Glasgorican

Homecoming and hiatus.

2010-01-02T19:55:00.004Z

It's officially a new year and I am officially back on U.S. soil for an indefinite amount of time. It feels strange for sure, though not necessarily bad. 1,000+ cable channels are nice, as are shops that are open past 6pm, and an efficient bank that records ATM withdrawals the same day the cash is taken out. But I do miss Glasgow and Scotland, and while I've been quite good about dropping all Scottishisms from my speech, I haven't managed to get rid of all my change yet, and still have a wallet full of sterling. One of these days, I'll trick someone into accepting a 10p piece instead of a quarter.

For now though, it's full steam ahead on repatriation. And my hunt for gainful employment. Since this blog was created to chronicle my time in Scotland and Europe, it seems a bit strange (as well as pointless) to keep it up since I'm no longer abroad. So until I get back across the pond, I think a bit of a hiatus is in order.

To mark my hiatus, this picture seems appropriate. The massive Union Jack-clad winglet of a Virgin Atlantic A343, as seen from seat 55H on a spectacular day, roughly 38,000 feet above the North Atlantic. Heading home.

Moving Day.

2009-12-11T00:14:00.003Z

This is a bit strange: tonight is my last night in my Glaswegian flat.

Tomorrow, I clear out of here and head to the Holiday Inn at Glasgow Airport for the night. My flight on Saturday morning is at 6:35am, and there was no way at 4am I was lugging three enormous suitcases down four flights of steps or doing a final walk-through of the flat. It wasn't happening. £42 for a lot of sanity and a relaxing night before my flight seemed like a fair price to pay. Plus getting to sleep an extra hour! And lest you scoff, the difference between an alarm going off at 3:30am and 4:30am is huge. So I will spend my last night in Scotland holed up in an airport hotel, sipping on leftover champagne from my birthday, and watching television, which I'm actually really excited about, since I haven't had a TV this entire time. Then going to bed early, because of said 4:30am wakeup call. I'm okay going out that way.

I think it's all happening so quickly that I'm not really processing it all, which is good because it's not giving me much time to be sad and dwell on just how much I'll miss the city and the people. I'm just so focused on MOVING. And getting rid of stuff. And making sure my three suitcases are exactly at weight, since I'm already paying to check a third and don't want to pay for extra weight too. It's a tedious process, praying that the cheapy scale I bought at Tesco is right, hopping on and off of it with massive luggage. The stress of it all is tremendous, just the packing and the luggage. Once the bags are checked though, I can breathe easy. Until then, I live in fear that both Virgin and BMI will charge me hundreds upon hundreds of pounds for my baggage.

I really, really just can't believe it's all over, that I'm heading back to the States. I feel like I just got here. I feel like I was just packing up to come over here. And now I'm leaving. Granted, with a bushel of new friends, many more passport stamps, a lot of new clothes, and Master's degree in tow. It's been a crazy fifteen months. Good, but crazy.

29.5 hours until I board BD01, bound for Heathrow...

RUGBY!

2009-12-01T13:33:00.004Z

It's official: I am a rugby convert!

And apparently, watching the Scottish National Team lose is a rite of passage that every wannabe Scot must go through. So I'm one step closer!

Murrayfield in late November is brutally freezing. Lovely, but freezing.

I think it is safe to say that I'm now pumped for 6 Nations.

A blurry view of Scotland winning in the first half; we were so very close to the field, and for only £10!

A blurry view of me (numb and frozen, but totally having a blast) at Murrayfield.

Twas the night before turkey...

2009-11-25T14:39:00.005Z

Thanksgiving Eve here in Scotland, and while sadly there are no evening shenanigans planned for the biggest bar night of the year like there would be in the States, there is, more importantly, an uncrowded and calm grocery store.

This is one of the big pros of celebrating the holiday expatriately: you don't need to resort to throwing elbows or pulling hair the day before in order to get a bag of cranberries. And if you need something tomorrow at the last minute? Everything is still open as normal, and you don't have to resort to going to 7-11, cleaning the place out of Big Bites, then removing the hot dogs so you can have the "rolls" you forgot to buy the day before, but promised to bring to dinner.

But everything being open and normal because there isn't Thanksgiving here? It's also a con. Said bag of cranberries? Doesn't seem to exist. At least not at the Maryhill Tesco. Which makes baking a pear-cranberry pie a bit challenge. Same with canned pumpkin. There is none! Last year, Lupe Pinto's, the "American" store in town, sold out of canned pumpkin at the beginning of fall. So me trying to snag some the day before is unlikely, and very unworth a 3.5 mile round trip in the miserable weather. So I have to improvise on the pie front.

I actually have to say though, I really like Thanksgiving abroad. There's something really special about celebrating with other Americans when you're all away from home. Corny, yes. But really nice at the same time. Plus, I appreciate the irony of having Thanksgiving in the UK!

It's the final countdown...

2009-11-18T18:12:00.003Z

I have just submitted my final workshop story of possibly my academic career, and while getting a 4,000 word beast out of ~~my dreams and into my car~~ my laptop and into our web-based classroom file-sharing utility thing, it's surreal to know that this is it.

As one of my final big leaving activities, I'm going to see Scotland take on Australia in rugby this weekend at Murrayfield in Edinburgh. The weather is looking phenomenal for standing outside all night: cold, wet, and super windy. Still, I will take lots and lots of pictures through the driving rain. I can think of few better final memories of Scotland to have than sweaty, muscular men in tight shorts running around after a ball that looks slightly like an American football, but really is nothing like it at all. And I am not being facetious! I'm really looking forward to it!

Plus, a national match! It doesn't get better than that!

I realized today that my birthday and St. Andrew's Day coincide. A sign, maybe? Scotland and I are MFEO? I overlooked it last year because I was in Paris. But this year, I'll be soundly on Glaswegian soil.

My leaving Glasgow countdown is T-minus 23 days. Talk about surreal.

Countdown.

2009-11-07T23:47:00.004Z

In exactly five weeks, I will be back on US soil for "good," or at least the foreseeable future, which for me usually means about six months. The reality of leaving Glasgow and Scotland is starting to hit me hard; this is now my home. This is the base of my existence. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that when my plane takes off from Glasgow Airport on December 12th, I won't be coming back. Not for a long while at least.

For all of Glasgow's flaws -- the weather, the grime, the crime, the neds, the weather, the social issues, the weather, the weather, the weather -- it's still a fantastic city, with fantastic character, and people who are maybe some the best I've ever come across. I cannot stress or underline enough how much I love Glaswegians. And Scots. But really, Glaswegians. They're a special breed, and my heart's breaking thinking about how five weeks, I suddenly won't be around them anymore.

Yes, this move is my doing. Yes, this is the responsible thing. I realize that. But it doesn't change the suck factor. Which is high. Not living in Glasgow is going to suck.

Obviously there are big pros to moving back to the States. Like seeing my family. Seeing my dog. Not having to buy three separate transatlantic tickets for three must-attend 2010 stateside weddings. Being able to buy things (any things!) after 6pm. Having an efficient banking system. Or an efficient anything system. Being able to eat good (or any) Mexican food on a regular basis. Being able to buy Goya products in the grocery store. These are all pluses. And I am looking forward to all these things.

I'm really trying to prepare myself for the reverse culture shock. When I was ten, and we moved back to the States from Yorkshire, I remember it lasting for a few months. But I was ten; as a person still in her late 20s, I should have a better, more logical grasp on what's going on in my head. Hopefully, preparing myself for it will help ease it a bit. But I know that it won't be easy. I may complain tomorrow morning when I leave my flat, and walk out onto a street lined with broken bottles of Buckie, but damnit if I'm not going to miss those stupid numbered bottles when I'm gone.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

2009-11-04T09:48:00.003Z

Я не люблю глупых людей. I do not like stupid people.

Taking the cake for this week's Dumb Stunt By Someone Other Than Me award goes to fantasy writer Catherynne M. Valente, who posted in her blog recently about booking a honeymoon to Russia, being told by Expedia that they "didn't need visas," and consequently being stranded in Frankfurt because of it. Valente's fans and readers are now taking up collections for her and are up in arms at Expedia on her behalf. They've even started a Facebook Group to "help" her and boycott Expedia.

I realize the Cold War is over (mhmm), but come on. Thinking you don't need a visa to go to Russia? Since when? The concept is so ludicrous. Who cares what Expedia says; isn't there an alarm bell that would go off and make you check another source?

