Lindsey Henrikson • Scotland
My last day in Edinburgh was… just right. I can’t come up with a better adjective at the moment, so I will have to settle with quoting Goldilocks’ description of Baby Bear’s porridge. Blame it on being back in the US and surrounded by the influence of my younger cousins.
I spent the morning walking around the city taking photos of everything I might want to remember. This took several hours as I ended up stopping every few feet, unable to pass a favorite locale without pausing. Someday someone might ask me what the best pie I had in Edinburgh was and I will be able to pull out my photos and start rambling about chicken pot pie. (This is a warning; don’t ask me how Scotland was unless you have several hours.) I strolled over to the Christmas market to buy some last minute gifts. I got hot chocolate with a friend at the Elephant House where J.K. Rowling wrote much of Harry Potter, using views of the Edinburgh castle as her inspiration for Hogwarts. For dinner, friends and I headed to Wellingtons for sentimental purposes, a fish and chips place where we had spent our first meal together. Afterward we took our useless 1p (the British equivalent of the penny) and held up the self-checkout line at the local grocery store by paying for candy one coin at a time. Then we spent the night at my flat talking and playing cards. I got a few hours of shut eye before a 5AM taxi ride to the airport and said a few more goodbyes. My bags were checked, I had revisited my favorite restaurants, said goodbye to my Scottish and American friends, and it was time to go home.
My first post (here) on this site was about the importance of being flexible when traveling. It seems fitting that at the end of my semester those words would come full circle. The United Kingdom had different ideas about me leaving so soon. Thanks to a foot of snow down south, every connecting flight into London was canceled, stranding over a million passengers over the next four days and leading to newspaper headlines exclaiming “British Airways cancels Christmas”. This presented me with an incredible opportunity. Much like the movie Groundhogs Day, I had been given the chance to relive my last day in Scotland. What had I not done? What was I going to miss the most? This was an incredible early Christmas present—more time, and four stranded friends to spend it with.
So after an hour and a half on the phone negotiating with American Airlines, it was time to explore Edinburgh anew. We discovered the Nile Valley Café, a cheap wrap place with the most delicious falafel which I had passed everyday but never tried. We decided to walk into a pub we had never been in for another attempt at our last taste of Scottish food. We walked down to my favorite cake shop to buy sweets. Do you see a food theme emerging? I spent my last hours freezing in the train station as my rescheduled flight the next day was leaving from Glasgow, an hour away. As luck would have it, fifty hours after I was scheduled to leave, I was the first of my stranded friends to arrive back in the states.
My second-chance-last-day in Edinburgh showed me that as intimately as I had gotten to know the city in the last three months, there was so much I must have missed. This thought is distressing. Soon I will have to wrap up this blog as I head back to Northwestern in five days, but I don’t think I’ve separated myself enough from my abroad experience to write a resounding final post. I am thankful for the extra time I got in Scotland and for now I will just say, in the words of the ever eloquent Arnold Schwarzenegger… I’ll be back.
If you are perusing this website, we probably have something in common– a profound love of travel. Traveling is not a pastime for the casual vacationer; it is a lifetime commitment to spontaneity and adventure, a deep-seeded need to constantly challenge your own view of the world. As Daniel Boorstin wrote, “The traveler was active; he went strenuously in search of people, of adventure, of experience. The tourist is passive; he expects interesting things to happen to him.” Being a tourist is enjoyable; being a traveler is exciting, frustrating, and inspiring. As a traveler you soon realize that monuments and photo ops do not make the trip, the people of the place you are visiting do. I was reminded of this on my last trip here in Europe.
Italy is my first true love. It was the first country I stepped foot on outside of the United States six years ago, and will always hold a special place in my heart. I could spend hours just staring at the Colosseum or watching gondolas maneuver around tight canal corners, and have done just that. But the wonders of Italy are not just evident in the presence of Italian history which is thrown in your face at every turn, but the clear love for life of its citizens.
My friend and I arrived in Venice on Saturday and were staying at a hostel on the north end of the island. The large tourist attractions are on the south end, so we decided to head even further north towards the coast line to find an “authentic” Italian restaurant. We found a cute little seaside place that was packed with locals. We could tell we were the only ones who weren’t frequent visitors as the waiters regularly sat down at other tables to discuss life and share a glass of beer. The meal was delicious and extended over two and a half hours in true Italian fashion, and we left feeling content.
