It's Saturday again

Three weeks, baby. The laughter, the tears, the second pitcher of sweet tea chilling in my fridge in as many days...

I heard about the farmers' market around the castle today, so, fondly reminiscing about Pepper Place and Murphree's, I headed over this morning to see what I could find. The biggest difference, aside from the crowds of tourists I had to pass to get there, was the range of items for sale - Birmingham's idea of a market involves tomatoes and various grits-like substances, but Edinburgh's market consists mostly of meat and fish products, with one lone fruit stall thrown in for good measure. Still, there were two guys playing fiddles, neither one particularly in synch with the other, so it sounded vaguely like Pepper Place...

£4.40 later, I emerged with 250g of fresh frozen raspberries, 100g of yellow cherry tomatoes (surprisingly earthy and good - I didn't know they did tomatoes well over here), and a baggie of tablet (sounds like something illegal, but it's actually this really sweet butter and sugar confection). What amounted to $8 didn't get me that much - it's not like anyone was selling 10-pound baskets of peaches - but it's a beautiful day, the walk was good, and the best part was when an English couple stopped me to ask for directions. Did I know where to send them? No. Did it matter? Not really.

On the way back, I stopped in at the store attached to the Whiskey Experience place (sounds like overpriced fun) and did a little window shopping. I have orders to bring home as many bottles of The Macallan as I can fit into my suitcase, and so I've been doing a bit of price comparison. These folks actually had Macallan 18, and it was only £75 per bottle - a steal if you've grown up with Alabama's alcohol taxes. They also had a spiffy Christmas idea - a special Millennium crystal bottle of Macallan 50. Yes, 50. As in produced in 1949 and left to mature for 50 years. I'm sure it's superb, and if my dad would like to advance me £2,650, he could find it in his stocking this December.

Yeah, the chances of that happening are statistically akin to the likelihood that I'll find the keys to my very own gilded Boxter Christmas morning. Though really, what would one do with a gilded Boxter? Go through the McDonald's drive-thru? Get gold spinners? Fuzzy dice?

I'm sure I'd think of something.

Best warning ever

As much grief as we give them, they do something right over here when it comes to cigarette packets. To discourage smoking, a large black and white warning label is affixed to each pack. This isn't some wussy nagging by the Surgeon General. No, these labels cover most of one side of the pack and spell it out for you in various ways: Smoking Kills. Smoking Hurts You and Those Around You. Smoking Causes Cancer.

My new favorite, seen on the sidewalk this morning: Smoking May Inhibit Blood Flow and Lead to Impotence.

Hit 'em where it hurts, I suppose.

It's Friday...let's find the ruins!

When I run, I always regret not having a camera since the park is so scenic. St. Anthony's Chapel is one of those neat spots I pass and think, "Damn, that's sweet. Wonder how I get up there?" Last night, realizing I had no class today (thank you, Friday), I decided to find out.

I woke up this morning at 8 to a typically overcast day. Normally, I don't trust the weather in this town, but I really wanted to take pictures of the ruins, so I grabbed the North Face jacket and camera and headed out in a light mist.

Well, light mists tend to turn into steady rain around here, and before I was halfway around the park, my jacket was dripping. I'd come that far, though, so I figured I'd soldier on. It was still raining when I took the first turn off the main road to get my bearings. This wasn't the correct road, of course - that would be too simple - but at least I could see the ruins, so I returned to the road and found the little trail off St. Margaret's Loch.

By now the rain had ceased, but the trail was steep, rocky, and muddy, and as I'm not the greatest hiker in the world, I wondered how I was going to get back down. Fortified by the odd blackberry, I worked my way to the top, then spent a few minutes being touristy around the chapel. According to the sign, St. Anthony's was built in the 15th century and probably stood 40 feet high at one time. Today, all that remains is one corner of the building, but it makes you appreciate just how old this city is. There were also great views from the top.


Mission accomplished, I made my way down in fits and starts, stepping ever so carefully and grabbing the rock whenever I could. It was very graceful. I'm glad the only things around to see me were the massive flocks of birds in the lake below.



