Sunday, June 21, 2009

On an exceptionally hot evening early in July...

It is the longest day of the year here at 55°. While Weather.com officially has sunset at 10:06pm, in reality, the light hasn't been really leaving the sky the past few nights. The sun sets, but there's a pale glow that sticks around, and the darkness never gets truly dark. I've never seen anything like it.

While it's not quite being in St. Petersburg for White Nights (which would finally check off one of the bullets on my "To Do Before I Die" list), it's close enough for now, and requires no wacky, expensive visa. So until I can get my travel plans together enough to be strolling down Nevsky Prospekt at 1am in late June, I'll just have to be content with a slightly less-white version here in Glasgow.


Saturday, June 20, 2009

In An Aeroplane Over the Sea...

CNN.com ran an article this morning about how computer programs are being developed to help you beat jetlag. That's the silliest thing I've ever read. You don't need a computer program to get over it. You need ALCOHOL. I'm not even being facetious. Transatlantically, it works. Leave the States at night, arrive in Europe early the next morning, force yourself to stay awake all day, and then that evening, go out and have a few drinks with dinner. Or go out out if you're up for it. When you get to your bed that night, you'll pass out for sure, but the next morning it's just really not as bad! At least for me. Dammit, Jim, I'm a writer, not a doctor. I can't give a remedy that works for everyone. But for me beating jetlag, I've found that the best method involves a late dinner and a bottle of wine at Pizza Express the night you get into the UK, and then you're quite normal the following day.

I think my favorite beating jetlag story is actually not mine, and is from last summer, when my cousin's girlfriend flew in from Japan (including a brutal connection here in the States before even getting to BWI). She got in at probably 10pm, met the entire extended family for the first time ever (which I'd imagine is insanely intimidating with our lot), and then still came out to the bar with all of the cousins until the wee hours of the morning. I think at one point she actually said she was delirious from being halfway around the world and not having slept, but she came out with us. The girl is a traveling champ.

T-minus nine days until Spain, which means nine days until real sun. No jetlag involved!

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Writing update.

If I go by my "outline," my dissertation goal is 24,700 words. Right now, I'm at 11,886 words, with about a month and a half to go. Which means I'm right on target for where I should be.

Or so I think.

I have my first meeting with my dissertation advisor this afternoon, and I am hoping she will look at my outline and my work and give me a thumbs up. Otherwise, I'm stopping at the liquor store on the way home and drowning my sorrows in cheap whisky, because if I need to start from scratch, then it's going to be a very miserable July indeed.

But I'm optimistic that there will be no Famous Grouse ingested tonight!

Yesterday I sent three short stories out into the Big Publishing World. I still have four out there that I haven't heard back on yet, which all in all, makes seven short stories to possibly be accepted or rejected. To go 0-for on them all would be really horrendous. See above about Grouse.

On Tuesday, I packed away my winter coats, because it's June and the temperatures have seemed steadily in the 60°s and 70°s for a few weeks, to the point where my light jackets have sufficed. Of course today? It's down in the 50°s, with 30 mph winds, and temperatures going much, much lower tonight. Trying to predict weather in Glasgow is the ultimate exercise in futility.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

Yes, I'd like some cheese to go with this whine.

You know, as an unpublished writer struggling to get published, I'm not sure there is anything in the world more demoralizing than stumbling across the news that Lauren Conrad has published a novel. I'm sure the "novel" is crap, that it probably has as much substance as Cool Whip, and that she didn't actually write it. But still, the indignant, elitist snob in me wants to scream from the rooftops about how unfair it all is. That she already has ten bajillion dollars in the bank, her own clothing line, her own television show, a cute actor boyfriend, and a stint on Family Guy. Can't she stay out of the book world?

I sort of feel similarly to when Jessica Simpson started dating John Mayer. Why do the blond, Hollywood girls have to cross over into regular, smart girl territory? I want to put a big "KEEP OUT" sign or pee around the borders.

And it's not just a "novel." Mrs Bobby Newman apparently has a
three book deal. Three books. Uno, dos, tres. Now Lauren Conrad gets to call herself an "author." It actually says that on her Wikipedia entry. "Author." I think I just threw up in my mouth a little.

