in my arms, looking desperately for a place to hide said pie once I reached the building, only to bring it to the potluck and have no one eat any of it because apparently Americans and Scots are the only cultures with sweet tooths. But there was plenty of wine, so I got over it.

More bottles than heads?

Found an Ikea today...that is not the hectic experience that it is in the States. Maybe it's an inverse relationship between proximity to Sweden and the likelihood your world will end if the store doesn't stock Bjorisnug or something. Anyway, I got a floorlamp and a plate--I refuse to live in a world of overhead florescent lighting and literal one-pot meals. Then we went to Costco (I know, I was surprised they had that here, too) and what did I see but that SAME STUPID PIE in the bakery section. I got sold a Costco pie at a fancy patisserie, and upcharged for it, and I actually THANKED the clerk when she put the damn thing back in the box it was SOLD in so that I could dash around town with it. Bollocks.

Still, a good day out with some people with whom I would like to stay in touch. And I'm trying to stave off the sticker shock, reminding myself that these are one-time purchases and I'm sure I won't need to buy another floor lamp or fresh produce or anything while I'm here.

Anyway, must go. The flatmates are convening to discuss...I don't know, the toilet paper buying schedule and the possibility of cooking as a group. Um, hate to burst that bubble, but I'm a terrible cook and would almost always rather have toast than put any effort into my meals. If they're willing to eat toast this will work out just fine, otherwise...

Walkabout

As promised, pictures of my new town. My plan today was to head toward the old part of town, then Princes Street where a lot of the fancy shops and buildings are. I was going to zip around, take some surrepticious pictures (I favor sniper-style photo taking, so as to avoid looking like a tourist as much as possible), buy a phone and zip out. The first few pictures are of my walk to school, and just heading around town.

However.

When I got toward Princes, it became obvious that something big was happening. Something exciting. Something...parade-like. All of the roads were blocked off, there were bobbies EVERYWHERE, and everyone was waving Scottish flags. What was this strange event I had stumbled upon?

Well friends, it was the POPE. The Pope was in Scotland today on an apostalic visit, and he just happened to be having tea with the queen that moment and his motorcade was going to come sloooowly rolling through the center of town IN JUST TEN MORE MINUTES. Of course I waited. And waited. And waited with everyone else in the bitter Scotch wind while the Pope drank endless cuppas with the queen mum. This seemed very British to me.

But then he came! And I got a picture of his arm waving in the Pope-mobile. I would have rather had a scarf with his face on it, but that cost £5 and I can't afford to wear the Pope at that price.

Anyway, so I watched the Pope and then I walked back. The last few photos are of my school building and the student union (which has four bars in it. Clearly, I am expected to be drunk ALL THE TIME).

Thus, Edinburgh.

Brief hosannas

So, yesterday's post ended rather abruptly because I couldn't figure out how to make that last picture do what I wanted and I got frustrated and gave up. I am confident that I have found the stupidest way possible to upload pictures to this thing, and so while I have every intention of going out today and taking pictures of the town (now that I've addresed my "critically low" camera battery), I cannot promise that you will be able to see them, or that the accompanying text won't be full of bitter, bitter swearing.

But that's not the point of this post. The point, as the title is supposed to suggest, is a quick look at the things in Scotland that I have enjoyed thus far (as most of my entries are just extended rants and complaints, I thought it would be good to switch things up a bit).

What I like about Scotland:
- Scottish accents. In particular, I like the babies and toddlers who speak with the wee brogues (that might be an Irish term. Fuck it). I don't care how adorable your baby is; if it doesn't speak with a teeny, tiny British accent, it's ugly inside and I hate it.

- Scottish dairy products. Oh heavenly mercy, I have found the dairy mecca and Wisconsin can just suck an egg. I am currently drinking a cup of instant coffee made absolutely sublime by a heavy dose of Scottish double cream, which I found in the grocery store while looking for half and half. Perhaps this is where the phrase "don't do anything by halves" was invented, because I've found skim milk and double cream and nothing in the middle. This is fine by me. Also, Scottish butter = heaven in a pat.