About these birds: there were the usual pigeons, seagulls, and ducks, Edinburgh being on the water and all, but the lake is also home to a ridiculous number of mute swans. (As any alum of Indian Springs knows, a vast congregation of swans is known as a "murder," while a single swan is known as a "homicidal maniac." Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.) These swans were oddly well behaved, occupying themselves with preening and harassing the ducks, and I passed unmolested. This wouldn't have happened at Springs.


Along the way back up and around the mountain, I stopped to take random pictures of the scenery. Heck, I had a camera...

What exactly constitutes a foreign film?

I'm not going to lie: I, along with 99.95% of the state of Alabama, went to see Talladega Nights on opening day. It was fabulous - my parents and I sat in the theater for two hours and died laughing, mostly because it's so amazingly true. I recognize those people. That Applebee's commercial in the middle of the wreck is spot-on. And that final scene, when the family is driving toward I-20 down the ridiculously long road out of the Superspeedway and the camera barely catches the giant American flag overhead...yeah, that's the money shot. I've never actually been to a NASCAR event, but I know that flag - I've certainly been to Atlanta enough times, and actually got caught in race traffic one day. That was fun...

I saw it again last night, this time with a British friend, and while we both laughed through the movie, I definitely got more of the jokes. It's amazing to be the only person in the theater laughing at any given moment - "Diane Sawyer had her Katie Couric. Will you be my Katie Couric?" elicited no response. At least the cougar has universal appeal. I imagine it was like the years at Yale when Margaret and I laughed our butts off at Men in Tights, then laughed all the harder after finally being convinced to sit through Prince of Thieves - the spoof's great on its own, but all the better once you understand the context. The saddest part I only realized after I got home - did anyone besides me actually get "Shake and Bake"? Does Shake and Bake even exist over here? (It's a seasoning mix kit - you add chicken to the baggie, shake it so the chicken gets coated, and bake it. Hence the name.) Not that I have any particularly fond memories of Shake and Bake, but the commercial's a classic.

So yes, I got a little choked up at the end of the movie (the trucks and RVs...Applebee's...that big-ass flag), and it was very strange to find myself again on the streets of Edinburgh in a light rain. Love them or hate them, those are my people, and it was refreshing to hear English spoken properly once again (although I think my friend may have been confused when I said that really was the local accent - I somehow managed to not pick it up as a kid, and Connecticut has messed me up further).

Adding to my generalized homesickness was the cute piece my mom added to the care package, a Southern Living essay entitled "Yes, Amanda, There Is a Piggly Wiggly" (the author tried to explain The Pig in Wales - the piece is now tacked to my wall), and my first semi-successful batch of muffins. I've never seen people so pleased with food I've produced, even if all I did was add milk, figure out the Fahrenheit-Celsius conversion for the oven, and watch as the damned thing overcooked half the pan.

So yes, Talladega Nights was great, even as a foreign film, and I came home, talked with the girls, had myself a muffin, and felt better. Now to procure a pitcher and introduce proper tea to this godforsaken island...we're here to help, y'all.

"Is that...popcorn?"

I'm sitting in my room right now, happily devouring a bag of Orville Redenbacher's 94% fat free Smart Pop! popcorn. Is this the best thing good ole' Orville ever created? No, not really, but it's my guiltless snack food of choice, and I've missed it. As I told the lady at the bank today, I like Edinburgh, but there've been a few wrinkles to iron out.

I surprised my kitchenmates a few minutes ago when I nuked this bag. Hearing the popping, they knew one of two things: either something was going horribly wrong with the microwave, or I'd found an item as easily locatable as real peanut butter. Ah, no, I revealed, this was from a care package, and I had two weeks' supply of popcorn bliss.

It's a great care package. Besides the popcorn, I found muffin mix and a pan (though I'll have to run the temperature conversion for the oven), my alumni magazine (Barbara was right, the class notes are the most important bit), and a bottle of Lawry's teriyaki marinade. The fact that Lawry's is a proud sponsor of NASCAR did my little southern heart a world of good.

After spending an hour and a half this morning running back and forth from the bank (long story short, my account's now open and a £189.44 draft is on its way to the fine folks at FedEx), I'm really going to enjoy this. Mmm. Fake butter.

Thanks, Mom and Dad! :)

The sky's on fire!

Oh...wait...that's the sun, right. No worries!

