The real Windy City

Today is St. Andrew's Day, which inspires much patriotism, Saltire-waving, and a giant ceilidh on the Royal Mile tonight. If the rain holds off, I'm going. Street party in November in Scotland? Awesome.

Funny thing about this morning: when I woke to the pre-dawn of eight AM, I heard a strange rustling against the window. "Rain?" I thought, but no - just clouds and a ridiculous breeze.

I saw that admission to the castle was supposedly free today, so, deciding that it was high time I visited, I packed my camera after breakfast and made my way up the hill. The castle staff, however, put an abrupt stop to my tourist plans. Apparently, the castle's not safe for visitors during periods of high winds.

High winds? Sheesh, this is nothing. So my hair's a mess and I was having to lean into the wind on Nicholson Street. It's not raining, is it? This is great weather. I have no idea what y'all are talking about.

Although, if this wind keeps up, what's that going to do to the kilted masses tonight?

Oh dear.

Best name ever

Let's hear it for the British upper crust, source of endless debate, scandal, and a selection of fancy hats!

There are some real winners among the names and titles, but one stands head and shoulders above the rest. I didn't know this guy existed until the news tonight, but let me present the best name ever: Lord Adonis.

If I were a peer, I would want to be this guy.

As it turns out (thanks, Wikipedia), he's an English-Cypriot Baron who was born Andreas Adonis. While this is certainly a fine name on its own, stick the honorific in front and you've got what is possibly the greatest title ever.

So he's not particularly liked by some politicians. They're probably just jealous of the name. I mean, come on, Adonis? Says it all, man. Says it all.

One week

It hit me today while I was sitting in the hallway before class, reading a horribly bad novel I bought at a rummage sale, that I'm going home one week from today. Less than that, actually - my flight leaves Edinburgh at 9 AM, so I'll be in New Jersey by now this time next week.

Where did the semester go?

I'm sitting here with my (mercifully cooperative) laptop, my spiffy A4-stocked printer, my squeaky haggis, my Famous Grouse tin-turned-penny-holder, a cup of herbal tea, and half a bowl of All Bran Crunchy Oatbakes (bad name, but whatever). I got to browse the German Market again today, and even saw a few brave souls out on the ice rink in the garden. The weather cooperated for most of the day. We haven't had a fire drill in weeks. The Jeremy Kyle Show is still entertaining. The turkey I grilled for dinner tonight on the stove's grill rack actually tasted like real meat.

I have come to terms with the fact that I will not finish my current project before going home, but otherwise I seem to have survived the first semester. All is right with the world.

A little taste of college

There comes a point when you look in the cabinet and see mostly seasonings, teabags, and a single can of beans, and then, no matter the weather, you suck it up and go to Tesco.

I'm in the middle of an errand-y sort of morning - gym, laundry, and groceries - and I just returned from Tesco with my large recyclable tote, £16 lighter. There is fruit in my refrigerator once again. This is a good thing.

While replenishing my oatmeal, I stumbled upon a new cereal tucked in with Tesco's minimal offerings. The name was different, but the picture on the front could only mean one thing: Cracklin' Oat Bran has made it across the pond.

Ah, Cracklin' Oat Bran. It brings back such fond memories of the Davenport Dining Hall: lunch, dinner, snacktime, dessert, topping my fro-yo, dipped in chocolate on Valentine's Day... Yeah, okay, I've missed the cereal just a little bit. It's not quite as sweet here, which is probably a good thing, but it's still the all-purpose oatmeal substitute.

Speaking of D'port, if anyone out there has the recipe for curried sweet potato and lentil soup, let me know...

Christmas carols

After the service this morning, Roy the organist handed out the song line-up for the next month. Knowing that Emily, the other American postgrad alto, and I have had a bit of trouble with some of the hymns thus far - either we've never seen or heard them before at all, we know the tune but the text is different, or the text is on one page and the tune on another - he smiled and said, "Christmas carols are Christmas carols. They can't be that unfamiliar, right?"