The next night we decided that rather than waste our energy trying to recreate the wonders of the past night’s meal, we would just go back. Upon entering the restaurant our waiter immediately recognized us and gave us a huge smile. He grabbed menus and pronounced, “Same table!” Three minutes later he came back and presented us with two large glasses of champagne on the house, and told us that tonight he was less busy so his service would be superb. He made jokes at our table as if our return had now made us good friends, laughing at me when I couldn’t eat as much pizza as the night before because it was so spicy. (I guess that’s what I get for ordering something called ‘the Fire of Russia’.) At the end of the night as we were enjoying our tiramisu, he brought us out glasses of limoncello, once again on the house. As we got up to leave he asked us where we were returning to before double-kissing our cheeks, handing us his business card, and informing us that next time we came from Scotland it was our turn to bring the whiskey.
Traveling forces you to give up your lifestyle, friends, and family for the unknown and unfamiliar. While the tourist may spend their time abroad trying to recreate the comforts of home, the traveler embraces the craziness that traveling induces. When you do this, you find unexpected friends and new joys. I may not be the perfect traveler, as my constant need to buy American brand peanut butter at the grocery store shows, but I hope that after three months here I have become more than just a tourist. Thank you, Italy– for showing me once again why people make traveling so wonderful.
Krakow is a lovely city. However, this post is not about Krakow. This post is about a desperate, dramatic, and ultimately unsuccessful attempt to escape from Krakow in time for an essay deadline.
10:53 AM Sunday, Krakow: My three friends and I realize that we are running late for the train back to the airport. We proceed to sprint through the shopping center that leads to the station, knocking old ladies mercilessly out of our way. If only we had known this was just the beginning.
12:30 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: I buy Bison Grass Vodka from the duty free shop, because it’s a Polish specialty, dirt cheap, and has my high school mascot on it. Go Bison!
1:05 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: Our flight is cancelled due to snow in Edinburgh. Ryanair announces that the next flight out of Krakow is not until Tuesday. I have an essay due Monday at noon. This could be a problem.
1:07 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: My friend Anna calls our friend Jonathan in Edinburgh, pleading with him to help us look up new flights. We will settle for anywhere within the United Kingdom. I convince myself I have always wanted to go to Liverpool or Manchester.
1:10 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: There are only two flights out of Krakow to the UK– Newcastle and London. The Newcastle flight only has $1,000 business class seats left. London it is!
1:15 PM Sunday, Krakow airport: Ryanair informs us we must exit the terminal and reenter, returning all of the duty free stuff we have purchased. No way am I giving this vodka up now. I successfully sneak it out.
3:30 PM Sunday, somewhere over Slovakia: We are on a flight to Vienna, Austria to connect on to London. I forget to turn my phone off and am reminded of this when it vibrates in my pocket with a message from T-Mobile exclaiming, “Welcome to Slovakia!” I apparently get good reception at 30,000 feet.
7:30 PM Sunday, Vienna airport: Flight to London delayed due to snow. We are cutting it close to make the last train from London to Edinburgh tonight.
9:30 PM Sunday, Vienna airport: After de-icing, we are finally off. We later learn we are one of the last planes to get out of Vienna due to the inclimate weather. The whole of Europe seems to be engulfed in a scene from The Day After Tomorrow. My palms are sweating as my essay deadline grows ever closer and our chances of making that last train slip away.
10:47 PM Sunday, London customs: Apparently, every time you leave the UK your visiting student visa expires. We have never run into this problem before, and have not brought our papers. We beg our way back into the country, and only after bribes and interrogations does the grumpy customs man grudgingly let us through.
11:06 PM Sunday, London airport: We have missed the train. Next one is at 5:06 AM. We find a 24/7 coffee shop to settle down in at Heathrow Airport for the night.
12:15 AM Monday, London airport: They turn the heat off.
12:47 AM Monday, London airport: I look at my watch. It’s only 12:47 AM, five minutes since I last checked the time.
1:15 AM Monday, London airport: I log onto the airport internet and write the conclusion to my paper. With my gloves on because it’s so cold.
3:07 AM Monday, London airport: Grumpy customs man decides to take his coffee break at the table next to us. We had told him we were staying at a Travel Lodge tonight, so duck behind our books praying he doesn’t see us and kick us out of the country.
4:30 AM Monday, London: After spending half an hour trying to hail a cab, we get a taxi driver who tells us it will take us 30 minutes to get to King’s Cross. Once again, we are cutting it close.