We don't see too much of it, really. One prof, a native of Australia, took a look at the sudden monsoon yesterday and muttered, "God, I hate this country." That just about matched the sentiments of the members of the class caught sans umbrella. I had mine - I don't trust Edinburgh weather.

The sun actually came out this morning, heralding a much better day. A nice...erm...brisk run around the mountain, some productive time with the laptop, receiving two of the books I ordered for class, and not getting ripped apart in workshop made this a pretty good day. Of course, the lift's still nonfunctional and choir was a bit of a let-down (YGC, I love ya, baby!), and I just now got around to eating dinner (yes, Mom's it's 10 PM...I know, I know...), but this Tuesday averaged out to be a good one.

Okay, Wednesday, you've got a lot to live up to...

Taxes

So...

The good news is, if I get the job I'm applying for (book slaves, unite!), my earnings will be under the £97 weekly limit and won't have to pay into NI. NI's not doing a lot for me these days, so this seems reasonable enough. Granted, I'll still have to make the appointment and go through the NI number acquisition process, but I won't have to pay my little salary away.

The bad news is, when the lady at the mailing store back in Birmingham said, "Now, you might have a small bill at the other end from import duties," she really should have said, "Now, if you insure this box of shoes and coats, known for whatever reason to the British government as 'cotton shirts,' you're going to be stuck with a bill for £189.44 that will come two weeks later and ruin your morning, and since your bank account takes four weeks to open, you'll have to find exact change to pay the bill; better wait, since Accommodation will then just be getting around to debiting your account, and since they're taking just under the daily limit over the next two days, you'll want to make sure they have no problems." How she would have known the last bit is beyond me, but darn it, there should have been a warning.

Running the numbers, that's about four weeks' hypothetical salary. For coats and boots. The high price of fashion, I suppose.

Church shopping, part deux

It was no surprise to me that Edinburgh has a distinct lack of Southern Baptist churches. This wasn't too distressing; with ten years of Episcopal school under my belt and most of college spent going to mass with Mary, I wasn't afraid to branch out to new denominations. However...

The fine folks at Kirk o' Field (Church of Scotland), which was chosen first because it's visible from my window (hey, proximity counts for a lot when one's on foot), gave me a handy map to other churches in the area when I visited last week. It's a fine church but for one detail: I probably decreased the average age that morning by twenty years. The nearest church is undoubtedly the Apostolic Church across the street, but I have no idea what's going on with that one. After a bit of walking this week, I decided to try Buccleuch & Greyfriars, Free Church of Scotland.

What exactly is "free" about this denomination? I'm not sure, but there were no instruments and they sang from a psalter. Nothing against psalters, but I prefer mine with actual music written on the page - telling me the tune name doesn't help. Some guy a few pews up had the cribbed version, which contained a flip book of tunes and a second book of metrical psalms beneath it. Lucky...nevertheless, I muddled through, but I may look elsewhere next week. While I didn't know the hymns at Kirk o' Field, at least I could read the music.

There is one Baptist church in town, but it's way over on West Rose Street, past the castle, and that's a helluva walk in heels. Or in snow. Or in weather like today's, which is generally cold, wet, and raw.

It's times like this that make me miss Meadow Brook. ("Come on, y'all, who wants to steal donuts from the seniors? Baaa...")

Two weeks today

It's a gorgeous morning - at least temporarily; this is Edinburgh, after all - and it marks the fifteenth day I've been in the country. Wow.

The last two weeks have been more than just a bit of a blur, filled with activities like meeting people; finding classes and advisors; hearing tales of 10 AM sunrises; book shopping; learning the library (Dewey Decimal and LC classifications - about as strange as Yale's setup, but with fewer buildings and one-fifth of the books); trying to open a bank account; beginning the job hunt; and experimenting with the basics of rudimentary cooking (a can of peas makes any dish more colorful - don't worry, Mom, I'm getting past the Spaghetti-Os stage...slowly).