Well, Emily and I looked at next week's selections. Except for "O Come, O Come Emanuel," we knew nothing. Nada.

Figuring that next Sunday morning was not the best time to rectify this, we borrowed the sanctuary piano and did a little one-finger part tapping. My piano skills are subpar, but they worked well enough for the Inept American Alto Section.

At least we can usually fake it. Roy offered to take up a collection to fly us back over for the rest of the month.

More oboe!

I'm a choir person, so I'm naturally biased toward singing groups when listening to an orchestral setting. Then again, I've often been part of the singing group behind the orchestra, so the bias is a bit more understandable.

That said, tonight's Magnificat and other works concert was stolen by one person: Ruth and Her Amazing Oboe. We wanted to make posters. We wanted to do the wave. We wanted to yell "More oboe!" but we figured Ruth would get upset if we yelled during her oboe solo.

There were a few other highlights as well. In no particular order:
Michael's Abercrombie shirt and kilt, complete with knife in the sock
Michael's trenchcoat that hid all but the socks, making him look like a streaker (or Eytan in A Child's Christmas in Wales)
The American-themed bar on Lothian Road
Nachos at Favorit
Ian's Guydar
Ian's budding relationship with Charlotte the Macbook
Once again making an inappropriate comment that was meant entirely innocently
Having my zoo movie analyzed
Escaping Edinburgh's wind/rain/cold and the choir

Sketchiness

Even after Frankenturkey and wine, I managed to survive seminar yesterday (though I was probably in the best mood I've ever been in during that class...hmm...). Then it was an hour and a half home to change and conference call with the family ("Guess what I'm drinking?"), and then out again into Edinburgh, Wind Tunnel of The North, for our class reading.

The Pleasance Cabaret Theatre is only two blocks away, but Edinburgh killed another umbrella en route. I must replace it today, while the sun is still shining...just six and a half hours to go...

The reading went well - much alcohol was consumed by people other than Cali, whose glass kept being mysteriously refilled during lunch, and me - and afterwards, around eleven, a small group of us followed Erica out into the mercifully rain-free night for karaoke at her bar, Belushi's.

I'd never been to Belushi's, but it's an interesting place. It was hopping by the time we got there, packed partly by the people from the hostel upstairs and partly by some sketchy regulars. Erica knew everyone, so she disappeared off to the bar for a bit while we packed into a semicircular booth and began perusing the karaoke list.

Just as Cali, Kelli, and I were looking through the book, this random drunk guy came up and started making conversation. He was not alone. Let me go ahead and clarify: we never learned any actual names, so we're going to call this inebriated trio Talkative Irish Guy, Dancing (Australian?) Guy, and Wasted Asian Guy. As Cali and Kelli noted, it seemed that the three of us must have had a flashing "SINGLE!" light about our persons or something, because these three just couldn't take a hint.

Talkative Guy tried to force us to pick songs, then scooted his way into the booth with us. He kept coming back throughout the night. Wasted Guy occupied his position the rest of the time, drinking morosely and making comments like, "Do you think he [Talkative Guy] is attractive?" Dancing Guy first grabbed Cali and tried to carry her away, then took my hands and made me dance with him, which mostly consisted of twirls and dips. I gave the usual smile and "Thank you" to bow out gracefully, but he just wouldn't let up. All night long.

Fortunately, there was usually a hiding place back in the booth - Billy and Russ, our token males, were willing to scoot around - or with Erica, who introduced me to the staff between karaoke numbers. One guy who works there, Tony, had an absolutely fabulous solo, as did Lauren, who I think was just a regular. Then there was the guy who tried a drunk rendition of "Rawhide." Dear God, no.