- Scottish architecture. I don't know, it's probably not uniquely Scottish (Georgian, or something) but it's beautiful. And also...not beautiful. Filthy, discolored and dark, it's this terrifically double-edged style. Very masculine. The color of the stone makes everything feel like a giant sandcastle town or something, a very ornate, miniature town that I happen to have found myself living in. I don't know, I can't describe it. Pictures to come.

- Bacon rolls. I have not had these yet, but I like the sound of them.

- The use of the word "cheers" for every conceivable occasion. Usually people say it as goodbye, I guess, but my program director inserts it everywhere in his conversation. This may be the part of the local language that I most want to adopt, and the one that will make me sound the most fake and pretentious if I use it at home. Sigh.

That may be it for now. So far things are still worse rather than better, but I feel confident that I'll be adding to the list soon. Look out for pictures to come...

My room

People (well, my mother) have been asking me for pictures of the new place. Taking those pictures is a depressing prospect, given what I have been allocated for the year, but since I have some time this morning, I'll give it a shot.

This is the view from my door (incidentally, I have never been to a place with more doors. From the time that I get to my building, to when I am actually standing in my room, I walk through five heavy fire doors. I hope there's never a fire because I will probably burn to death):

This is really everything.

Bed, wardrobe, desk, bookshelf, chair. I suppose that's standard, but it all feels just a bit snug. I think once I get some stuff on the walls--if I ever do--I will feel better about it. Assuming I can heat the space in winter, I may even find it cozy.

What is not cozy is this bed:

Prison issue.

 I swear, the mattress is from an extra large crib. At least I won't die of SIDS while I'm here. I have managed to convince my parents (mostly by sobbing while we are Skyping) to send me nice, fleecey sheets and a duvet cover and I CANNOT EVEN EXPRESS HOW EXCITED I AM. Maybe that gives some indication. Or, the fact that I am fairly certain sending me this package will result in financial ruin for my family, but I do not care.

Then there is my dresser/bookshelf, which looks fairly empty now (the bookshelf) and is packed incredibly, disgustingly full (the dresser):

Holds four complete outfits

 And...that's it! No, really. There's a bathroom and a kitchen, but they are standard issue and I don't have to clean them, so I am okay with any facility provided under that provision. I do have a nice view:

Posh.

  

Observations

While my last post may have been a bit dramatic, it was not untrue. I am havin a hard time, as I expected, but it's been compounded by some things that I did not (stupid, stupid boys) and so my poor little rich girl routine yesterday was really the best I could do.

Today is not much better. I spent most of the day in departmental welcome lectures, which have left me braindead and alternately smugly confident and completely terrified. I've met some people, but having done (sort of) this before, I'm not confident enough that I'll see them ever again to call them friends.

So, since I am le tired, I am going to punk out and just jot disconnected notes and observations. I find them interesting. You do not have to.

- the British do not refridgerate their eggs. I may not buy eggs
- it is easier to remember to look right-left-right when crossing a two-way street than to figure out which way the cars will come from on a one-way
- according to a (rather snooty) Scottish girl I spoke with, the "obnoxious American accent" is mainly ofensive because of the volume. Note to Americans: take it down a notch.
- the only people I've met here seem to be Americans. Note to Americans in Edinburgh: this is not why I came here.
- it is funny to see American beer on tap as an import. What is not so funny is the idea of paying 6.00 for a Budweiser.
- sinks with two faucets are epidemic here, and are the dumbest things on the planet. I understand the concept: plug the sink, mix water from hot and cold faucets, wash hands and face in resulting pond. HOWEVER, all of the public bathrooms have them as well, rendering the plug unfeasible, so what you end up doing is burning one hand while freezing the other. I have developed a grapevine technique to try and avoid this, but it's spotty at best.
- I am totally going to have an accent when I get back. I promise, it's not pretention, it really does just happen. Already I have given up on the word "very" and switched to "quite" in my conversations.

I really, really need classes to start. I don't have the money or the inclination to spend seven hours in a pub, but when I'm alone with my own head/thoughts, things get a bit drippy. The crying I expected, but the urge to vomit is new to me (possibly residual stupid, stupid boys). Once I'm in class I will have reading to do, everyone will settle down, I'll meet people I can reasonably expect to see again...better.