They say the publishing industry is in trouble, but wouldn't it have been more economical for them not to shell out the cash for Lauren Conrad to have a ghostwriter, and actually spend the money on publishing one or two quality, albeit non-celebrity, authors?

I think this is the part where I stop whining about literary injustices and get back to work on my own dissertation.

Monday, June 15, 2009

¡Viva España!

...and Spain it is!

I have decided that Andalucia -- Málaga, to be exact -- is my next destination.

The runners up in the
Where Am I Going At the End of June game were Budapest, Berlin, and Amsterdam. Amsterdam especially because I have a bunch of stamps in my passport from the Netherlands from transitting through Schiphol, but I've never actually set foot outside the airport, so those stamps make a mockery of me. Plus, I really wanted to go the Van Gogh Museum and eat stroobwafels! But that will have to be another trip. For now, Spain it is.

I'm really excited about going. I've always loved the idea of Spain, especially southern Spain and all its Moorish influences, and have been plotting a trip to the Alhambra since my senior year of high school. Plus, the lack of language barrier will be a nice change.

Looking out of my window right now at dreary, gray Glasgow makes me almost giddy to think that in two weeks, I'll be on a Mediterranean beach!

And don't even get me started on the thought of the food there. If I don't come back twenty pounds gloriously heavier from the paella, fresh seafood, Manchego, and flan, I will have done something wrong!

Saturday, June 13, 2009

An Englishman and Scotsman walk into a bar...

And I'm back in Glasgow from my trip down south to England to Yorkshire with my dad.

Overall, it was a most excellent trip. Good company, good views, good food, good beer, good times. It's also the first time -- other than trips to London, which doesn't count -- that I've been back in ENGLAND since moving to Scotland. And it really struck me again just how incredibly different the two countries are. Not that different is bad. Different is just different. And the two are just incredibly different.

Regardless, this is not a platform for me to wax poetic on what makes a Scot a Scot. This is a platform for me to post pictures!

(The rest of which are over at Flickr.)




Our initial climb out of Glasgow, very early Saturday morning.





The first road sign pointing to Pateley Bridge, my childhood hometown! It was a very, very long drive up from Heathrow to North Yorkshire, but seeing this made it all worthwhile.




I'd like to solve the puzzle, Pat.



North Yorkshire. 'nuff said.



More random Yorkshire goodness.





The first sight of the golf balls at Menwith. Some say it's an eyesore, but I love it. Even though we never lived on base, it's still feels like "home" in a way, and where I did my ballet and Brownies as a kid, as well as kindergarten and first grade.





A certain father of mine "borrowed" a beer mat from the pub near base where we stopped to have lunch.





Dad at the top of the Pateley Bridge High Street. We stayed at the Harefield Hall, a lovely little hotel just on the edge of town. Is it wrong that I miss their breakfasts big time right now?




We took a hike to the very top, which is much steeper than the picture makes it look. All in all, the walk from the hotel, through town, up to the top, and back again, was probably pushing five miles. Not bad for a day's work.




All I wanted was a picture with the sheep, but they kept running away from me...



Pateley Bridge from about halfway up the hill. This is the town where I grew up. Not a bad place to spend a childhood.





Dad at Brimham Rocks, a park of natural rock formations in North Yorkshire. It's a stone jungle gym! Though one where you really can die, because there are lots of steep drops and some of the rocks are really, really high.




Me smushed in between two rocks.




The ruins of Jervaulx Abbey, which dates back to the 1100s.




More ruins, but this time inside Middleham Castle.




Up on the wild, wild moors.





Minor roadblock.




In Wensleydale. Home of the cheese and also some spectacular scenery.





Back at Heathrow, sixth in line for takeoff to head back to Glasgow, though in a much, much smaller plane. This will be known as Good 747. Or 747 #1.

We timed our flights perfectly: my quick hop to Glasgow was leaving at 3:15pm, Dad's much longer flight back to Dulles was at 4:20pm, and we were both in Terminal 1, so we got to do some airport shopping and have one last lunch together before parting ways. Lunch was particularly exciting for me: I finally got to see an A380! It was the daily Emirates A380 flight from Dubai, and I've been hoping now for the past four trips to Heathrow to catch a glimpse. Finally, I did, seeing first its reflection in the glass behind me, and me thinking to myself, "No waaaaaay!" and then turning around to see that it was indeed it. Then I proceeded to (rather embarrassingly, looking back on it now) spazz.