Two guys, Billy and this random drunk local, offered to buy us drinks, but Cali felt that her liver just couldn't take it, I had reached my quota at lunch, and anyway, we still had a twenty-minute walk back. I was in the queue for karaoke, but when 12:30 rolled around (the bar supposedly closed at 1), Cali and I decided to scrap it and head home. The trio just wouldn't let up. "You're not allowed to harass the customers," Erica warned Talkative Guy, who just couldn't keep his hands off Kelli's knee. "No - let me see your hands. Up on the table. Keep them there." He insisted that he had to practice the piano or something, which necessarily involved Kelli.

Still, my favorite line of the night came from Talkative Guy, who was trying to help me pick a song. While he paged through the list, he came across "Like A Virgin." "How about...no," he said, looking at me, "no one would ever believe that." Smooth, buddy, really smooth. You know the way to a woman's heart.

Fun place, we decided, but if we ever want to do karaoke there, we should get in by eight or nine and immediately put our names down. And bring boyfriends along.

Behold, classmates, my work of art

Mrs. Camp, my sixth-grade English teacher, had an odd sense of humor. Whenever one of us balked and tried to stammer out an explanation before reading our pieces, she would make us stand, face the class, and loudly proclaim, "Behold, classmates, my work of art!"

With that in mind, let's just cut to the chase. Behold, world, my dressing.

My hands still smell slightly of onions and garlic.

My knife "technique" concerns Corner, but to be fair, our knives are dull and that sausage was tough.

I have gained an appreciation for the Cuisinart.

I have also learned just how much "six cups" actually is...6 c rice + 3 c stock + 4 c vegetables and sausage = Lauren needs an actual Dutch oven. No worries, I split the rice and just divvied everything else. The second pot contains more of the same.

The dressing was an adventure in so many ways. I began to realize just how much our dorm kitchen lacks in the way of standard amenities - you know, like multiple measuring cups, measuring spoons, and a Dutch oven. Oh well. This is trial by fire time, and I've produced something vaguely chicken flavored.

Midway through my preparations, Corner told me that he thinks I'm probably a good cook. Why, I asked. Apparently, since everyone else on the floor is a good cook, I'm obliged to be at least halfway decent. Maybe.

It's Thanksgiving. With my mad knife skills, I'm thankful that I didn't cut a finger off, and that Leigh and Cali are making the turkey and pies.

The things we do for national holidays

Tomorrow was shaping up to be a meatless Thanksgiving. Having been forced to turn down Harry's dinner invitation because of our class reading tomorrow night, I was planning to attend Danielle's Creative Writing Pre-Reading Thanksgiving Dinner. Danielle being a vegetarian and the rest of us being lazy/inept, there will be no turkey at Danielle's flat, but there may be macaroni and cheese.

I had resigned myself to a turkeyless day when I received an e-mail from Leigh this morning. She and Cali are planning a Thanksgiving luncheon tomorrow. They're making the turkey and two pies (I knew those cans of pumpkin in the store display would go to good use!), and everyone else is to bring a dish.

Well, I figured I could do dressing.

There are two ways to go about dressing: buy the Paxo box and add water, or suck it up and actually attempt something homemade. Fine, I thought, enough instant couscous and microwaved peas, this is a national holiday, damn it. It deserves something better than my ill-fated Canadian Thanskgiving rolls.

Taking Rosanna the Cooking Light Intern's advice, I hopped onto their website and started looking for recipes. The first that sounded good was a dirty rice stuffing. I like dirty rice. I like stuffing. What the hell.

Then I started reading the recipe...Andouille sausage (This is the country that lives on black pudding, surely they have something), chicken livers (Um...no), 6 cups long-grain rice (Easy enough), 3 cups chicken broth (My favorite form of hot sodium), olive oil (Got it already), celery, onions, garlic (Just this once), green bell pepper (Substituting red - it's my dressing!), Cajun seasoning (Wait a minute...)

Undaunted, I headed off to Tesco for a little pre-breakfast grocery shopping, where I (inevitably) encountered a few difficulties:

1) This is the UK, Land of Grams. Do we know how many grams of rice go into a cup? We bought a kilo and we're guessing.