Anyway, I think I'll end this and take a gander at some of the volunteering options around town; apparently the only way to make this degree mean anything is to combine it with actual volunteering/work experience. I knew that from undergrad, but I guess part of me hoped it wouldn't be true with a master's. Le sigh, I guess things aren't as foreign here as they seem...academia is still pointless.

First night in Scotland

Deeply, deeply unhappy.

Unattractive

I spent the morning repacking all of my clothes for the next year because I decided that it was embarrassing to have so much stuff. Of course, I'll probably be equally embarrassed to spend twelve months wearing the same four outfits over and over. This is what I ended up with:

Bulky

Just as I was finishing up, my mother came downstairs and said that she had a present for me. Despite destesting surprises, I still like presents and this was an exciting prospect. What could it be? Some new earrings? A big, thick novel for the plane? A blank check to help with some inevitable financial difficulty?

It was not any of those things.

I had kinda felt this coming, as my mother's urge to protect me fetched up against the hard reality of an entire ocean separating her from her wigging daughter. And Edinburgh does have its issues with muggings. But...really?

 I don't think I'll ever recover my pride.

Philadelphia

I'm writing this from my old bedroom, home for the next thirty hours in Philadelphia. I can't believe I am going to be spending the next year of my life sleeping in a twin bed. God, was I happy to say goodbye to that particular aspect of my youth. And now it's back.

I've been wondering what happened to the day; I don't seem to remember much of it. That probably means that the flights were uneventful. I know I slept for a while, woke up crying and spent the next forty minutes blowing my nose into the bag that had held my complimentary peanuts. I think I may have scarred for life the woman sitting next to me. In addition to fighting back tears (or...not bothering to fight them back, but wishing I had as I directed streams of snot into a cellophane baggie) I was also beset by an intense and, unfortunately, insupportable craving for chicken nuggets. So much so that I made my dad detour to the nearest McDonald's upon landing and then proceeded to inhale those divine little nuggets in the time it took us to get back on the freeway. It's a good thing they are already kinda esophagus-shaped.

Really, all I thought about today was the boy and chicken nuggets. I wonder if that might result in some kind of Pavlovian association. Maybe for the rest of my life I shall weep into my nuggets. Which on balance is better than snotting a peanut bag.

I just thought about it and, aside from my physical location, this post has nothing to do with Philadelphia. It should be titled "Crybaby" or "Fast Food Inhalation" or "Ways in Which I Am Disgusting." Maybe I can post an actual Philly entry tomorrow; apparently there is a shindig planned in my honor/involving me. It'll be fun to see my high school friends before I go. Too bad there's no getting to be got.

I need to go cry again.

Down

I said goodbye to the boy today. He told me he'd see me on Facebook. While not exactly "We'll always have Paris," I feel that the subtext is largely the same.

I've been better.

Tiny Toiletries

Am I the only person who feels that you aren't truly going somewhere new unless you've purchased travel-sized toiletries? I figured as long as I planned to leech the Fred Meyer wireless I might as well buy some shit, and so I now have in my possession tiny soap, tiny shampoo, tiny conditioner, tiny toothpaste.... Taking a page from my roommate's book, I have been pretending to be a giant.

Enormous.

Speaking of the roommate, we met for lunch downtown today and had a quasi leave-taking. We went to Kenny and Zuke's, because I figured that the most unlikely food I'll find in Scotland would be Jewish deli, and because I've been craving salt to replace all the sodium I lost in my Sunday night meltdown. Also, that place is really expensive but I had accidentally stolen $17.00 from Fred Meyer earlier today, and so I figured that maybe if I put that money right back into the local economy, it might not count as theft, but rather...restructuring.

Anyway, post-lunch, roommate and I walked back toward her office, at which point I attempted to say goodbye and asked if I could give her a hug. She said no. Reader, we have lived together for five years and now when I'm moving all the way around the entire world, no hugs? I knew we were Norwegian, but unnskyld meg! we could have been married by now. Actually, given our ethnic proclivities, this may be a sign that we actually are married...

Magnets in our heads.