5:02 AM Monday, London King’s Cross: Apparently the train website was wrong, there is no 5:06 AM train. The next one to Edinburgh is at 6:15 AM. We buy tickets and stake out at the only place open this early… McDonald’s.
6:15 AM Monday, London King’s Cross: This train, if on time, will get me to Edinburgh at 11:08 AM. Enough time for me to run to the library, finish my bibliography, print, and hand it in.
6:16 AM Monday, London King’s Cross: The train is delayed; approximate arrival time is now 12:00PM. Perfect.
6:18-9:30 AM Monday, somewhere in England: I frantically call my parents and my friend Ben in order coordinate the emailing and handing in of my essay. I am consequently now forever indebted to them.
12:01 PM Monday, Edinburgh: Finally.
Lessons of this weekend: First, plan to arrive back in the country at least 24 hours before any imminent essay deadlines. Most importantly, bring your own shovel and salt whenever traveling to Britain in the winter.
As any Brit will tell you, “Football is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans. Rugby is a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen.” This week I had the opportunity to test the truth behind those words at two events. The first, Edinburgh’s local football (aka soccer) team, the Hearts, against a Glasgow rival, the Celtics; followed by Scotland vs. the New Zealand All Blacks in a rugby friendly.
On Hooligans: Last year before heading off on a European backpacking trip my mom forbade me from doing one thing. “You may not go to a professional soccer game.” So of course I went. I don’t remember who Sevilla FC played, but I know they crushed them 6-0. The scariest thing about the stadium was the lack of handrails. The place was nowhere near full, and I laughed off my mom’s warnings about rowdy fans and getting crushed against fences…
That was until I attended a football game in Great Britain. If you’ve ever seen the movie Eurotrip, Hollywood for once got it right. Football hooligans are real. When friends and I arrived at the game (luckily wearing neutral colors), we ended up walking around most of the stadium in an attempt to locate our seats. Had we not been lost and confused, we would have missed the brawls between the Hearts fans and the Celtics fans. Policemen on horses were using their horses’ hooves to push opposing sides back into their respective gates. Barriers had to be constructed before the end of the game to keep the opposing sides apart. Twelve-year-olds were shouting insults I had never heard before. I’m not sure I could spell many of the words that came out of one particular fans mouth, but only about every tenth word would be appropriate for this website. The entire game was a mixture of amusement and fear that if I accidentally cheered at the wrong time I was going to get a beer bottle smashed over my head. So I don’t know about football being a sport played by hooligans, but hooligans certainly attend the games.
On Haka: After my football experience, I was prepared to wear full on protective gear for this highly touted international rugby match. I will admit I am no expert on rugby, this being only my second game ever. The main reason we bought tickets was because of the infamy of the New Zealand All Blacks and their pregame Haka. See here. While the game was an absolute blowout for NZ (49-3… ouch), it was an amazing atmosphere– the stadium was packed with 60,000 fans, most wearing kilts or wrapped in the blue and white Scottish flag. And this is where I understood the root of the saying explaining the difference between soccer and rugby. I did not hear one swear word nor witness one fight. I saw no one in riot gear and wasn’t constantly looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was throwing beer or punches. The rugby fans even respectfully clapped for the other team when they scored (which was most of the game). Even the streaker who ran on the field towards the end was remarkably tame; rather than wearing his birthday suit he dressed up as “Where’s Waldo?” (By running on the field he definitely blew his cover, I would have never found him otherwise.) The Scottish fans were even coordinated enough to get the wave around the stadium three full times. Never have I been to two such different sporting matches in my life.
I’ve developed a new saying that I think more adequately defines the differences between football and rugby. “Rugby—A hooligan’s game played by gentlemen. Football—Bring a helmet and brass knuckles, just in case.”
(An email from my mom after reading this blog: “By the way, you are forbidden from any more European soccer games while I’m still alive.”)
Fun fact: the Scottish slang for dressing up in costume is ‘fancy dress’. Sadly, I have never been one to come up with clever and intricate Halloween ‘fancy dress’. Something about a lack of commitment. This year’s Halloween costume was a choice of convenience and coincidence, and exceedingly simple, even for me. This made it shocking when it was also the costume that attracted the most attention to me on a Halloween… ever.
A few weeks ago, six friends and I ordered Arsenal football jerseys in preparation for a trip to London where we were hoping to attend a game. Unfortunately none of us had the foresight to actually look up ticket prices before buying our sketchy Chinese knockoff t-shirts. After seeing the 100+ pound prices for a seat we suddenly realized we had jerseys, but nowhere to wear them.