2) Why does chicken broth not exist at my Tesco?!? I'm resorting to bullion cubes.

3) Speaking of things that don't exist at Tesco..."Cajun seasoning." Yeah. Not going to happen. We're using the all-purpose savory seasoning mix already in my cupboard and pretending.

4) And as far as sausage goes, we have acquired half a kilo of Tesco's half-fat pork sausages and we're going to pretend. There is no Jimmy Dean over here. There is no Andouille sausage, either. If Mary ever reads this, she will probably pass out at my poor attempt to replicate her regional cuisine in Scotland.

Armed with £7 of assorted vaguely appropriate items, a new box of oatmeal, and toilet tissue, I headed back to the dorm to fit it all into the fridge. Since Amber left this morning for a two-month sojurn in Antarctica (yeah...we're just going to Firbush in Creative Writing), there was actually adequate fridge space. This gave me a moment to contemplate my package of sausages. What does one do with eight pork sausages, anyway? Fortunately, my cleaning lady walked in.

"Stupid question," I began, "but how does one cook sausages? I've never really cooked before."
She gave me a horribly pained look. "You've no' cooked before?"
"Not really. Not sausages. See, it's Thanksgiving tomorrow, and I'm trying to make this dressing...and Tesco has nothing Cajun..."
She patted my arm and explained that ten to fifteen minutes on the grill will do them nicely.

Great. All I have to do tomorrow is figure out which pot can work as a Dutch oven, get out my oatmeal freebie measuring cups (each of which holds about 2/3 cup water) and do a lot of guessing, finely chop many smelly vegetables using my mad knife skills, and grill sausages. I can do this.

My mother's comment: "I can hardly wait to hear how this turns out. You made me laugh out loud at 3:45am!"

Mom, you're not helping my self confidence, here.

The joys of metric

Having wussed out to November in Edinburgh, I sucked it up, coughed up £2.50 for a one-time pass at the gym, and got back on a treadmill. I must say, it was nice to run glove- and fleeceless for a change, but I had a bit of a nasty shock when I started programming the machine.

I know Precor machines - they're what we primarily had at Yale, and they're pretty intuitive. I had run on treadmills identical to the one I chose this morning, and I knew what speed settings I can do. When I started running the numbers today, however, the first thing it asked for was weight. 68kg? Higher? Lower?

This was not boding well. I just accepted it and moved on to the speed component, but found that my usual rate - somewhere in the 6.7 neighborhood - wasn't cutting it. Crap, I thought, jogging in place and glaring at the console, I don't do metric before breakfast. It's just not right.

There was one plus to the funky metric-calibrated machine, which was that I seemed much more hard-core than I am. After half an hour, I had run almost five kilometers at 9.2 km/h, which sounds much better than 3.1 miles at 6 mph.

I knew that didn't feel like 9.2.

Is is spring yet?

Our substitute lit teacher, Laurence, seemed almost gleeful when we began complaining about the horrible weather today. He told us to get used to it. Gee, thanks, man. Way to be reassuring.

If complaining about homework is the great American collegiate pastime, complaining about the weather is the Scottish version. They have every right - I was watching the noon news today, and the forecast for the western side of Scotland was something like 6 C (roughly 44 F) with a 45-mph wind. Ours wasn't that bad - the wind was perhaps 25 mph or so - but then the rain moved in...

"Hey," Laurence told us, "we don't get hurricanes."

Ella had the best comeback of the day: "And now I know why the British say 'bloody' so much." Yes, the weather is indeed bloody awful.

Another lazy Sunday

Today was vastly non-productive, but what the heck - it's the weekend, after all.

There was much church-going (morning and evening), and around that, I attempted to get in some exercise. I woke to sun this morning, so I suited up and put on gloves, then headed for the park. Lo and behold, the sidewalk was icy. Foreseeing something horrible happening on the long, shaded downhill, I decided to jog back and try again later. After lunch, I took a long walk around the park, ending just after sunset - you know, around ten after four.