Then there are the smaller things: having my acccent/lexicon/spelling mocked (not by people from New England, but from the original one, oddly enough); having my accent compared to television; explaining "y'all"; playing with Leigh's amazing photo software (one nice thing about a Mac...look, Jen, I said it!); taking an impromptu Highland dance class; price shopping in pubs for a half-pint of Strongbow and a nice cup of tea; staying out past 1 AM; discovering lumpy milk in my fridge two days before its expiry; discovering Diet Cherry Coke that tastes like cherry, amazingly enough; discovering a distinct lack of marinades, muffins, and microwave popcorn; running in a t-shirt and workout pants and seeing my breath on a September morning; seeing two rainbows in as many days; topping-up my mobile; queuing for things; having beer, ice cream, and sweet popcorn available at the movies (and leaving trash behind); learning the many uses of "Cheers"; adjusting to six hours of class per week; being tempted to go outside; four television channels and "minority language" programming night; cooking things on a "hob"; tourist shopping and tour busses with plaid seats; drunk boys in kilts; and a dedicated haggis shelf at Tesco, complete with vegetarian option.

Sometimes it's reassuring to see idiot freshman girls in short shirts and Uggs on a cold, windy day, or hear someone quoting Family Guy, and realize that we're not so different after all.

Fancy a fling?

The highlight of the day had to be Highland dance class. There were, however, a few issues to be dealt with before we could learn anything:

1) The teachers forgot to show up.
2) The Chaplaincy lacks AC or fans.
3) Once it was established that the teachers had forgotten us, most of the class left.

The day was saved by a delightful fresher with 12 years of Highland dance under her belt, who was willing to teach the three of us diehard novices a few steps. Specifically, the Highland Fling.

It's cool when performed correctly. It was funny when we tried.

There are swords involved in Highland dancing. God help us all.

God smiles upon Edinburgh...

...but not upon Team Can You Repeat the Question. Unfortunately, a hardy group of postgrads learned that we suck at British comedy trivia. Then again, the team was entirely international. Props to us for hitting 20 points!!!

At any rate, the rainbow was rather pretty today...the dirt, unfortunately, is on the outside of my window, where I can't reach it. Oh well.

Arrrr, matey

As the e-mails in the box reminded me this morning, it be "Talk Like a Pirate" Day, matey. Arrr. Pass the rum.

That said, I can't keep it up. I think pirates, I think Caribbean, I think warm weather and sea breezes. Well, we have the sea breezes, all right - they're just a bit on the nippy side, and they brought rain again. This is Day 2 of what appears to be ten days of rain, if weather.co.uk is correct. Dear God, I hope not. I appreciated the break in the weather for my morning run (though the fire alarm on my return wasn't great...ah, just like old times in Davenport!), but this rain business is putting a damper on my desire to go exploring. Then again, perhaps that's a good thing...classes start today, after all!

Arrr...

Another event I could have skipped

Dear Edinburgh International Centre (or whatever orchestrated International PG Day):

As much fun as it was for us to actually meet someone named Hamish McLeod and converse, albeit briefly, with German and Austrian law students, today's event was a bit of a wash, you know? Look, Americans may be international students, but that doesn't mean you should put us (and the Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, etc.) into the same category as the students who don't speak English natively. During today's event, we appreciated clarification on the grading scale. That was nice. We did not, however, appreciate the hour+ spent on study skills and phrases to look out for in lectures - news flash, kids, we've heard most of this before. We're postgrads, after all, and though the accents are a little different, we do speak your language. Mostly.

That said, if you experienced a minor exodus after lunch, well, at least now you know your audience.

...and the fog rolls on.

Hey, look, you can actually watch the fog roll away...

Having a mountain in my backyard is both a blessing and a curse. It’s great when I want to take a walk, since I’ll get exercise without having to buy a gym membership. On days like today, however, when I really should be working, but the sun finally comes out, and it’s so pretty…

An hour and a half later, I made it back from a tour of the Craigs. This could be a dangerous habit.

The haar-or

Bad one, yes, but this was the view this morning when I woke up for a pre-church run. Wow. We had a bit of fog last night ("Oh look, the mountain's gone"), but this is kind of ridiculous.

Haar does, however, lend itself nicely to pirate-themed jokes:

What's a pirate's favorite part of Heart of Darkness?

(Incidentally, what's a sign I had too many English classes in college?)

So that's what a clothes line is for...

Ever since I started doing laundry, my approach to it has been to stick the mess in, regardless of color, wash it on cold, and nuke it until it cries for mercy. This isn’t really an option any longer – everything here, from cars to shampoo bottles – is smaller and more expensive, and that includes the laundry machines.