Ultimately, she relented because I pouted. Then I made her take a picture with me in public, so now she never wants to see me again.

Even given my apparent campaign to ensure that everyone I leave behind is more than ready to see me gone (by engaging in obnoxious, self-involved and otherwise socially unacceptable behavior), I feel better about the whole enterprise today. I think it's because of my tiny soaps.

Tipping Point

I think I finally realized last night what it is I propose to do. I leave Portland in three days, and the country in six. I might have found a more productive way to spend the evening than having an extended panic attack/crying jag, but...what's done is done.

I've been telling myself that most of my lost-shit moments are due to the boy, and I think that is still the majority of it. He's the only one that I anticipate never seeing again, so the potential loss—even though he's arguably less important to me than anyone else I am saying goodbye to—is much greater. But what became clear last night is that the boy is acting as a prism of sorts, and I'm filtering all the rest of my anxiety and nervousness about leaving everything behind through that particular relationship. It's convenient, I suppose, in that it allows me to interact with everyone else without losing it and becoming a great blubbering mass, but then every time I think about the boy (or, potentially, the next time I speak to him) I just literally cannot control myself. It's going to make me look like a crazy person, considering that we really never developed a relationship that can justify that kind of reaction, and I won't be able to control myself enough to explain what is really going on. So I'll end up looking like some sort of drippy madwoman, overreacting in a completely inappropriate way and leaving that as my last interaction with the one person whom I won't ever see again.

See, there again I've managed to focus all of the worry on the boy, when that's really the least important aspect of this whole thing. I'm disturbed by the amount of time and energy I've dedicated to this thing, and I think I'll be very glad to snap out of it. What I will regret, I imagine, is that I spent the last few weeks with my friends and family resenting their presence and the time that could have been spent with the boy. Which would not have been spent with the boy, but which I haven't been able to make myself realize, throughout the course of this thing.

I also get the sense that now I'm just keeping myself busy. I wish there were a way to bank some of this extra time that is driving me so insane, and pull it out once I'm completely under, trying to cram eighteen years worth of British education into my American brain, before I can even begin to consider learning the new information. Head of the class, here I emphatically do not come.

Important Lessons

I have spent the last 30 hours learning some very important life lessons. For the edification of my millions of devoted followers, I shall enumerate them:

Life Lesson the First: I should not ever, ever drink whiskey, by that or any other name.

Poison.

This lesson is brought to you by Thursday night at the Horse Brass, a very nice bar where I threw up in the hallway on my way to the bathroom. I also threw up in the bathroom, on the sidewalk outside, and, like the littlest pig, all the way home. I then continued to be violently, violently ill in the bathroom at home, until passing out on the floor until 5am. As part of the continuing guilt saga, one of my family members, all of whom I have been nothing short of heinous toward, covered me with a blanket and got me a pillow. I really, truly don't deserve them.

I can't decide if this is a good or bad lesson to have learned on my way to the whiskey/scotch drinking capital of the world (I don't know if Scotland actually holds that title; it just seemed appropriate, given the name). I suppose it's good to know, even if it's not good that it's true.

Life Lesson the Second: If I do drink whiskey, I need to throw up as much as possible the night of.

Surprisingly, given the amount of hurling I was doing Thursday night into Friday morning, I really didn't feel too bad the next day. Aside from having a sensation a bit like that of a wrung-out dishtowel, which is kind of how I feel on a daily basis, anyway, I found my state of existence quite tolerable.

Life Lesson the Third: My family is far too accepting and comforting to allow me to continue to treat them in the horrible, horrible fashion to which I have become accustomed.

As I have no intention of changing my behavior before I leave, I continue to believe that the solution is to avoid them as much as possible until I can act like a responsible, compassionate human being again.

Life Lesson the Fourth: I should never try to fool myself into thinking I am capable of being in a relationship where both parties are less than mutually committed.

It doesn't work and leads, directly or indirectly, to the learning of the lessons above.

Heavens to Betsy, I MUST find and purchase a new computer today. Life Lesson the Fifth: procrastination is never helpful, and may lead to increased stress levels and awfulness toward one's loved ones.

But not as much as boys will.