This was followed by a quick trip to Shaw's, teriyaki turkey, and the consideration of purchasing a turkey for the week. Perhaps Wednesday, when I have no class - but this then raises the question of where to store the cooked turkey. Hmm... In any case, Thanksgiving is going to be a meatless affair this year. Mom, I miss your food.

Back to work tomorrow - I have an essay to edit in the next two weeks, and I want to get started on a fresh writing project...what else am I going to do with myself otherwise?

***Correction from Saturday: Princeton may have won one more game than we did, but it was non-Ivy, so it doesn't count. Hooray for co-champion status!

Ice skating in Hell

Oh. My. God.

Yale just beat Harvard, 34-13.

I never thought this day would come. '05 never saw a win. Neither did we. '07, you have redeemed yourselves. Well done, gentlemen. Well done.

Honestly, I don't care that Princeton is now the Ivy champion. We're number two. Harvard's not. By the way, Harvard, when your live update stops at 5:09 to go in the fourth quarter, that's not cool.

I like to think that my D'port sweatshirt had something to do with the win today, but somehow, I doubt it. Oh well. I should get back to my Postmodernism paper now, but I can't seem to get "Boola Boola" out of my head...

For once, that's a very good thing.

It's Game Day...

...and I'm closer to Cambridge, UK than Cambridge, MA. This is unfortunate, because no matter how much NFL The Peartree shows, it sure as heck isn't going to be broadcasting The Game today.

Boo.

And so, armed with my D'port fleece, my D'port sweatshirt, my D'port scarf, and possibly my D'port hat if the weather takes a turn for the worse, I try to think happy thoughts about Yale's performance this afternoon. (Guys, if you don't beat Harvard, the ghosts of '05 and '06 will join with '07 in rising up and destroying you. But have a good time!)

Thanks to IvyGate, I just heard about the release of 108 Tongues's newest Game "anthem." For the uninformed, 108 Tongues is proof of why Yalies should never go on to become rappers. We just don't have the street cred, you know? Anyway, for a good laugh, or to hear the latest attempt to give the Yale-Harvard rivalry what IvyGate called a "Blood-Crips overlay," check these guys out: http://pantheon.yale.edu/%7Ejgc23/.

(Parental Advisory: don't click the link if you're easily offended. The rhymes are bad, but they're very trashy nonetheless.)

A Day at Edinburgh Zoo

Click to Play

Today, we celebrated Ian's belated 22nd birthday by going to Edinburgh Zoo. The temperature was low, the wind speed was high, and the chance of rain was 90%. The polar bear looked comfortable...

God says no to Zatarain's

I had such high hopes for dinner tonight.

Two weeks ago, my parents sent a care package containing many excellent things, including more muffin mix than I knew what to do with and a single box of Zatarain's Yellow Rice mix. This stuff is great - the perfect blend of creole seasonings and...erm...yellow rice. It's a staple at home, and since there's no way I'm making shrimp gumbo up here (the prawns are ridiculously small, for one), the rice was supposed to fix my creole seasoning deficit.

Not trusting the cleanliness of the communal pots (which are always greasy, for some reason), I decided to try the microwave directions and use my lovely Pyrex-ish dish. Twenty minutes later, the rice looked good, the slightest bit of water had come out of the top, and all it needed was five minutes to fluff. I could handle five minutes of fluff time. Using my dishtowel makeshift mitts - which have worked for the oven, mind you - I pulled the dish from the microwave and tried to move it around the door to the counter.

Unfortunately, the steam escaping from the dish caused my hand to jerk, which caused the dish to slip from my hands...which sent my lovely box of Zatarain's all over the kitchen. Floor, microwave, refrigerators, jeans...just about everything but my dry-clean-only shirt got an authentic taste of New Orelans.