I'm not a fan of the Expedias and Pricelines of the world, just because it's the least flexible option ever, but poor Expedia is just being ripped apart by this clueless woman and her even more clueless fans. Whatever happened to days of, oh, I don't know, checking with the State Department on whether or not you need a visa? Or even the Russian embassy? Expedia can't even give you seating assignments. Are they really expected to give you visa information? Did this woman even open a Russia travel book (all of which very early on talk about visa requirements). Did she not look at a single Wikitravel article? Even a three second Google of "Russia visa requirements"? Or did she actually just hop on the computer, do a vacation package search on Expedia, input her credit card, and then go to the airport?

To go to Russia.

I can understand if you're transitting through SVO or DME, and not being sure if you need one then (if it's a straight gate to gate transfer of >24 hours, then no, no you do not). But an entire vacation? Really? I wouldn't be so bothered by this woman if she accepted some shred of culpability in the whole thing; instead she cries victim.

Besides, if you didn't need a visa or any paperwork, what would you give the Militsia when they try to shake you down?

Everyone gather 'round. Actor announcement!

2009-10-26T22:35:00.004Z

So with my (one-way) flight booked home for December 12 (mark your calendars), I remain uneasy about the booking. In the age old issue of Price vs. Miles, I succumbed to the temptation of a lower price tag, and am now feeling regret gnaw in my stomach. But still, price is price, and I am but a poor graduate student.

Sort of.

The above one-way ticket is one-way for a reason.

I will however officially graduate with my Master of Letters degree on December 2nd. Which is still nice, even if there won't be a PhD following it in three years. Turns out that I actually missed working and being employed everything that comes with it. That and I really didn't want to have to go through the (expensive, invasive, passport-stealing) visa application process again when my current visa expires in January.

Perhaps with the money I saved on buying the cheapo ticket, I can do one last Euro-jaunt, while I still have the continent just an hour's flight away. Maybe another birthday-weekend trip?

What's it going to be? I think the big contenders right now are Stockholm, Vienna, Poland, and Berlin. But really, it'll probably be whatever is dirt cheapest that weekend.

Being back on the other side of the ocean again for 2010, I think I'll try and get over the loss of proximity to Europe by focusing my energies on Central and South America. That's probably where employment will come in handy...

Le Tour Eiffel

2009-10-14T11:00:00.002+01:00

I am back from Paris with my mom, aunt, and sister, and now having been a fifth time in less than a year, am happy to be feeling quite comfortable there. The shiny newness of the experience has worn off, but the familiarity of it all is in fact even better. It feels like Paris is a dear old friend. And my French continues to improve with each visit. If only I had six months there, I feel like I could be near proficient.

If only.

I love Paris in the fall...

2009-10-06T09:43:00.003+01:00

I haven't blogged in forever and a day, and realized it this morning when I woke up to a brief rejection email from a stateside lit mag. Thanks, but no thanks, etc.

It's the second time this particular story has been rejected. I think having gone through the "thanks, but no thanks" with this baby has softened the blow. Strange though that may sound. I'm sitting here sipping my morning coffee, watching the morning flights head into GLA, and am not terribly devastated about it. Instead, I'm thinking of a quick turnaround for it. Seeing if I can't have it submitted again by this evening. Since it's edited and ready to go. If a date stands you up but you're already in a dress, you might as well see if anyone else feels like a night on the town, right? (This is entirely an analogy, and not commentary on the state of affairs of my social life.)

It is worth noting however that in the month since I've written, I did have a small acceptance for a short story, in the form of the soon-to-be-published Glasgow University student anthology. So it's not all doom and gloom for yours truly in the literary world.

Also, in the (oops) month since I've written, a lot's gone on:

Gabriella's been here, and our sisterly bonding has fallen into a blissfully boring domestic routine in which I forget she's not my roommate. It's going to be tough when she's gone (next week, crap) and I'm living alone again.

I received a Merit award on my dissertation, which is huge!

SCHOOL STARTED. The work of a PhD seminar in literature is not to be taken lightly. It's making my head spin.

Though I'm not actually in the PhD program as of now. I'm just doing the coursework. It's complicated. Glasgow offers three different levels of creative writing postgraduate degrees. The MLitt (the equivalent to an American MA) is one year, the MFA is two years (the first year of which is the MLitt), and the PhD (of which year one is the MLitt, year two is the second year of the MFA, and then there are two subsequent years after the MFA year). What this means is that right now, I have an MLitt, completed in August, and am working on year two of the MFA, meaning that after this year, I can walk away (with an MFA) or just keep going all the way to the PhD. Confused? SO AM I. It's a lot of acronyms.

My mom and aunt arrive tomorrow for a week here!

In that week, the four of us are heading to PARIS!

Paris Paris Paris Paris Paris! Le meilleur ville du monde! Easyjet in, Ryanair (ughhhhhh) out. Two days, one night, in the City of Light with my three favorite girls. It doesn't get much better than that.

I am making a concerted effort to update this more often.

It's raining outside and I can't go out to play...

2009-09-04T09:54:00.002+01:00

At the beginning of summer, the Met Office declared that it would be a wonderful summer, warm and dry. Except, August didn't really live up to that. August was rain. And chilly temps. Almost every day. And so the Met Office went and took back their statement, changing it to one stating that this will be one of the wettest and unseasonably coolest summers in recent history.

It has rained. Every day. While there have been a few breaks here and there (Wednesday, it was dry in the morning, before raining all afternoon), it has essentially rained every day for a month. Not drizzle, not even anything light. But rain. Serious downpour, sometimes sideways, gets you soaked, fills your shoes with water RAIN.

I like rainy days usually. They're cozy and perfect for snuggling up with a good book and a cup of tea. But not every day. Even for here in Glasgow, it's gotten excessive. Even the Scots are complaining about how wet it's been, and the Scots never complain about their weather, because for them, it's normal. But lately, they've been moaning and groaning about it. That's how bad it's been.

One day without rain. It's all I'm asking.

You take the high road and I'll take the low road...

2009-09-01T01:52:00.003+01:00

Tomorrow is the day where I see if Virgin came through on their "seven days" promise, and see if there is indeed broadband at the new apartment. If not, I might have to break up with them.

Gabriella comes on Monday for six whole weeks of sisterly bonding! I am very, very excited. While it won't be the Restaurant Extravaganza that it was during her visit in March, it's still going to be a good time.

I'm really hoping that we can do a serious hike while she's here, before the weather turns. The two biggies in Scotland are the West Highland Way, which goes from Milngavie (just outside of Glasgow) up 95 miles to Fort William (in the Highlands). It generally takes a week to walk (depending on how fast you walk and how frequently you stop at pubs), and is supposed to be amazing. And then there's the Great Glen Way, which is slightly shorter (at 73 miles), and goes from Fort William up to Inverness, along Lochs Linnhe, Oich, and Ness.

Both would be amazing, and it's the perfect time of year for it too. Tourist season is done, the kids are back in school, but the weather hasn't quite turned (though this would imply that the weather ever properly moved into summer). The midges will be bad, but we'll deal. I'm feel quite remorseful that in my year in Scotland, I haven't really done much traveling in Scotland. I've done Paris (four times!), Belgium, London, Yorkshire, Spain... but not so much the country where I live, save for random days in Edinburgh, which doesn't really count. So getting to hike almost 100 miles of Scottish countryside would be awesome. And quell some of my guilt.

...though knowing us, we'd hike for five miles, find a pub, and that would be the end of our adventure. We'd be back in Glasgow the same evening.

Because really, I'm a citizen of the WORLD.

2009-08-25T22:26:00.005+01:00

It should be noted that I am officially on summer break. My dissertation is handed in, I've moved, and fall term doesn't start until September 21st.

(*insert a "WOOOOOOO, SUMMER VACAY!" here*)

Granted, it's not really time off. The PhD Year One reading list (for our novel seminar alone) is 62 required books, which are apparently "supposed to be read" by the time term starts. So I've got my work cut out for me. But if reading is ALL I have going on between now and September 21st, I can definitely handle that.

I can't believe I've been in Glasgow for almost a year (my anniversary is coming up in two weeks). Sadly, time spent in the UK on a student visa doesn't count towards the five years necessary for obtaining Permanent Residency. So I could be looking at an additional eight years before I get Permanent Residency, then I think it's an additional year before I can apply for Naturalized Citizenship, and then (and only then) do I get to apply for a UK passport that allows me into the superquick EU passport lines in airports.