I must say, it is a very strange feeling to be with someone in an airport, through security, and not be headed to the same place on the same flight as them. I'm used to tearful goodbyes curbside outside of check-in. Not hugs in front of the second security checkpoint for UK/Ireland domestic flights. It was just... bizarre.




Wheels retract and I spy below us at Terminal 3... Iran Air!!! Not something you get to see every day, or ever in the States. And this is precisely why I adore Heathrow so much. People whine and complain about lines and crowds and inefficiency. But don't see it that way. I love it. Heathrow is a convergence spot for the entire world.




Coming full circle: back to Glasgow on another beautifully sunny day. And our pilot let us know we were back by bringing us down with a very hard, teeth-rattling thump of a landing.




The other 747. Also known as the airport bus back into City Centre. Far less glamorous, though just as loud. The driver stole £1 from me, claiming that the fare into the West End was now £4, instead of the £3 it was raised to over Christmas. I argued and argued, but he wasn't letting me on the bus without forking over the extra coin. The rate has NOT been raised. I am still bitter. SPT owes me money.

And so ends my trip. My feet are still mighty itchy however, so I'm tossing around ideas for where to go in July. Right now, Amsterdam, Berlin, and Spain are coming up cheapest. Or at least cheaper than Tokyo or Cape Town (a girl can dream, can't she?). I hate this feeling of having nothing booked. It is most unsettling.

But overall? An excellent six days down south. Glaswegian pubs just can't hold a candle to their North Yorkshire brethren.

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Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Day 5: In Gloucestershire

Location: Cheltenham, England

After four days in North Yorkshire without internet, I now type this from the lovely Hotel du Vin in Cheltenham. It's one of those gorgeous, comfortable, stylish rooms that makes you want to live in a hotel forever, from the suede furniture to the down comforters to the twenty-foot ceilings and windows to the oversized tub to the monsoon shower. Or maybe it's the fact that the in-room coffee isn't some crappy little packets of instant, but instead they give you an actual caffetiere. So I am quite happily caffeinated this morning as I get ready to go out into town for the day, the final day on our England trip.

Tomorrow -- after a morning in Oxford -- we head back to Heathrow, where I will catch a quick flight to Glasgow and my dad heads back to Dulles.

I don't feel like spending my entire morning in front of the computer (not when, again, there's an oversized tub and a stack of all the latest magazines, including the new In Style, calling my name), even though I have a million pictures to post. (If I was a ballsier/richer person, I'd totally be popping the extremely overpriced bottle of rosé champagne in the mini-bar, since that seems like an excellent addition to this morning. But I'm not, so I stick with coffee.) So for now, just a teaser picture of my old hood will have to suffice until I get back to Glasgow.


A view of Pateley Bridge, North Yorkshire, taken while descending Greenhow Hill.


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Friday, June 5, 2009

1,000 Ways to Not Write A Dissertation: Part 9

It's been a busy week here in Weegieland. The nice weather has made me not the most productive dissertationing grad student, and as a result, I am nowhere near my goal of 10,000 by tomorrow morning. In fairness, there are a lot of distractions here that maybe had I gone and instead holed myself up in a cottage in the Hebrides for the summer to write, I wouldn't have. In my fictional Hebridean cottage, I wouldn't be spending my time at pub quizzes, meeting friends for coffee, doing a small pub hop on a random weeknight, having fantastic lunches at Mother India (oh, my kingdom for their corriander chutney right now), and doing long, leisurely workouts at the gym. In my fictional Hebridean cottage, I'd be alone and working. I'd probably be hovering somewhere near 50,000 words at this point, almost certain to break through 100,000 by the end of the summer.

Except I don't stay in a fictional Hebridean cottage. I stay in Glasgow's West End. And so as a result, I have only 1,700 words written. There is a chance I'll be cursing having a social life when August rolls or around. I'm not here in Scotland to play and I must keep reminding myself that this is not a year-long vacation. It's a Master's. It's serious business.