I said some unladylike things at that moment. Fortunately, no one was around to hear me.

The dish landed intact and right-side-up, fortuitously enough, and so I was able to salvage a bit of the rice, though that hardly made up for the two meals I lost. The surviving rice had plenty of time to fluff on the counter as I swept wet rice off the floor, wiped down the appliances and the counter, and mopped the floor with my dishrag, as we are currently out of paper towels again. The little rice I was able to eat was good, but I had to supplement with a muffin. What the hell, for sweeping the kitchen floor, I deserved a muffin.

I miss shrimp gumbo.

So it rains in Edinburgh...

It rains quite frequently here, as we've discovered. I just had time for a run this morning before the all-day rain came, and only emerged once during the afternoon for a brief errand. Between the early darkness and the rain, the floor seemed to be going slightly stir-crazy this afternoon. The presence of the folks from Specific Heat who were removing half our ceiling tiles didn't help matters.

Other than that, it was an uneventful day. I edited. I started to work on the essay for my lit seminar. Apparently, there will be a screening of March of the Penguins tomorrow night and karaoke next week.

Grad school is thrilling, no?

Almost bedtime

It's almost midnight, and I'm beat. I've written too much today, somewhere in the neighborhood of 11,000 words, which has to be my personal record. Remembering to stop and eat dinner is always a plus, I've noticed, but even with food, my brain is fried.

Tomorrow, if I can drag people out, there will be karaoke. Huzzah for cheesy pop songs and pubs!

Other than that, I have no class tomorrow (it being Wednesday and all), so perhaps I'll settle in for a nice editing session. Perhaps not. Time will tell.

I need to stop typing now.

Weekend recovery

Today is a lovely day in Edinburgh - cold, yes, but nowhere nearly as unplesant as the weekend's temperatures! The morning's writing has been successful, I received the book I ordered off Amazon, I got another letter from the convent, and I'm finally doing laundry.

There are many things I never imagined myself saying before I came to Edinburgh:
"Let's get lunch at the mosque!"
"Half a pint of Strongbow, please."
"It's half seven, where the hell are you?"
"I've got to top up my mobile."

Probably the oddest among them is, "Hey! I got a letter from the convent! Sweet!" It's amazing what actual mail will do to lighten your spirits, especially when it's from nuns. This one wasn't from Mary, but Sr. Mary Karen said that they liked the candy I sent last time. Tablet is one of those things that crosses borders well. Haggis, not so much. Note to self...

Inverness weekend

There are many mysteries in life: What's the meaning of it all? Where did it all come from? Why do bad things happen to good people? Why would anyone go to Inverness in November?

Well, it's pretty when the rain stops...

Leigh, Cali, and I left on Friday morning at an unfortunate hour for the capital of the Highlands aboard a double-decker bus, having secured provisions for the journey and made an impromptu hashbrown stop. The sky was cloudy but was holding steady, and we had high hopes for the weather. Too high, apparently, as the rain intermittently fell during the three-and-a-half-hour journey north, but we were treated to pretty Highland scenery, Highland coos, and more of the omnipresent sheep. We unloaded in Inverness to a windy, cold, moist afternoon, and, having taken control of the map, Leigh conducted us to the Ivor Villa, our B&B.


I had never stayed in a B&B, so I had little idea of what to expect. We were only having the bed portion (breakfast was an additional charge), but we found a nice triple room (with so-so heating), a bathroom with the "gravity shower," two cats, and a very welcome tea and coffee tray. Having dried a bit and discarded the bags, we set off to find food.

Our hostess, Ms. Coleman, gave us a map and explained that it was impossible to get lost in Inverness. This proved to be true, as we found High Street with little difficulty and stumbled into the weekend's European market, where we found amazing French potatoes and a selection of shiny things. I was finally able to procure a druzy for a decent price. Promising ourselves we'd eat a light lunch and return, we headed into Girvans for a welcome cup of soup and a pot of tea, then returned to the market just as the heavens opened up. Escaping with our goodies, we found the Victorian Market, an old shopping arcade, and ate in the corner while we dripped off. My umbrella was an unfortunate casualty of the day, and so the raincoat was put to the test.