The wash was alright, once I figured out the liquid detergent, which wants to be diluted before clothes are added. No biggie. The dryer’s another matter altogether – the machines are roughly the size of the ones at school last year, but you only get 30 minutes at a time, and a wash and a dry each cost £1 – for those not following the currency exchanges, that’s roughly $4 for one load of laundry. The bad news is that nothing gets completely dry on 30 minutes, so I’ve split the load, am currently nuking the hell out of my sheets and one cheap towel, and have hung the rest on my ghetto-fabulous clothes rack. It’s a sight to behold. The window’s open, and I’m praying the torrential rain holds off until things have a chance to get less soggy. Wet jeans are no fun at all.

Playing Tourist

Arthur's Seat, the dormant volcano in my back yard, is circled by a lovely, scenic road. Since Edinburgh coughed up a gorgeous day today (after the abysmal rain yesterday, we were owed one), I got up early and decided to see how the road looked on foot. To be honest, it's beautiful - there are miniature lochs, swans, all the blackberries we couldn't find the other day, and scenic vistas of the Firth and the rest of town. By the time I'd reached the back side of the mountain, I'd been jogging for half an hour, and decided to push on. This may have been a mistake.

Even though the back side of Arthur's Seat has its pretty parts, it was a long, winding road I forced myself down, skirting bicycles and a man who unleashed six dogs from his tiny British car. Begining the ascent once more was a wonderful, albeit somewhat painful, moment, and I've never been quite so happy to see the castle again. There was just one problem: I couldn't find the way down.

Consulting my handy Edinburgh street atlas, it appears that I entered on the main road, Queen's Drive, but took a wrong turn around Holyrood onto the Radical Road, which parallels Queen's Drive some distance above. As I approached the Firth once more, I decided that I was probably going the wrong way, and bothered to look down. The height, if not the sudden stiff breeze, should have told me there was a problem. Some joggers assured me that ten minutes would take me to the main road, but I gave up and took a grassy path back down to my entrance.

That was the first hour and a half on foot today. We had girls' day in Edinburgh for the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon, spending much of that time in touristy shops on the Royal Mile and in department stores on Princes Street we knew we couldn't afford. I got a little furball called the "Wild Hairy Haggis," a squeaky bundle of touristy fun I acquired for £1.99. All in all, a most successful outing - not only did we get to bother the management at Sainsbury's, but peanut butter and a mess of fudge were purchased and I learned that I could have my family name on a whiskey bottle for less than £10. Unfortunately, the amazing plaid corset-fringe-shirt-thingies were £189, a bit out of range. Leigh, Cali, and Ella, I'm holding you to our agreement...

After dinner, the salsa dancing! Not really a tourist activity, but fun.

Ceilidh!

What a difference a day makes! This was the view from my window this morning - that's Arthur's Seat...oh, wait, my bad, those are the clouds obscuring Arthur's Seat, bringing an all-day rain. Even my cleaning lady admitted that this was nasty, and that's saying something.

Regardless of the weather, this was a very good day. After trial and error, I finally found a VoiP that works (hold your breath)! Now I can give my US cell a rest...

LLC Induction was nowhere nearly as painful as Postgrad Induction, thank God, but several of us skipped out on the "wine and nibbles" for coffee, tea, and various toasted things. Following that was the Freshers' Ceilidh (pronounced "Kaylee," as far as I can get), which is like square dancing on steroids, minus the amazing YGC caller. What we lacked in mummified callers was made up for in crazy spinning dances. I might have to look into Highland dancing next week...

Arthur was here?

Today was "blow off Freshers' Week and do something fun" day. Forget my non-functional computer software and accessories - if you've had to sit through an Induction Day the afternoon before, the only thing to do is climb a mountain.

I will say that the view from the top of Arthur's Seat, a 250.5-meter "volcanic pimple," is superb on its own, but it's much better with good company, good weather, a flyaway cheese wrapper, and "Skirt Girl," who decided climbing a mountain in a wrap skirt and flip-flops would be fun. Among her many problems was the stiff breeze on top of the mountain, which made the temperature much cooler and the hair a bit crazy.