Not that I'm contemplating giving up my American citizenship. Just that it feels weird to technically be on a track to actually allow me to become a citizen of another country. To even have the option. Living here is one thing. But to think it's technically very possible in the future to be BRITISH? Strange. Just really, really strange. Because as much as I love it here and think that I can hold my own pretty well living here, I'm a Yank through and through. There's no mistaking it.

See? This is the problem with "summer break." I have too much free time to sit around and think about inconsequential things like my citizenship.

My Misadventures with Virgin Media...

2009-08-25T11:48:00.004+01:00

So, earlier this month, I signed the lease on my new flat in Maryhill. Even though I still have my flat in student halls through mid-September, I had to double up on the leases because I didn't want to lose the other place.

Back on July 29, I started the process of getting my internet hooked up with Virgin. Figuring Richard Branson's a good way to go. They have lovely planes; I had high hopes for their internet.

A month later, guess who's still not online at the new flat? If you guess THIS GIRL, you'd be right.

FIRST: the guy never showed for the appointment when he said he would; I wasted an entire afternoon waiting for him. Not only did he never show, but he never called to either A) cancel or B) apologize.

Then, a week later, a second guy came to take a look and tell me what was needed for installation. We set up an appointment for a week later to have an engineer come do the installation. I was excited. I was finally going to get internet in the new place and have it up and running.

Fast-forward a week to last Thursday. The engineer comes out and spends two hours installing the line. We test it out, the modem doesn't work. He goes back down to his truck and gets another modem. THAT modem doesn't work. He tells me they have to fix something in the office, and to wait four hours, but then it should be fine.

Fast-forward four hours: still no internet. I spend 20 minutes on the phone with Virgin, for the girl to tell me at the end I just have to wait four more hours.

Fast-forward to Sunday: STILL NO INTERNET. I call Virgin again. Am on the phone this time for almost an hour. Tech person tells me I have to now wait 24 hours, and that they'll call me to tell me it's fixed then.

Fast-forward to Monday, 24-hours later: no phonecall. Still no internet. I call Virgin again. The tech guy tells me that yep, there's a big problem with my account (on their end; it's nothing I did wrong), and that he's "putting a rush" on the order to fix it. And that the soonest it will be working is in seven days.

SEVEN DAYS. And apparently not an hour before then.

And that's the "rush." Seven days and then "if it's not working then, call us back."

I am livid. Beyond livid. Are there hamsters running on wheels powering the internet at Virgin? What kind of problem takes seven takes do fix, when all I need is connectivity? I'm not an IT geek, but I know enough about computers to know that SEVEN DAYS seems beyond ridiculous. And what if it wasn't a rush? Would I be looking at a month?

It's not like my internet broke. It NEVER WORKED. This is some of the worst customer service I've ever seen; I'm a new customer. You'd think they'd want to get it right for me from the get-go. They should be busting their hump to make sure that as a new customer, I'm happy with the company. Instead, my first impressions of Virgin is that they don't care about their customers, they seem to operate on a pass-the-buck system when things go wrong (I kept getting transferred and referred and told my account was being "passed on to someone higher," yet it's never FIXED), and that they're slow and incompetent.

This does not bode well for the rest of my time with them. What happens once I have service and the internet breaks? Are there going to be frequent outages, with them just telling me to suck it up for a month while they take their time fixing it?

We are now approaching a month since I contacted Virgin about getting internet set up. A MONTH. And I still don't have access in my flat. I have their modem, and all the lights are lit up and give the illusion of internet, but there's no actual CONNECTIVITY. We past the point of ridiculousness two weeks ago. This is now unimaginable. A month. To get internet. And it will pass the point of a month and I still won't be online, since the EARLIEST I've been told I'll be connected is September 1.

...which is cutting it close. Term starts in September. I cannot be without internet once term starts; it's not an option. And I 100% don't believe Virgin when they tell me it'll be fixed in seven days (because actually, they didn't. They prepared me for it to NOT be fixed in seven days, to be ready to call back then when it's still not working).

Right now, I'm soured to the whole Virgin empire: planes, record shops, gyms, mobile phones, you name it. I'm really glad I didn't book a flight home on VS. I don't care if they have some of the best IFE of any airline I could fly between LHR-IAD. I don't want to give this company another penny of my money.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2009-08-18T13:11:00.005+01:00

My dissertation was due at noon today. I did not go to sleep last night. The timeline of the insanity of getting to noon went something like this:

4:30am: Print out first copy. It is 85 pages and 21,437 words long.

4:45am: Need to change ink cartridge. Realize that I only have enough paper for three copies, not two.

4:50am: Do a quick (and sloppy) edit of my other paper due, make changes, and print it out. Realize that I don't give a crap about it, only my dissertation.

5:30am: Other than finishing printing, am done. I set three alarms and get in bed. The sun is up.

5:50am: Realize I can't sleep because my mind is racing and the adrenaline is pumping.

7:09am: After drifting off for a little bit, I wake up on my own, a whole ten minutes before my first alarm.

7:10am: Switch the coffee on.

7:11am: Pee.

7:15am: Begin coffee consumption.

7:30am: Print out second copy. Watch as my paper supply dwindles dangerously lower and lower and lower.

8:00am: Go over regulations and specifications for the hundredth time. Decide that I am finished.

8:30am: Take a shower.

8:41am: Get exfoliator in my eye.

8:57am: Realize that no amount of makeup in the world will make me look like a functional human being today.

9:16am: Am in mad scramble to leave the apartment. The goal is to make it to the copy/print shop next to campus when it opens at 9:30am.

9:25am: Am walking to campus when it starts raining. I use my umbrella to protect my box of dissertations. Not myself.

9:39am: Get to copy/print shop. It is closed. I have heart attack.

9:41am Sit on the stoop of the closed copy/print shop in the rain. Text K in Edinburgh frantically about potential back-up plans, as I have none, and only 2h19m remain until my dissertation is due. Am entirely too tired to cry. Feel like I am in bad movie. Hear my dad's voice echoing in my head about not leaving things till the last minute.

9:47am: The lady who runs the copy/print shop shows up. She was stuck in traffic. Of course she was.

10:09am: Leave copy/print shop with three bound copies of my dissertation.

10:14am: Arrive at SESLL building, at 6 University Gardens.

10:15am: Turn in dissertations! Sign drop-off sheet!

10:20am: Have long talk with departmental admin about PhD program. Ask incessant questions. Have lost ability to speak coherently. Am quite sure she thinks I'm mentally deranged.

10:30am: Swing by M&S for celebratory breakfast.

10:35am: Run into classmate on Byres Road. He looks in worse shape than I do.

10:45am Go up to new flat to get mail and get K's suitcase that I'd borrowed to start moving stuff. Catch bus back so I don't have to walk in the rain.

10:57am: Instead of pushing the button to signal my stop, I accidentally push the handicapped emergency button, setting off a massive bus-wide siren. Have thoroughly embarrassed myself in front of full double-decker bus.

11:07am: Arrive back at my old flat to realize that I have almost an entire ream of paper in the form of drafts on my floor. Realize that I'm done. Update blog and Facebook instead of crawling into bed.

Now, I crawl into bed.

And just in case you were ever wondering how I'd look at 5:30am after pulling an all-nighter to finish my dissertation:

T minus seven days...

2009-08-11T14:08:00.003+01:00

I have exactly one week until my dissertation is due.

Actually, less than one week, since it's due by noon on August 18th and it is currently 2:09pm.

Can coffee be administered intravenously? I think I need to walk around with a constant drip for the next few days.

Wherever you wander, wherever you roam...

2009-08-02T21:59:00.003+01:00

Since one can't do upper-level graduate coursework without a roof over her head, I am now proud ~~owner~~ renter of a sweet little one-bedroom flat in Glasgow! It's located in Maryhill, a diverse area in every sense of the word, be it economics, skin color, or nationality. Maryhill has its rougher edges (understatement), but also has really great bits about it too.