Dilemma #1: No Halloween costume. Dilemma #2: Jerseys with no purpose. Solution: Football hooligans! And so complete with a fake black eye to convey toughness and a beer bottle to bash over Liverpool fans heads, I was off. As a side note, I got many concerned exclamations of “What happened to your eye?!” all night. I’m still not sure if this was a compliment to my friend Anna’s superior make-up skills, or an insult to me that several of my friends would believe it possible for me to be in a bar fight.
Who knew that wearing an Arsenal jersey, on Halloween no less, when witches, wizards, and recreations of Avatar are packing the streets, would create such a controversy? Several boys started chanting the Manchester United song as I walked past. Another gave me one look and started shaking his head and pounding his fist into his other hand. One lady confronted me in the bathroom, “My friends and I just have to know, why are you wearing that?” Based on the previous incidents I hastily replied, “I’m an American… I’m dressed as a soccer hooligan!”
“Oh, you’re Ameeeerican… that makes sense!” She said this last bit in a tone as if to imply that only an American would make such a poor choice as to wear that shirt.
The lone Arsenal fans of the night treated my shirt with reverence, bowing to it and frequently kissing the crescent on the shoulder. I knew football was serious here, but I never imagined it was much more serious than say American football in the states. I thought I had seen some hardcore fans in my day, but never before was everyone I ran into so invested. Young, old, male, female. I think I would be hard pressed to create such strong reactions in the states unless I put on a Packers jersey and walked into a bar with Bears fans on game day. (That was hypothetical; I would never be caught dead in a Packers jersey.)
Moral of the night: football uniforms are not a costume; they are a way of life.
Whenever I think about ‘home’, my mind automatically goes back to my parent’s house in Buffalo Grove, Illinois. Even though I haven’t actually lived there for more than a few weeks in the past few years, it will always be associated with holidays, the comfy couch with the big TV, my really fat cat, and a fridge full of free food. Despite dorms, houses, and apartments in between, it is still my ‘home’. (It may become my physical home again soon as I confront the scary future that involves 85% of college graduates moving back in with their parents… but that’s a discussion for another post.)
However, when I use the word ‘home’ in everyday speech I often apply it to wherever I happen to be sleeping at that moment. This summer it was my aunt and uncle’s house in DC, at Northwestern it’s the infamous Frisbee House, in the past it has even included London’s Heathrow airport and a park in Paris (sorry Mom!). I am not very selective in my use of the word. But this weekend I realized that Edinburgh has really become a true home, not just a place I happen to be currently residing.
It took 48 hours in Oslo, Norway to discover this. Don’t get me wrong, Norway was not a horrible place to be, by any means. Despite the frigid winter weather and the painful exchange rate ($8 for a Coke!), I would recommend a trip to Oslo to anyone. It is charmingly small for a capital city– with waterfront, forests, and mountains everywhere you look. It offers an old fortress, island hopping by ferry, a beautiful royal palace, few annoying tourists, Viking memorabilia, the site of this year’s World Ski Championships, and a TGIFriday’s that turns into a nightclub past 10 pm. The last I didn’t actually try, it was just a bolded statement in my guidebook under “Great Places to Go Out!”.
But on my way back to Edinburgh, both frightened that our pilot was playing a game of Grand Theft Auto: Aircraft and exhausted from the previous night out with members of the Norwegian army, I was ready to be home. I couldn’t wait for my freezing room on the most haunted street in Britain. I missed the Scottish money that is printed differently by each bank. I was craving my favorite café that serves the most incredible bagels. I was excited for the Scottish accent, cars driving on the left side of the road, and knowing which secret stairways will get me to class the quickest. I missed Edinburgh. I missed home.
Fall is my favorite time of year. But when Halloween decorations start to fill the windows and the leaves change colors comes that most dreaded time… midterms. With two presentations and three papers due within the next couple weeks, I have suddenly become well acquainted with a part of Edinburgh I had hereto been avoiding: the library. As a senior I consider myself an expert at handling midterms, but this time I do not dread midterms because of the physical work they proffer. Rather, they remind me that my time here is halfway up. Soon the number of days I have left here will be fewer than the number that have already passed. I don’t want to spend my time in the library when there are so many restaurants I haven’t tried, places I haven’t visited.