In all, an excellent afternoon, though I'm afraid I took too many pictures of Edinburgh from above.

It's Wednesday already?

I've never been the biggest one for going out, but there's not a lot else to do at night right now, seeing as we have no homework at the moment, and house-arranged pub crawls are a good way to meet people...

Well, the night was a lot of fun, though our American lexicon was mercilessly mocked. (We're banding together in support of proper English pronunciation, and by that I mean "aluminum" only has four syllables.) After four pubs, a few sips of beer (working my way up), and one bag of prawn cocktail-flavored crisps from the vending machine in the lobby (which taste like vinegary ketchup, in case you're interested), I found myself crawling into bed at 2:30 this morning. This isn't a normal hour for me. The world's an interesting place six hours later, but it's not raining today...yet.

Plans for the day include:
1) Making printer work.

2) Registering with GP, in case we really do show signs of septacemia and not just intoxication (they're pretty similar, except for the imminent death bit).

3) Acquiring proof of my residence for a bank account.

4) Buying that George Foreman. This vegetarian diet's not cutting it, but then again, many of us are still in the Spaghetti-Os stage of dorm cuisine.

5) Getting up Arthur's Seat to run around, pick blackberries ("Don't eat the brambles on the ground," we were told in the Induction From Hell yesterday. Think of yellow snow), and generally frolic. Frolicking is good.

6) Convincing Gizmo to work around the proxy.

Caffeine first, though. Let's prioritize.

I'm not dead yet!

To anyone who actually reads this: no, I haven't been eaten by Nessie. Yet...

The last few days have been an insane whirlwind - too many things to do, too little sleep, and a touch of the inevitable jetlag. Edinburgh's student internet, which I've spent too much time configuring, is a restricted little bastard called Resnet. It's so limited that I cannot run Gizmo from my room, meaning I have to make computer phone calls in public at the student union. Phones are another matter altogether; I puchased a pay-as-you-go "mobile" two days ago, but the daytime per-minute rates are worse than the one I have to call home. Texting's a bit cheaper, but the takeaway message is that everything is more expensive in Edinburgh.

There's really too much to go into in one post, but it's been four days of culture shock. For the curious, I've posted photos of my flat above - the room's nothing special, but the bathroom concerns me. The view, however, is great - that's Arthur's Seat, the "volcanic pimple" visible from my window. Quite nice when the sun rises above it, and the little rainbow over it this evening was pretty, too.

I'm Leaving on a Jet Plane

Well, in six hours or so. I'm sitting in the food court of Atlanta's Concourse E (if you've been here, you know the drill: "Next stop...Concourse...E...") It's crowded here, and a bit loud, but there's a great computer counter and comped wifi, so I really can't complain. There's a baby grand piano across from Panda Express, and this woman just began playing soft rock standards. We've had Elton John, the Beatles, "The Lion King," "My Heart Will Go On," and - yes - "Leaving on a Jet Plane." Appropriate, if a bit cheesy.

Tomorrow, I get to:
1) See my new digs
2) Meet my 10-12 (?) flatmates
3) Shop for all dorm necessities
4) Find this "Tesco," of which I've heard good things
5) Contemplate sleep, at some point.

Fortunately, I was up at 4 AM, so maybe sleep will come on the overnighter. Maybe not, but I've got a brand new Sudoku mini-magazine to lull me into a stupor somewhere over the Atlantic. Come on, is it really worth staying awake for airplane food? This isn't Virgin Upper Class, complete with its flat beds, gourmet meals, and manicurist - this is Delta Economy. I'm going to be a lovely, rumpled mess in the morning.

And Piano Woman is on to the "Indiana Jones" theme...

Free money

I'm a collector - I always have been. Baseball cards, marbles, trolls, pogs (remember those?), rocks and minerals (in rough and set forms, preferably set)...I've hoarded various things through the years, and most now reside in Rubbermaid containers under my bed, out of sight but still taking up space.

One collection I've had for years is foreign currency, pocket change I add to the jar after visiting countries. I've got a nice assortment going - I'm even doing the whole state quarters thing - but as I was packing today, I thought about the British coins I socked away after a trip six years ago, and decided to see just what I could salvage for this trip tomorrow.

18 pounds in one- and two-pound coins. That's about $35.