Or at least it does where I am (in the decidedly/hopefully not-as-rough fringes of the notorious G20 postcode). I am three blocks from the Kelvin Walkway, which follows the river as it winds from Dawsholm Park, four miles north of the city, down to the River Clyde, and the walkway feels like another world away from the noise and the grime, rather than something that's smack in the middle of a large city. I am five minutes from the Botanic Gardens. And only half a mile from the top of Byres Road and Great Western Road, the two main drags of the West End, chock full of pubs, restaurants, shops, and two subway stations. It's about a 20 minute walk (which is nothing) to the university, and if the weather's terrible or I'm feeling especially lazy, there are three major bus lines right outside my door to take me to campus and another two to take me directly into town.

But the best part of my new place? Minus being on the third and top floor with a big bay window, high ceilings, hardwood floors, walk-in closet, gas cooking, electric fireplace, and views of the Campsie Fells (though admittedly, I'm much, much further away from the Fells than that picture)? It's that I am 100 feet from the big Maryhill Tesco! Which is one of the super Tescos, containing a housewares and electronics section, in addition to being a gigantic, US-style grocery store! It doesn't get more convenient than that, and I'm sure once the weather gets bad again in the fall, I'm going to be insanely thankful that I have food and toilet paper just outside my front door.

Also, the flat is on the final approach path for one of the runways at GLA, which means on a good-weather day, I can sit in my big bay window and watch (though luckily not hear) the planes go by. It's a pretty cool view, between the occasional 777, the hills, and an overview of northern Glasgow. I like being on the third floor. I like being removed a bit from the street.

Overall, I'm a little in love with my flat. And really excited to be living alone again with a kitchen to myself. It is so hard to cook properly in a communal kitchen. And not cooking properly makes me ten types of antsy. But this place has a good kitchen. It's one of the things that made me fall in love with it. That, and the windows. I really, really love my windows.

Fun UK fact of the day: My gas bill isn't a bill at all. It's pay as you go. Like my mobile phone. PAYG gas works with a little card. You top up the card at a pay point, and put money on it. Then you insert it into a little box in your utility closet. When the card runs out of money, you don't get any more gas.

Food

2009-07-29T23:11:00.003+01:00

We went to The Italian Caffe in the Merchant City tonight for K's birthday dinner, and I've got to give it two very enthusiastic thumbs up. If I could give my monkfish, wrapped in parma ham and drizzled with a sundried tomato dressing, three thumbs up, I would. Just really stellar food, great atmosphere, good service, and pretty reasonably priced. I love hitting new restaurants. Especially in parts of town that I'm not tremendously familiar with.

Even though I've been here for almost a year (seriously?!), I've realized that I mainly stick to the West End and its university bubble, with hops into town for a night out on Bath Street or a day of shopping on Buchanan Street or a movie at the big Cineworld. But neighborhoods outside of the West End or City Centre? I hardly ever go into. Like tonight. The Merchant City remains largely undiscovered territory for yours truly. And I'm learning that I need to start discovering it more, because it's got some really great spots, provided I have taxi fare. Tons of good bars and some really excellent restaurants. This country gets a bad rap for for food, what with the haggis, deep fried Mars bars, greasy fish suppers, and unrecognizable curries, but honestly? Glasgow is a great restaurant town. It makes me sad that not a single establishment here has a Michelin star, especially when this is a city that genuinely loves dining out.

But this is a resolution of mine this autumn: branch out.

That, and finally attend a Celtic match.

I wonder how much a taxi down to the Merchant City will cost from my new flat in my new postcode, but since all the paperwork won't be finalized until I sign my lease on Saturday, I won't speak of it for fear of jinxing. But hopefully, on Saturday afternoon, I will able to unleash my giddy excitement of having new digs and a new neighborhood. Outside the university bubble.

Seriously? Seriously?

2009-07-25T12:42:00.002+01:00

I hope that I'm not incurring some kind of bad publishing karma by slagging off a publisher, but poor Justine Larbalestier, an Australian young adult author. Her novel Liar, which is about a black girl with short hair, is set to be released in the US in September by Bloomsbury.

Except, the cover for the book features a white girl with longer hair.

Larbalestier blogs about it, in a far more eloquent way than I would have if it was my book and my main character's racial identity in question. Because for me, it's a disturbing prospect and points to one of two reasons: either Bloomsbury didn't actually read the book (unlikely) or they think that a cover featuring a picture of a black girl won't sell as well. It suggests that they think it places the book into some kind of racial niche, because clearly, only black teenage girls would read a book about black teenage girls, just as Latina teenage girls would only read a book about Latina teenage girls (but everyone reads books about white girls). While I don't know that this was Bloomsbury's reasoning, I can't really see any other logic behind changing the main character's race for a front cover, other than it would affect sales, which if that's true, has a whole mess of unpleasant implications attached to it.

Covers are important. I always judge books by their covers. And so do you.

My Glaswegian flat hunt continues today. It's looking more and more likely that come August/September, I'll be a resident of either Maryhill, Kelvinside, or Partick. And I'm 100% okay with this. I'm a bit done with living in Finnieston.

Parisian love letter.

2009-07-21T16:31:00.004+01:00

I had a plane ticket to Paris today, that I bought the other week after an evening spent with a bottle of Chilean cab. Just for the day, leaving Prestwick at 6:40am, and returning from Beauvais at 8:50pm. When all was said and done, I'd have had roughly eight-to-nine hours on the ground in the City of Light.

The price was right: £8 for the round-trip ticket, with another £10 in fees tacked on. On paper, £18 to hang out in Paris for the day isn't bad, even if it shreds bits of my soul to give Ryanair my money (which it really does. Aside from Michael O'Leary's general offensiveness, it's a company whose logo is in a font that's more or less Comic Sans. Can I really expect them to get me from Point A to Point B safely when they can't even use a normal typeface to showcase themselves to the world?). My anti-Ryanair feelings aside, £18 to Paris is tough to beat.

£18 seems like a worthy expenditure to stroll around the city if it's nice out. And I had such a phenomenal day planned: I was going to pick up a roast chicken and dripped-on potatoes in Belleville (as well as a cheap bottle of wine), and then head down to the Jardin du Luxembourg and snag a metal chair so I could have the best outdoor lunch ever. Then, I'd check out what's new over at the Jeu de Paume. Maybe do a bit of grocery shopping, since it's only a day trip. Have a late afternoon coffee somewhere near the canal and be willing to shell out extra cash for a prime table on the sidewalk to people watch for a few hours. Sit down along the Seine with an ice cream and wave at people on the bateau mouches. Take a quiet moment or two in the Eglise St. Etienne du Mont. And then wander down to around Gare Montparnasse for the crepe to beat all crepes, before catching the Metro back out to Port Maillot, to get the bus back out to Beauvais. It wouldn't have been a terribly important or historic day. Just lots of people watching and walking around and eating. A nice break from dissertation madness.

That was supposed to be my today in Paris.

But things didn't quite work out that way (I am in rainy Glasgow right now, not walking through the Latin Quarter). What I failed to take into account when I spent the £18 on the plane ticket in the middle of the night after a few glasses of wine, was the fact that I'd have to be at Buchanan Bus Station here in Glasgow at 4am this morning to catch the early bus out to Prestwick. So it would have been £5 for the cab ride to the bus station, £9 for the bus ticket to PIK. Then, from Beauvais, it's a €13 bus ticket into Paris. And the same back. Even before any metro tickets bought in Paris, I'd have been looking at essentially £50 in transportation to and from each airport. Which is more than double the price of the flight.

And suddenly, my nice cheap hop to Paris for the day is a big expenditure.

So I ate the £18. And didn't go to Paris. I think a bit of me died today, having a plane ticket to Paris and not using it.

This is my issue with Ryanair. It is the working definition of TGTBT. No such thing as free lunch. Or plane fares cheaper than a cab ride to the bars in City Centre on a Saturday night. Yes, you can get to another country for £4 each way, but then there's Ryanair's fees. And the cost of getting to and from an airport that's sometimes 100 kilometers away from the "city" (Girona "Barcelona," I'm looking at you). I hate Ryanair. It just feels so sleazy and cheap and dishonest. This is hopefully the last time I give them my money. And I hate Beauvais. I hate their bathrooms, I hate their coffee, I hate their immigration officers, and I hate how their entire departures area has like five benches for four "gates."