Slightly drier, we ventured off back into Inverness to see more of the town, and eventually made the first of many forays into the Tourist Information Centre. This became our home-away-from-B&B over the weekend, a great place to contemplate the purchase of shortbread, Nessie merchandise, and coo calendars while waiting for the rain to stop. Having checked out the city, stopped for hot chocolate, and discovered the shopping mall just as it was closing, we killed enough time in HMV to feel good about going to dinner, then hit up the cute French restaurant next to Girvans. Remarkably, besides the couple of old ladies in the corner, we were the only diners in the place - Inverness seems to close up on Friday night - but the food was excellent. For lack of a better idea, we popped into a decent Tesco for breakfast rations and headed home to read. As the other two were actually doing homework, I bought a secondhand copy of Mutiny on the Globe and curled up with multiple cups of tea.

Our original plan for Saturday had been to walk to the hotel from whence the Jacobite Tours boat departed for Loch Ness, but this, we discovered that morning, was nine miles away. Undaunted, popped by St. Andrew's Cathedreal for a quick look, then opted for the tour that departed from our friendly neighborhood TIC. En route to the loch, we were regailed with stories about Drumnadrochit, Nessie, and ill-fated water speed attempts, and warned multiple times to be back at the car park by 1:30.

Loch Ness was lovely, if sporadically rainy and cold, and Urquhart Castle was very cool, if also rainy and cold. The £2 umbrella and £1 gloves I acquired in £-Stretchers that morning were probably my best investment all weekend.

After numerous pictures, Nessie sightings, an umbrella dance, a "fil-im," and the occasional bit of hiding out in Urquhart until the rain stopped, we did indeed make it back to the bus with time to spare. Sadly, the plan to bait Nessie with a strawberry Nutragrain bar tied to a piece of floss didn't work out.

Back in Inverness, we were treated to more of the local weather, so we holed up in a cafe with hot chocolate and lunch, then walked around town some more. The mall was vaguely uninteresting, but we were running out of options - November isn't the height of Highland tourist season for a good reason! Rather than waste time in the mall, we returned to the B&B for reading/naptime, then ventured out for an excellent dinner at The Mustard Seed. I miss the glass of Muscat with dessert and our hot French waiter.

Returning to Ivor Villa, we realized we had to check out by 9 AM, giving us four hours to kill in Inverness. Strapped for ideas, we decided to visit the Inverness Floral Hall in the morning.

After provisioning at McDonald's and treating ourselves to a partial recitation of The Little Mermaid with the television across the road, we took a long stroll down the River Ness toward the Floral Hall. It was slightly warmer than Saturday had been, less windy, and the rain was holding off for a change. We explored the islands in the middle of the river, petted the puppies, and goofed off, finally arriving at our destination.

The Floral Hall had two things going for it: there were hothouses, and student admission was only £1.25. It wasn't great - hell, it wasn't really that good - but the koi were enormous, the "Secret Sensory Garden" was...erm...fragrant, and the hothouses were warm. Also, there were "mammiferous" cacti named for some woman. How's that for a token of love?

Realizing that we had managed to kill three hours, we returned to Girvans for lunch, grabbed last-minute snacks at the market, and speedwalked to the bus terminal, where we found our bus, an extended single-level affair, already boarding. Settling in at the rear of the back bus, we discovered that we were behind a group of rowdy high schoolers whose idea of bus behavior was turning on a radio and letting everyone enjoy the music. Luckily, we had headphones, and the kids got off at Perth for the Glasgow connection.

The most disturbing part of the trip back was the scenery, however; mountains that had been brown two days before were dusted with snow. A sign of things to come? We'll find out...