Heck, I like free money. Why I didn't exchange most of it is beyond me, but I pulled half and put the rest back in the jar. (I do collect, after all.)

After combing through the change, however, I've come to one conclusion: the Queen's likeness is on too many coins. Between the British pounds, Australian dollars, New Zealand dollars, Fijian dollars, and Eastern Caribbean dollars I've saved, and Canadian change I've received in lieu of quarters, probably half the money in the pile featured the same profile, just aged occasionally. Hey, American paper money may be boring, but at least we vary the people on our coins. (Props do go to the Canadian who decided a beaver would be a good reverse...)

Better than "Jerry Springer: The Opera"

Once upon a time, America's favorite trashy talk show host wanted to be governor. His commercial says it all...

http://video.msn.com/v/us/v.htm?g=C5FD0FF9-9DAB-439F-98F9-87303C5B08A&t=m137&f=06/64&p=hotvideo_viralvideos&GT1=8506.

58 hours and counting...

I feel as if I'm running out of things to do, yet cannot shake the feeling that I'm forgetting something important.

Papers? Check.
Copy of papers? Check.
Copy of copy of papers? Check.
OCD? Perhaps.
Ridiculous amount of winter clothing? Check.
Box of suede footwear I've waterproofed? Check. (Hey, I can be optimistic.)
Plug converters? Check. (Number of appliances I'll need to buy in the first day? Not going there.)

I've continued saying my goodbyes today. The evening will culminate at my friend Rosanna's apartment at a dinner she's throwing for my sister and me. We're both leaving at once - I'll be dropped at the airport on Friday, my family will return to Birmingham, pack the car, and leave to take her to Chicago the next day. This is not a happy time in the household. Luckily, Gizmo's only charging me one cent per minute to call home...that is, as soon as I figure out "Resnet," Edinburgh's questionable student telecom service.

Many things remain unexplained by Edinburgh: my flatmates, my class schedule, my anticipated graduation date. They just sent out the "A to Zed" guide to student housing, however, so maybe I'll hear something further before I get on the ground.

Then again, maybe not.

Frustrations

Sometimes, you just have one of those days.

I logged on this morning, only to discover that Facebook has undergone a "facelift" that reveals every detail of my friends' actions to me. Not that this information was a real secret before, but I at least had to make the effort to stalk them. Now, everything is revealed in an annoying ticker.

Do I care when someone writes on my wall? Yes.

Do I really need to know when an elementary school classmate breaks up with her boyfriend, when I didn't know they were going out in the first place? No. Do I need to know what groups my roommate-turned-Postulant has left today? No. (Do I want to know how she did it, seeing as there's no Internet access at the convent? Yes, actually, but Facebook doesn't bother to tell me that. Silly ticker.)

After griping about it myself and reading everyone else's gripes (are you listening, Facebook?), I went to the DMV to get my license renewed. Granted, I'm not going to need this license - it's not like I'll be joyriding around Scotland any time soon - but I thought it would be prudent to renew it now.

There were 25 people in line. Two women were working the counter. Each transaction took approximately five minutes. Do the math.

An hour later, having ended our conversations with the cranky people in line all around us, my sister and I made it to the counter. I told the woman I needed the corrective lenses restriction removed from my license, since I'd had that fixed. She told me she needed a detailed doctor's note. My protestations that my wearing contacts while driving would be a very bad idea went unheeded. She snapped the picture, rang up the purchase, and I whipped out the check I'd filled out in line to save time. Unfortunately, it being my parents' check, she needed to know one of their license numbers. I asked to pay by debit, but no, Visa and MasterCard are only accepted at the counters that renew tags. Eventually, she allowed me to call my mother (contrary to the signs all around prohibiting cell phone use at the DMV) so she could take the check.

All I want to know is why her half of the building cannot take a credit card when the woman next to her could, why no one seems to move at a speed above "amble" at the DMV, and why Alabama makes things more difficult than they need be. The man in front of us, who had lived in Illinois and Florida, raved about how quick their DMVs were, but I never heard the end of it - the posted signs weren't too clear, and he discovered he'd been in the wrong line for the past hour before he could finish.

In happier news, the new season of House premiers tonight!