Besides, ten of my favorite words in any language are "Madames et messieurs, bienvenue a Paris, Aeroport Charles de Gaulle" spoken over an airplane PA system by a flight attendant in perfect French. There is something insanely romantic about landing in Paris, about flying by the city as you make your descent, and seeing the Eiffel Tower from the air. It just gets me deep down. I don't even think they say "Welcome to Beauvais" on Ryanair. I think they say, "GET OFF MY PLANE" in a surly Irish accent, and charge you a fee to de-plane via the stairs. Don't want to pay the fee? Jump. That's the Ryanair way after all. Only provide the bare essentials, and the passengers pick and choose and pay for the rest. Oh, Ryanair, I hate you.

I am convinced that the Glasgow rain today is the universe's way of crying on my behalf for not being Paris today. That's how I feel, at least.

Kwan.

2009-07-21T02:11:00.002+01:00

There's a weird duality about being a writer. On one hand, you want a big book deal, maybe to sell the rights of your novel to Hollywood for a fat enough paycheck that you can sip Mai Tai's happily by the ocean, while working on your follow-up, and you want to be known and respected. And then you want literary glory, the kind that's usually not achievable (except in rare cases) until after death. Too often, if you're a big commercial success, it means you have little respect within the literary community. If you're okay with this, then you're a sell-out. Or a hack. Which sometimes, to a writer, are labels worse than "unpublished."

At the heart of it, we're snobs, we're elitists. And we're comfortable being such. We'd rather win a small literary prize and live in a studio apartment eating sardines out of the tin than have a novel published that brandishes the sticker of Oprah or Richard & Judy's respective book clubs. Being a starving artist means you haven't sold out yet and that you still have integrity. Which is everything.

(I will say, however, the worse the economy gets, I'll settle for any publication and any book list, and if Oprah wants me to sit on her couch and have housewives all over America read my book and have Mandy Moore play the lead character in the Lifetime adaptation of it, I'm all for it. You've gotta pay the mortgage.)

But news broke today that was a reminder that it is possible still to have both. The literary respect and the ~~MONEY!~~ financial security that accompanies selling lots and lots and lots of books.

Yann Martel, author of the Booker-winning "Life of Pi" reportedly is receiving $3,000,000 for the manuscript of his third novel. Do not adjust your monitors. Seven figures. Three million dollars. For his manuscript. This isn't even film rights, it's just the book.

While I realize that Martel is definitely the exception, and not the rule, it's nice to be reminded that authors of literary fiction, and not just chick lit or crappy crime fiction, can make money too. Because while the respect part is grand, eating ramen sometimes sucks.

Planes and publications...

2009-07-15T23:57:00.004+01:00

When hypothetically helping my sister plan her visit this fall, and going back and forth with each other on low fares we were finding, she admitted that she'd rather drive three and a half hours out of the way to Newark to fly non-stop to Glasgow. Because she hates connecting. Gabriella is about as fantastic a traveler as they come, and she hates connecting.

I, on the other hand, am clearly an insane person. Because I love it. Non-stops and itineraries with one leg bore me. It's too easy. But connections make things interesting. There's no better feeling (after the fact, not during) than sprinting through a terminal and making a tight connection, just like there's no better feeling than finding a perfect spot in an airport to just sit and people or plane watch for a few hours on a long layover. I love it because when you're transiting, you've got nothing else to do, nowhere else to be. It's almost like a blizzard. You're just there and you have to make the best of it.

Plus, airport bars!

Can you tell I'm itching to go somewhere? But a real trip. Málaga was great for vacation purposes, but it did nothing to quell the travel bug. Going on holiday and almost physically needing to be in-transit somewhere are two very different feelings. Sometimes, a girl just needs to be in an airport. The bigger and more foreign the better. It's the butterflies you get when walking down the jetway to board a longhaul flight. I'm jonesing for those butterflies.

Sadly, there are no longhauls in my forseeable future. But the whole conversation with her got me all worked up to go somewhere. And I'm going nowhere right now, with every spare penny I have being put towards fall tuition and a deposit on my (still not yet acquired) Glasgow flat.

In non-travel related news, I had a story picked up for the Human Genre Project, a collection of works (both fiction and poetry) inspired by genetics and the 23 pairs of chromosomes in the human body. The project is based out of the University of Edinburgh, and I must say, it's a far more pleasant letter one receives when work is accepted, rather than rejected. It makes for a really good week, especially with dissertation deadlines looming and a PhD reading list that so far has gone unread by yours truly.

I'm never gonna stop the rain by complaining...

2009-07-13T01:09:00.003+01:00

There is a lot to like about living in Glasgow.

It's a compact city, easily walkable, with tons of bars, restaurants, shops, an international airport, a budget-airlines airport, decent public transportation, nice parks, friendly people, an active nightlife, three major universities, and big-time sports.

But you know what I don't like about Glasgow?

THE HORIZONTAL RAIN.

I'm just saying.

PhD? PhMe!

2009-07-08T23:34:00.004+01:00

Apparently, I am one of three things: an uber ~~nerd~~ academic, a person avoiding the current bleak job market, or a glutton for punishment. Perhaps I am all three, as I accept the university's offer to stay on for an extension of my Master's, which is also known as the first year of the PhD program.

What it comes down to is that I'm just not done. I'm not done learning quite yet, not with the year's reading list staring me in the face, and the exciting prospect of getting to read the likes of Hemingway, Cervantes, Joyce, Morrison, Faulkner, Capote, and Balzac in a PhD setting. I'm not yet ready to leave the comfortable confines of academia for a scary professional world that I have no desire to re-join. I'm not yet ready to leave Glasgow, a city that I'm just starting to really get to know after ten months. I'm not yet ready to leave a country where I'm a short hop away from Europe's major cities.

The States will see my shadow again, and lots in the upcoming year, with about ten thousand weddings to attend, new baby cousins still to meet, and pasteles and pernil to be eaten at Christmas. But for now, Glasgow remains my basecamp.

What this means though is that with no trip back Stateside booked for any time in the near future, I'm going to need the Pony Express to kick into gear. Cinnamon Toast Crunch, stick deodorant, Goya Sazon packets, DVDs that work on my laptop, Butterscotch Krimpets, and Alba chapstick would all be appreciated. Put the US Postal Service to work, people! And actually, any Goya products that fit into a box would be a lifesaver. Calamares and pulpo tins aren't that heavy. And I'm desperate. Desperate. Ooh, and some chicharrones too, please. You'll get a mention in the acknowledgments when the novel is published^*.

For now, the dissertation is still due in early August. Coupled with the final edition of the literary magazine to publish, two freelancing stories to write, and a final academic-ish paper to turn in. And apartment-hunting, as my current lease runs out in September. Plus, I still have to give the new Tragically Hip album a proper listening-to, as well as break in my purple clogs.

Somewhere in there, I need a trip. I refuse to let August be the first month in the calendar year that I don't travel. I'm thinking of keeping an eye on KLM fares and maybe doing a quick jump to Amsterdam. A biertje and plate of kaas by a canal as a celebration for a submitted dissertation, maybe?

^*Clearly, this is not a binding legal promise, as there is no novel pending publication. I'm not even sure "the novel" in the works is the novel, or if there's anything even in the works besides a short story collection. But those require dedications as well, and providing the author sustenance is no small feat and won't go unnoticed. At the very least, you'll get a thank you card and my eternal gratitude. Not quite as good as your name in lights, but it's something!

Goodbyes are always hard...

2009-07-04T15:16:00.002+01:00

I think I may be in the process of losing a very dear friend.

Upon my return from Spain, I realized that there is a huge gash on the bottom of my suitcase. And while I'm sure I could use some black tape to try to keep the fabric together, I think it may be time for me to admit defeat on it and start thinking about purchasing a new suitcase.

I bought this suitcase in November 2007, right before my trip to the UK. Since then, the suitcase has been a faithful companion, accompanying me on over 40,000 miles in 18 months. It has crossed the big, blue ocean many, many times with me, been used as a bench at train stations when no bench is available, and somehow, despite flight cancellations, major delays, tight connections, and many an abrupt terminal change, has always ended up by my side at the end of a trip.

The thought of retiring it is a sad prospect.

But it's had a good run of it. It's been a lucky suitcase, getting to see some of the most epic airports in the world, traveling on at least a dozen types of airplanes. And a 40,000+ mile life isn't a bad one for a suitcase, especially one that was $20 on a TJ Maxx clearance special.

It's much better than the carry-on bag I bought at Primark in March, that lasted for four trips, and now has a handle that's ripping off.