So how to strike that balance between “study” and “abroad”? I believe that the most important part of being abroad does not lie in the academic realm (although I think Northwestern might disagree). By going abroad, you are setting out to explore a new culture, practice your language skills, and expand your horizons outside your comfort zone. Most of this cannot be done most effectively within the classroom. Especially when two of my three professors here are American. Why read a book on the Scottish opinion on devolution when you are surrounded by Scottish people who each have their say on the subject and are more than willing to talk?
With this in mind I have pushed the nagging “type a” personality that exists within me (and I suspect most Northwestern students) to the back of my mind and have spontaneously booked weekend trips to Norway, Ireland, and Poland. Each weekend just so happens to coincide with a paper due on Monday, but when else will I have this much freedom to do some experiential learning rather than be cooped up in a classroom or office from 9-5? The senior in me shudders at the latter possibility. I’m not saying study abroad should be an excuse to get drunk every night or sleep all day since your grades don’t matter, but I am proclaiming I am going to take advantage of my time left here and spend less time worrying about my Celtic Civilization reading.
The main concept I had struggled to grasp upon first arriving in Edinburgh was, ‘What is Scotland?’ Before philosophy majors read too deeply into that question, I need to clarify that I mean it in the most literal sense. Is it a country? Sovereign State? Why is Queen Elizabeth II (the ‘Queen of England’ who is in fact the Queen of sixteen commonwealth states that include Canada, New Zealand, and the Bahamas) the head of the state, yet if you call a Scot an Englishman it is a grave insult? If Edinburgh is the capital of the country called Scotland and the Scots have a parliament, how is Scotland not independent? Even with my political science background, all I could do was scratch my head and order another pint.
Thanks to my Scottish politics class this past week I think I finally have a workable answer, yet the definition of Scotland seems poised to change at any moment…
Scotland is a country that is a part of the United Kingdom (see below). Prior to 1707, it was an independent sovereign state called the Kingdom of Scotland, but on May 1, 1707 Scotland entered into a political union with England to create the Kingdom of Great Britain. Scotland was therefore ruled entirely from the English parliament in Westminster for 290 years. In 1997, after a majority vote from within Scotland, a separate devolved Scottish parliament was formed. Much like state governments in the US, the Scottish parliament cannot declare war, deal in international affairs, or become a member of organizations such as the EU and UN, but maintains other regional powers. Devolution and independence continue to be a controversial and driving force behind Scottish politics and debate today.
Great Britain is an island that includes England, Scotland and Wales. It is the physical description of the land that incorporates these countries.
The United Kingdom (of Great Britain and Northern Ireland) is both a country and sovereign state that includes Scotland, England, Wales, and Northern Ireland. The United Kingdom is a part of the European Union and the United Nations, and has Queen Elizabeth as its head. It is the United Kingdom that may declare war, enter into treaties, deal in international affairs, and raise taxes within the four countries that make up its name.
*The Republic of Ireland is not part of the UK, but Northern Ireland is. Since I am going to both Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland this weekend, I think my Irish friends will appreciate a side note on this subject. After much tension over the issue of home rule in Ireland, the Republic of Ireland split from the UK in 1921, leaving the island of Ireland divided between Northern Ireland (part of the UK, see above) and the Republic of Ireland, an independent.
Well there you go- the political history of Scotland within the UK in fewer than 500 words. I’m sure I didn’t do it justice, but it’s something that is crucial to understanding the dynamics of politics over here; a subject I will be discussing in depth in later posts. At the very least, it’s important to understanding why you’ve made an enemy of the Scotsman across the pub for calling him a Brit.
For those of you who have been paying Northwestern tuition for what seems like forever now, you may want to stop reading now. Mom and Dad, that’s mainly directed at you guys.
I’m going to get the painful part out of the way first; education in Scotland, including university education up to an undergraduate degree (from now on referred to as Uni) is free. You still have to pay the minimal fees for housing, food, and entertainment (i.e. pints of beer), but you will be hard pressed to spend more than $3,000 a year. It’s slightly more expensive for the Scots’ English neighbors to the south who venture up here (a small payback for hundred years of warfare, I guess) but it still does not add up to much more than 1500 pounds a semester, or roughly $5,000 a year.
The Scottish pay less for three years of school than the average NU student does for one semester. Additionally, the Scots equivalent of a Bachelor’s degree is only three years long. If they stay on the fourth year as is traditional in the US, they come out with a master’s degree on top of that. When I have kids, I’m shipping them to Scotland and using the money I save for a nice long holiday.