Touring God's country

With four days to go before departure, my sister and I have a list of things that need to be accomplished - packing ranks near the top, but there are other things for us to do before leaving the state. We managed one today, and actually got down to Auburn to see our friend, Joy.

I've felt badly about not visiting Auburn in the past. I've certainly popped into Tuscaloosa enough times, albeit for French Conventions, and as I have an allegiance to neither team, I thought Auburn was being slighted. What I've seen of Tuscaloosa wasn't great (although Alabama's student center does have a Starbucks), so my standards for Auburn weren't necessarily that high - we just wanted to visit our friend one more time.

Thus it was that this morning, armed with nothing more than Mapquest directions (we all know how accurate those are, right?) and Joy's number, we headed out into the middle of nowhere on a two-hour drive. There are two ways to get to Auburn - I-65 and Highway 280 - and we opted for the latter, hoping for better traffic. Well, the traffic was great, considering it was a holiday, but along the way we were treated to some of Alabama's finest roadside attractions, such as a combination bait, propane, and upholstery store, Old Dark Hollow Road (like the ambiance), and Bubba's Pizza Place. I'm not kidding on the last one - Bubba may make a fine calzone, but couldn't he have come up with a name that doesn't smack of a barbeque joint?

We made it, and it was great seeing Joy, her roommate, and two of their dogs. The town's not all that bad, either - it's much cuter than Tuscaloosa, and certainly better than New Haven (fewer ambulances, for one, and the natives are friendly besides). I've finally seen the legendary Toomer's Corner, but alas, it being Labor Day, many of the local attractions were closed. At least it wasn't a game day - the road out of town is only two lanes. Who planned that one?

Not a good summer for Australia Zoo

Last summer, my Glee Club toured New Zealand and Australia. One of the final stops was Brisbane and a trip to Australia Zoo.

The place was known for two things: "Darwin's" tortoise, Harriett, and more Crocodile Hunter merchandise per square foot than any other place on earth. Steve's likeness appeared on everything from t-shirts to signs scolding us for eating kangaroo and emu. (Sorry, Steve.)

Not too long ago, Harriett finally passed on. This morning...well, crikey, Steve, it wasn't even a crocodile.

Thanks for showing us that everything in Australia wants to kill us, that it's unwise to go rattlesnake hunting in Appalachia, and that Paul Hogan's character was, in fact, based on life. You will be missed.

Welcome to my blog

At the prodding of several people, I'm making my first foray into blogging. Be gentle...

My name is Lauren. I'm from Birmingham, Alabama, which is a nice place to call home, even if it is occasionally labeled the backwater of the western world. Personally, I have nothing against the place - it's certainly the only city in the Bible Belt with its own statue of a semi-clad Roman deity - but I've always enjoyed seeing new places, meeting people who don't automatically call me "hon," and experiencing the occasional bout of honest-to-God winter weather. When one hails from a city that panics at the possibility of snow, a blizzard is a rare, exciting treat. The first time, at least.

Four years ago, I forsook my native land and did my undergrad at Yale, a place known for its Gothic architecture, crappy football team, and unfortunate winters. My mother had informed me that I wasn't allowed to go west of the Mississippi, thereby limiting my choices to the midwest, mid-Atlantic, and New England. This left sunny California right out of the mix, but Yale was the right decision - I formed an undying love for Davenport College and the Yale Glee Club, had the privilege of studying under amazing faculty, and met most of my best friends. (Y'all know who you are.)

I didn't exactly fancy pursuing another degree in New Haven - one can walk past Toad's Place only so many times without gagging - but I wasn't yet ready to leave academia. So, delaying the inevitable, I decided it was time to go abroad. In approximately 128 hours, I'll be touching down in Edinburgh to begin my MSc in Creative Writing. (The Sc is short for "science," to the amusement of many.)

Well, Mom, it's still east of the Mississippi.

I have a room. I have an en suite bathroom. Apparently, I have a kitchen and a common room as well, but heaven only knows how many people will be sharing those spaces - Uni's been a bit sketchy on the details to this point. I've heard rumors of a grocery store, an IKEA, and restaurants that don't serve haggis. I have a map, courtesy of the fine folks at Executive Traveler. I have 100 lbs of clothing, a computer, and a box of shoes on the way. Theoretically, that is - I still have to pack...