So now my quest begins for sturdy, yet affordable, luggage to take me another 40,000+ miles (or with my track record, through next summer).

Farewell, dear black and green Benetton suitcase. I will think of you fondly whenever I go to check my bags.

Upon my return from Spain...

2009-07-02T20:40:00.007+01:00

I'm not going to lie. For the first two and a half days of my trip to Málaga, Spain, the trip seemed to be a bit of a bust. Not that the city wasn't lovely (it was) or the museums phenomenal (the Museo Picasso now ranks as one of my favorite galleries ever) or the weather divine (hot, but not humid, with sunny skies that were so blue it seemed out of a travel commercial). But something about Málaga hadn't quite grabbed me the way other cities have. Part of the way through my final day in southern Spain, it hit me what the problem was. The food had been fine. Just fine. Not spectacular, not that different from the tapas joints that dot Washington, DC. In other cities, there have been foods so good that they not only make your toes curl, but they make you want to return to that city just to eat.

And I'd had such high hopes for Spain, for the tapas and the olives and the seafood and the paella. They were all fine. I even went as far as to boldly state that while the flan at the lovely Cafe Moka on Calle San Bernardo el Viejo was delicious, it wasn't as good as my mother's. Wednesday afternoon, I'd resigned myself to a vacation of culinary adequacy, but not fireworks.

But then, in the bottom of the ninth of my vacation, Málaga came through in the clutch with a homerun.

Espetos de sardinas. Sardines on a skewer, an Andalucian specialty. Nothing more than whole, fresh sardines, tossed with salt, racked up and grilled over an open flame. Served on a plate with a wedge of lemon.

I had mine at an outdoor shack on the beach, on a bright and clear day. I stared out at the Mediterranean, downed two cold San Miguels, dipped the fresh bread they serve with it into the sardine and lemon juice, and didn't need my book. The afternoon I spent eating espetos was worth the entire trip to Málaga, and would be worth returning for.

Toes? Consider yourselves curled.

Before I dug in. Or maybe after one small bite to confirm that it was indeed food heaven.

The aftermath.

The view from my table.

On an exceptionally hot evening early in July...

2009-06-21T22:09:00.003+01:00

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.

In An Aeroplane Over the Sea...

2009-06-20T10:47:00.005+01:00

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!

Writing update.

2009-06-18T11:21:00.003+01:00

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.

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

2009-06-17T11:27:00.004+01:00

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.

¡Viva España!

2009-06-15T08:55:00.003+01:00

...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!

An Englishman and Scotsman walk into a bar...

2009-06-13T12:07:00.027+01:00

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.

Day 5: In Gloucestershire

2009-06-10T08:36:00.003+01:00

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.

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

2009-06-05T10:28:00.002+01:00

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.

Waiting for bad news...

2009-06-01T12:25:00.001+01:00

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.

Summa, summa, summatime...

2009-05-31T22:12:00.012+01:00

The weather in Glasgow this weekend has been -- as forecast -- amazing. Warm and sunny, with blue skies and no humidity. If I could design perfect weather, this would be it.

As a result, everyone has been outdoors for the past two days.

The parks are full of people laying out, all the beer gardens are full, the streets are packed, and restaurants and cafes have dragged tables outside. It seems like the entire city has left their houses to be in the sun. It's fantastic, and everyone seems to be in a much more pleasant, cheerful mood. Easily the best weekend of the year so far.

My Saturday was spent down in City Centre, shopping and having lunch outside at one of the Italian places off Buchanan Street, before going from outdoor table to outdoor table at two separate pubs for the late afternoon all the way through to last call. My Sunday was spent laying on a blanket in the sun at the Botanical Gardens, with a fantastic, summery playlist on my iPod and a 99 Flake.

Clearly, life is rough!

The numbers game.

2009-05-29T12:05:00.002+01:00

The reading for the Glasgow Women's Library went really well! There were a lot (a lot!) of people in attendance, to the point where they ran out of seating and were scrambling around trying to get extra chairs for everyone who'd shown up. I was very lucky to be reading second, after the very talented Chiew-Siah Tei, which meant that I was able to relax and enjoy the rest of the writers (including Kokumo Rocks, a Scottish performance poet who was amazing). It was a really great evening, and nice to be part of such a warm'n'fuzzy writing community here in Glasgow.

No rotten fruit was thrown at me! I survived the performance!

Right now, the weather is spectacular, and I think I'm going to head up to the gym for a bit, before settling into writing for the day. My goal is 10,000 words by the time my plane pushes from the gate next Saturday morning to head down to Heathrow. It's a doable goal if I buckle down.

It's also a goal that might be more attainable if I disconnect the internet (damn you, Twitter, Facebook, ONTD, etc). But then I tell myself that no, I need to do "research." Somehow though, my research ends up straying from the intended Latin American revolutions to things like "Get Zoe Saldana's Red-Carpet Style In Three Easy Steps!" I don't think eyeliner and creme foundation is quite what the subcommandante had in mind...

Should we talk about the weather?

2009-05-28T12:15:00.002+01:00

My first public reading (ever) is tonight, and it's safe to say that I'm absolutely terrified. While I don't mind speaking in public, I don't mind speaking in public with either someone else's words or something that's non-fiction. Presentation at a meeting? Not a problem. Reading something I've actually written? No thank you. Isn't the entire point of being a writer that we get to hide ourselves away from the world behind the safe and comforting glow of a computer screen? Didn't Proust spent the final years of his life in a cork-lined room, hardly ever setting foot outside? He didn't do public readings, and you know, things turned out pretty well for him. I'd say a burial at Pere Lachaise is as victorious as it gets.

My fear of rotten fruit being thrown on stage aside...

The weather here has been brutal over the past week. The rains have been heavy, the temperatures have been chilly, and the skies have been gray.

But starting today, things in Glasgow appear to be looking up. At least meteorologically!

Monkey business.

2009-05-24T17:09:00.006+01:00

Rangers won the SPL today, which meant it was a bit of an interesting walk up and down Byres, what with all the crowds and the singing and cheering. I had to pop into a newsagent and when I was in there, a guy came in to buy cigarettes and told the shopkeeper they were celebratory ones. And then he turned to me and asked if I was excited.

So I told him I was American and that I didn't pick sides. And he says, "Brilliant! Mo Edu is American!" which I think was supposed to mean that I should get really excited about it, except I still have that whole fear of the imminent stabbing that will happen if I pick an Old Firm team, so I just kind of mumbled something about Edu being a Terp, and rushed out with my packet of Polos. Silly, as he was really nice and I don't think he was carrying a knife. Sometimes I think they overblow the whole YOU WILL GET STABBED thing here, just to scare internationals.

Also, with my collected cereal boxtops, I was able to adopt a monkey! Sadly, it's just a money donation thing Kellog is doing with an animal sanctuary, and not something where I'll now have a pet. But you get to pick your monkey, and I picked Pops. He's apparently a cheeky little bastard who doesn't like to get to close to people, but is really attached to his adopted monkey brother and sleeps every night with a teddy bear (monkeys have teddy bears?) under one arm, and cuddles up to Coco (the adopted monkey brother) with the other. And I liked that. So I adopted him, even though there were aesthetically cuter monkeys out of the bunch.

This serves as my official shoutout to the Lilongwe Wildlife Sanctuary in Malawi.

World, meet Pops.

Thick skin.

2009-05-20T14:14:00.004+01:00

Another day, another magazine rejection.

Rejection sucks. I'm trying to man up and not be all George McFly about it, but realistically, you'd have to be a robot to not feel a bit demoralized from the "Thanks, but no thanks" that they send.

I know that if getting fiction published were easy, everyone would do it. I know that it's not supposed to be easy. I know the hard is what makes it great.

Still...

...IT SUCKS!

I'm not really wallowing though. I've got too much to do in terms of my dissertation to wallow. Plus, possibly seeing Star Trek in IMAX to look forward to (shut up, why can't a person see a movie multiple times in the theater?), as well as multiple people's birthday parties in the next few days, and most importantly, a warm, sunny weekend in the forecast. And you can't be down when there's warmth and sun scheduled for Glasgow.

(Okay, maybe I'm wallowing a little. But it's nothing that a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch wouldn't fix. A box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch that someone would have to mail across the ocean to me, since it's unavailable in Scotland. HINT HINT.)