Since the Scottish education is free, classes are more self-directed. Unlike the usual 15-20 hours per week I would spend inside a classroom back at NU, this semester I will have only six hours of class, three days a week. The catch is, for every three hours of study in the classroom, you’re expected to do at least another 15 a week on your own. One university representative described the Scottish system as less incentivized than the US system. You aren’t paying the Uni anything, so you aren’t going to receive a lot of additional help unless you seek it out. No grade inflation, no study guides, no assigned reading list, just a fourteen page list of suggested readings and the assumption that you won’t take your education for granted.
In my opinion, and some of the opinions of my flat mates, the major downside to the Scottish education system is early specialization. They end their “high school” at age 16, and then take exams to decide if they will specialize in a specific subject at Uni, go on to get a technical degree (construction, plumbing, etc.) or just get a job.
If the Scots decide to specialize after “high school”, they go on to a two-year secondary school program where they study two or three subjects to prepare them for Uni. When they apply to Uni they choose a major and apply directly into that department. When accepted, they will take classes solely in that area for the next three/four years. No liberal arts, just four years of history, biology, law, etc. There is no additional four year law school or medical school either, four years of specialization and you can be a fully licensed doctor or lawyer at age 22. (You still need a few years of apprenticeship before you can practice on your own though.)
A friend from Northern Ireland lamented that she wished she hadn’t been forced to choose her entire career at age 16. My American friend grumbled about confronting her massive loans next year upon graduation. My Scottish flat mate complained about not really liking sociology anymore, but had already passed her exams for it so couldn’t easily switch. Many of my friends back home are staring four-years of law or medical school in the face. So better or worse I can’t say, but it seems every system has its pros and cons and I will seriously consider hopping the pond when I go on to grad school.
I have decided I believe in love at first sight. In less than a week, I have fallen head over heels for Edinburgh. (And with all the cobblestone streets and stairways, a few times I have almost fallen head over heels quite literally as well.) As my semester goes on I hope to organize my thoughts about this amazing city more concretely, but for now this post is going to take the form of bullet points and key words of my random first impressions:
- Monuments: With most European cities, what make them unique in a tourist’s mind are the historical monuments that have become symbols of mass tourism. The Colosseum, Big Ben, the Berlin Wall. But in the colossal capitals of Rome, Berlin, and London, how often do the people who live and work in those cities actually see those symbols? Most people probably try to avoid them at all costs because of the mass of tourists, cheap shot glasses, and cheesy t-shirts that accompany them. Don’t get me wrong, I love Rome as much as the next person. But Edinburgh is small and homey enough that the residents get to encounter their history and monuments walking to the grocery store, running to catch a bus, or stumbling home from the Pub, and they are extremely proud of it.
-Volcanoes: Yes, Edinburgh was built on inactive volcanoes, who knew? Volcano #1 is called Arthur’s Seat. As the highest point in Edinburgh it provides the best view of the city, and is named for the remnant settlements that form the basis of the legendary tale of King Arthur’s sword. The other volcano holds Edinburgh Castle, whose oldest parts were built in the 12th century and have been sacked and raided more times than it’s possible to count. It will also be the welcoming point for Queen Elizabeth and the Pope this Thursday when they come for an official visit. I’m practicing my wave.
-Stovies: a Scottish delicacy made of mashed potatoes, two pounds of butter, melted onions, and chunks of sausage. It is served at every pub, and is quickly becoming my favorite food. Good thing I’ m walking several miles a day.
-Cars: In Scotland cars drive on the left side of the road. This is going to be the death of me. After a near collision with a double-decker bus, and then a moped, and then a taxi, I have taken to looking both directions multiple times, and sticking to the relative safety of only crossing when others do.
-Slang: Do not talk about your “pants” in public. If you want to discuss your jeans, refer to them as “trousers”, because to the Scots pants mean your underwear. This can be quite awkward when you say, “I think I’m just going to wear pants and a t-shirt out tonight.” Along those lines, chips refer to French fries, and if you want to order chips you need to order crisps. Biscuits are cookies, and candies are sweets. You live in a flat, which is accessible by the lift. Trash goes in the bin.
Like this post, these past few days have been jumbled and cluttered with events, people, and places, but I’m looking forward to turning this confusion into order and integrating myself more fully into this beautiful place. I have a feeling three months is going to be too short.