So I swear I'm going to get right (write!) on that dissertation. Or I will as soon as I get back from my trip. I head out tomorrow morning for Heathrow, where I'm meeting up with my dad who's flying in from Dulles (Terminal 1, what what?) and then we're driving up to Yorkshire. I'm flying south to drive north, but it all makes sense in my head. Three days in Yorkshire, two in Cheltenham, and then back to Glasgow.

With a bajillion things to do today before I leave though, my day did not start well. It started with an almost-heart attack. My alarm went off, I looked at my phone, and saw that date was June 6th, 2009. At 9am.

June 6th, 6:30am, I'm supposed to be on a Heathrow-bound flight. Not in my bed, in my pajamas.


For the first time in my life, I actually thought I'd become That Person who slept through their flight or booked their flight on the wrong day or just got their flight all wrong, and my entire life goal (other than literary success, a fabulous apartment in Paris, and Chris Pine on my arm) is to never, ever be That Person. A million things were running through my head, like imagining my dad sitting at arrivals at Heathrow, cursing my existence for being so stupid. Or how was I going to come up with the money for a last-minute (literally) plane ticket to get down to London today. But as it turns out, my MacBook and iTouch both calmed me down, told me to breathe, and assured me the date was indeed still just June 5th. It was just my stupid phone that was stupidly wrong somehow. Damn you, Sony Ericsson. Damn you.

Once my heartrate (slowly) got back to normal and the adrenaline stopped making me feel like I was going to fall over, me and my coffee became a rational person again and checked in for the flight, got an optimal seat, and made sure to call the taxi ahead of time for ridiculous early tomorrow morning.

In February, the the ridiculously early BD001 to London is great. First flight out of the day and it takes off in darkness. But somewhere over the Midlands, the sun starts to come up and there's nothing like the sunrise at 35,000 feet. Now though, it's June. And here in Scotland at least, there's still light in the sky at 11pm, with sunrise just after 4am. So this will be nothing more than a normal daylight flight. Which is slightly less romantic.

But romantic flight or not, I am excited for this trip. My dad and I haven't been in Yorkshire (or the UK) together since 1991, and other than quick trips to Ohio, haven't gone on a vacation just the two of us since we hit up the Isle of Skye when I was eight years old. This five day northern swing is a long time overdue. It's going to be great. Standby for pictures.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Waiting for bad news...

I got back from a great workout at the gym and right before starting abs and pushups (I prefer to do them in privacy), I checked my email and hit up the usual suspects: Facebook, Twitter, CNN. It was just then that the first line of breaking news about Air France 447 popped up.

I've been sitting here, waiting very anxiously for updates. I feel sick to my stomach. Airplanes don't just disappear. They just don't. Yes, they crash. Yes, they can have mechanical problems or run out of fuel or have engine failures, but to just vanish with no communication? No mayday? No nothing? It cannot, cannot be good. This isn't a decrepit plane, this is a relatively new A330. Relatively new A330s do not just completely and utterly disappear. And this isn't some airline from a third world country with questionable pilot training and safety/maintenance records. This is Air France. This is basically as good as it gets in terms of airline quality and company legitimacy.

The plane was now supposed to have landed at CDG and didn't.

It's horrible, but my mind has gone straight to terrorism. Just because I can't wrap my head around it otherwise. Planes don't just fall from the sky with no warning. But terrorism isn't exactly seeming logical either.

As a frequent flyer, it's always, always in the back of your mind that something could happen, but you have to push it out or you'd never get on a plane. And honestly, that's one of my worst airplane fears, that transatlantic crossing, when for large stretches of time you're just out there in the middle of ocean, far from contact, far from land, and far from other people. That's always the point in the transatlantic I hate the most, when you look on the map and see you're smack in the middle of the ocean. It just feels so very, very lonely.

My dad is flying out here on Friday, and I'm flying down to London on Saturday morning to meet him. I generally feel like major air incidents happen the week before I fly (though maybe that's just coincidence because I fly a lot), but I really feel for him, because I can't imagine the anxiety about getting on a transatlantic flight just a few days after an incident like this.

There but for the grace of God go we, every time we step on an airplane. Safest form of travel, yes. But the magnitude of incidents like this seem so much more powerful.

It's a sad day today. A very sad day indeed if the worst is confirmed.