2009-05-19T17:16:00.003+01:00

And I'm back in Glasgow once more. On a jetlag scale of 1 to 10 (1 being I'm fresh as a daisy and 10 being I can't even stand up properly) I'm on at about a 5 right now, which is actually pretty good. We got in early enough (7:30am) that I was able to get a nap in during the late morning and early afternoon that might take me through till tonight, when I can get to bed at a respectable hour.

The flight back from Newark was truly, truly unpleasant. Again, 757s are too small to sit in for six hours. Especially when it's six hours of screaming babies, turbulence, and loud people who have no concept of how to behave on a red-eye transatlantic flight. I will take the extra connection in Heathrow to be on a bigger, more comfortable plane next time. When it comes to flying across the ocean, size does matter.

My hope for humanity is to one day live in a world where the people sitting behind you don't pull on the back of your seat when you're sleeping, catapulting your forward. Because it really, really sucks.

Or, my hope for myself is that one day I fly first class where people know how to act.

On another note, I also learned a very important lesson today and why words are important. Ginger beer? NOT the same as ginger ale. Ginger ale is wonderful. Ginger beer burns.

List: USA-style

2009-05-13T13:49:00.002+01:00

I love living in the UK, and I really love living in Glasgow. That being said, there's a laundry list of things I really appreciate about the States, and this trip, a couple of things (other than standard friends and family) have really stood out:

Being in the same time zone as American Idol;
Chipotle;
The cereal aisle in the grocery store;
Target;
Muggy weather;
Being back for not one, not two, but three Game Sevens in the NHL playoffs and getting to watch them at a decent hour, instead of 1am;
CABLE. Real cable. 800 channels, OnDemand, DVR.
Access to Hulu!

These are all superficial, silly things to love, but it's the silly, superficial things that count! Who needs socialized healthcare when you can watch back to back to back to back episodes of My Boys on a lazy Tuesday evening?

I'm leaving on a jet plane...

2009-05-12T23:16:00.004+01:00

And I'm back in the States again. Pond-hopping is clearly one of my favorite activities, this time for a quick week of Mother's Day festivities and maternal bonding. And yes, I know i was just back here.

The trip this time was an eventful one.

Originally, I was going to book the cheaper, yet lengthier, itinerary on Delta/NW/KLM: Glasgow-Amsterdam, Amsterdam-Detroit, Detroit-BWI. All in the attempts to avoid Dad having to schlep down to Dulles during rushhour on a Thursday evening. Going with Delta would have been annoying with two connections, but on shiny planes that I loved (E190, A330, DC-9 -- though okay, not so much with the love there), with comfortable connection times. A pain in the butt itinerary, but one I was secretly looking forward to.

The other option was the much more sensible, logical, environmentally friendly one: Glasgow-Newark, Newark-BWI. Continental. It's the only year-round schedule Glasgow-USA flight, and typically, when you hop in a taxi at 6:30am, heading for the airport and you tell the driver you're headed for the States when he asks where you're traveling, he'll nod and say knowingly, "Ahhhh, Continental?" That's what happens when your airport only has ONE US-bound flight a day (though right now, Thomas Cook runs charters to Orlando and later in the spring, USAir will start up their Philly service).

So after some shaming from Gabriella about taking the most direct route, I decided no more game-playing, I was doing the quick and easy Continental hop, crossing the ocean in a 757-200 (a plane way too small for a seven hour flight, but that's another story), fitted with PHENOMENAL in-flight entertainement (50 movies, including all five Harry Potters, as well as Back to the Future), two decent meals, and a reasonably friendly crew. Pre-take off? Things seemed peachy.

Too good to be true? Probably is. Because when things seem easy and smooth to start, something's going to go wrong.

Like, a seatbelt sign that the captain leaves on all flight, even through hours of smooth sailing, leading everyone (including Flight Attendants) to ignore it, and it becoming the Seatbelt Sign That Cried Wolf, which then turned slightly problematic when actual turbulence started.

Like, massive thunderstorms in Newark midway through the afternoon as I waited for my 5pm hop to BWI.

Like, the cancelling of said 5pm flight, and bumpage to the 9:45pm flight instead.

Like, every flight out of Terminal A being delayed or cancelled, madness in the terminal, pilots camped out on the ground because there's nowhere for them to sit and no one will give them a seat (I'd personally like my pilots comfortable and rested), and a man having an actual heart attack right next to Starbucks.

Like, my now 9:45pm flight being delayed until 11:50pm.

Like, Continental then being kind and sticking me on an on-time 7:15pm flight to DCA, departing from Terminal C.

Like, me sprinting to Terminal C to try to make the flight, only to find out that while the plane is there, the crew is not, because they're inbound on a flight that's late.

Like, me being sent to customer service by the gate agent because I'm having a very hard time dealing with the fact that by the end of it all, I will have been at Newark for anywhere from nine to twelve hours, when BWI is a mere four hours from it in actuality.

Like, after an hour in the customer service line, the agent taking pity on me, giving me a hotel and food vouchers for the night, and a seat on the first flight out in the morning instead.

It was just a maddening travel day. And while I know none of these things were actually Continental's fault (on the contrary, they were GREAT to me. When's the last time I could say that about a legacy carrier?), it was just so draining. What's worse? The cheaper Delta flight into BWI? Landed on time.

The next morning, after passing out in a king-sized bed at the Holiday Inn - Edison, I was headed back to EWR and Terminal A where my BWI-bound flight was set to depart, only to find that (of course) it had been moved to Terminal C. Back onto AirTrain and a-sprinting went I. 20 minutes later, I was sitting at the gate, free (thanks, Continental!) Starbucks in hand, waiting to board a teeny ERJ-145. From there, it was a smooth 36 minute flight down to BWI, way ahead of schedule.

All of that, nine hours at Newark on Thursday, an overnight, and another hour on Friday, for 36 minutes flying time.

And while, yes, it was all worth it to see the look of surprise on my grandmother, mother, and aunt's faces, next time I'm going with my airplane geeky gut and booking the flight that I want to take, on the planes I want to fly in, rather than go with the on-paper easier option. I'd gladly connect in both Schiphol and Detroit in lieu of setting foot in Newark.

At least my return is a straight shot: Newark-Glasgow. Hopefully, as Mary J. Blige says, with no more drama. And fingers are crossed that all five Harry Potters are still an option!

Crawling on a bank holiday Monday.

2009-05-05T14:16:00.007+01:00

In most normal cities, you have a pubcrawl.

In Glasgow, you have a subcrawl.

Here in Glasgow, the subway isn't really an expansive network. It's just one circle. There aren't multiple lines, there's nothing to figure out. It's just a circle, with trains moving in an inner loop and an outer loop. It is literally impossible to get lost on the Glasgow subway, sometimes (but not often by actual Glaswegians) called the Clockwork Orange.

So a subcrawl? You and your group go stop to stop, getting off at every station and having a drink at whatever pub's right there off the subway line. 15 stops in all! Needless to say, it makes for a long, but fun, day of drinking and also gives non-Glaswegians like me a chance to see parts of the city that they would never ever in a million years otherwise see. Places like Ibrox, Kinning Park, and Govan? Without the subcrawl I can promise that I'd have never set foot in them.

The Glasgow south of the river is like a different world. Where the sectarianism is very real and apparent, not just something joked about for football reasons. While some of it is probably part urban legend, the fact that there's likely some ounce of truth to stories about people being thrown out of bars around Ibrox for ordering Guiness is half scary and half amazingly interesting.

But south of the river ended up being really cool. Save for one (Hawaiian themed?) pub in Govan, all the others were fantastic and people treated us well. My favorite may have been the District Bar in Kinning Park, where every decoration on the wall was Rangers something, the people were fantastically nice, and I had a feeling I'd be stabbed if I used the "c" word (not the four-letter one, but the one rhyming with "schmatholic." The Laurieston, at Bridge Street, was great too. Super dodgy looking from the outside, with warm and friendly bartenders wearing bowties on the inside. And by early evening, we were comfortably back across the River Clyde and into familiar territory, before ending things on Byres Road, closing down Curler's. All in all, a good day and good furthering of my Glaswieducation.

Subcrawl: definitely a Glasgow must if you're with a group, want to get a big-picture look at the city, and if you're in here with an entire day to spare (and a next morning devoted to sleeping in and consuming lots of coffee and greasy food to help get you right again). But bring along a Scot or two or three, don't wear green, get through the Govan-to-Bridge Street stops while it's still very light, and most importantly, EAT SOMETHING along the way.

NHS, you know you missed me!

2009-04-26T21:37:00.003+01:00

Out into the Great Big Publishing universe go two more submissions. This process is so painfully slow; I don't expect to hear from either until the end of the summer. This is the part I hate about being a writer: other people reading it. And judging it. And then sending back those polite emails that say, "Thank you for your submission, but we regret to inform you..."

I know, I know. Thick skin!

I think calling it an early night and snuggling up in bed with a cheesy movie is going to be my M.O. this Sunday evening. Something (no, not swine flu) is kicking my butt and my once-functional throat has closed up. Airplane germs are so gross. Thanks, fellow passengers. Glad you were able to share.

At least I live in a country with socialized healthcare!

Worth a 1,000 words...

2009-04-23T22:44:00.029+01:00

If I have enough time to watch last night's American Idol results show, make a really good chicken and leek dish for dinner, re-organize my shoes, search for plane flights home for the Gipsy King's concert in June, and play Who Wants to Be A Millionaire on my new iTouch on this very lazy Thursday, it is safe to say I also have time to document my massive trip that ended on Monday.

My trip by the numbers:

Plane flights: 6
Train trips: 5
Countries visited: 5
New passport stamps: 6
Airports visited: 4
Types of planes flown in: 5
Car rides of 100+ miles: 2
States of the Union visited: 5
Beds slept in: 7
Sporting events attended: 2
Languages "spoken": 3

By the pictures:

March 29: Departure Day. GLA-AMS, AMS-CDG. Day in Paris, night in Hautrage, Belgium.

Taking off from Glasgow on a KLM E-190, heading for Amsterdam.

Scotland is spectacular from the air.

Freighters and, in the distance, wind turbines in the water off the Dutch coast. I'd never seen windmills in the water. You probably have to click on the picture for the full resolution to see them properly.

The Netherlands!

Paris. Birds for sale at an outdoor animal market on Île de la Cité.

It was a beautiful day in Paris!

When in Paris, do as the Parisians do. Apparently, this means on gorgeous spring Sundays, you buy an ice cream from La Maison Berthillon on Île Saint-Louis and then take a stroll along the Seine. I was more than happy to follow along.

March 30 - April 3: Belgium. The Champagne Region of France. Back to Belgium for Brussels, Ghent, and Mons.

Apparently dinosaur teeth were found near Rachel's parents' house in Belgium and the dino on the roundabout pays homage to Mr. Bitey.

My first day in Belgium we... went back to France. The cathedral in beautiful Reims.

The champagne region!

Someday these will grow up to be delicious and expensive.

The champagne caves at the house of Champagne Cattier. Forgive the poor picture quality, but those are all bottles of champagne maturing.

Bottles of their Armand de Brignac, made famous in the States for bringing the bling.

Manneken Pis in Brussels. The famous peeing boy.

Students in Ghent enjoying the sunshine.

Me in Ghent enjoying the beer.

The Grand Place in Ghent.

April 3 - 19: USA. Ohio. PA. MD.

At the Airforce Museum at Wright-Patt AFB. Dad with a Desert Storm plane.

Me with a Russian plane.

Airplanes everywhere you look!

Nationwide Arena, Section 111 with the cannon, postgame after the CBJ lost 1-0 to the Hawks in OT.

The tomato-onion tart I made for Easter dinner.

I was incredibly happy to spend my last Saturday in the States at a baseball game, with good beer and good hot-dogs.

April 19-20: Return to Europe. IAD-CDG, CDG-AMS, AMS-GLA.

...there are no pictures from the air. I was on an aisle for the transatlantic flight, and by the time I got on the two short flights, my camera was buried at the bottom of my carry-on, which was overhead, and anyway. I was asleep for most of it.

2009-04-23T18:26:00.005+01:00

Other than the big, overall objectives on my Writing To-Do List (get major book deal; sell rights to book to Hollywood for seven figures; have Robert Pattison star in movie version of book so we can meet on set and live happily ever after), some of the more pressing ones are pretty weighty and include submission deadlines for the student anthology and a new magazine that's launching soon, casting my editorial vote for Issue 14 of From Glasgow to Saturn, preparing to read at a women writer's event in May, and starting to work on my dissertation.

It then serves to reason that I have spent my second full free day after the end of Term 2 doing absolutely nothing, when I really should be writing, submitting, and editing. I suppose staying out till 5am last night and sleeping until 11:30am today aren't helping my productivity cause, but I'm trying to justify it as a well-deserved bout of blowing off steam from the term. I think the shelf-life on this will expire around midnight tonight, at which time I'll hopefully turn back into an academically-motivated pumpkin. By tomorrow, it'll stop being cute and start being lazy.

What a long, strange trip it'd been...

2009-04-23T17:06:00.006+01:00

After a whirlwind trip to France/Belgium and then back to the States, I am finally back in Glasgow. Right now, I have nothing booked in the upcoming future, which is a bit of a strange feeling.

The journey back to Scotland was pretty smooth, even if it included three flights. The first leg, Washington-Paris, went by surprisingly quickly, and even though there were turbulent patches, I'd properly geeked out pre-flight and checked the turbulence forecasts, so I was 100% prepared for it. And unlike my westbound flight, this Air France 777 did have the good OnDemand, which always helps.

The only bad part about the flight was the cow behind me who kept pulling on the back of my seat and kicking it all flight long. So, to the person who was sitting in 28E on AF027 IAD-CDG on April 19th, know that I hope you read this. Know that I hope that you and your ugly seat-kicking sneakers get a karmic airplane beat-down on your next flight. I hope you're seated next to a screaming baby. Or a really flatulent person with bad BO. Or a really flatulent person with bad BO who's holding a screaming baby. Because you robbed me of sleep. So did the person whose wrist-watch alarm kept going off every fifteen minutes and wouldn't turn it off. In a cabin full of sleeping people on an overnight translatlantic flight. Really. Had this happened once, fine. Twice? But for four hours this watch kept going off, and no one could figure out the source. I wanted to punch someone. See above about baby/gas/BO. Why do people not know how to act on a plane?

(This is also the point where I puff out my chest a little and proudly mention that the TSA guys at Dulles told me that I was the most organized person they'd had go through security all night, and if there were stickers or gift certificates, I'd get one. And they complimented my socks.)

My connection in Paris was pretty harried. CDG sends you through a very spread out maze of border control and security, and terminal 2F feels like a giant biodome. A big, round glass bubble, with too many gates, too few chairs, and does it ever get hot and loud. Luckily, I got to my gate for the Amsterdam flight just before it started boarding, so I didn't have to spend too much time there. I was quite happy to get on the plane and rest my head against the window and stare out of it for a lovely hour of sunny, smooth flying over France and Holland. But by the time we landed at Schiphol, I was so tired I was having trouble processing things, and wanted to cry at the thought of going through yet another passport control and security line. It was the same deal as CDG, where I had so little time to connect that once I'd gone through the checks and used the bathroom, it was time to board. Which in retrospect, because I made the connections, ended up great because I didn't have to sit around for hours, but in the future, I'm never having that little margin of error for international connections. The stress and the hurrying is not worth it. But I got on the plane, and almost immediately passed out for all of boarding and the start of taxiing. Not just resting my eyes, but out. Dreaming. Waking up only when safety announcements in Dutch started, staying conscious through take-off, and then passing out again once we hit cruise, pretty much for the rest of the flight. When we started our descent into Glasgow, I got a little choked up at the scenery. Not only was it beautiful and shockingly sunny, but I was just so happy to be back in Scotland.

After my third (surprisingly hard) landing of the day (what gives, European pilots? American pilots can do a lovely, gentle touchdown, why can't you?), and my third passport stamp of the day, I entered my fourth country in 14 hours. And finally, I was home.

And that ended my fling with European carriers. The food is way better, the service is way better, and the planes even seem cleaner. But I kind of missed having American pilots who talk to you (the pilots on the flight from Washington to Paris didn't speak ONCE the entire flight, except to tell the flight attendants to take their seats for landing). And I missed not having to go through all those hoops. Next time I go home, it's back to United. Or maybe BA or Virgin if the price is right. But free champagne and extra baguettes on Air France are not worth the extra connection.

Right? Right?

At Charles De Gaulle, Etc.

2009-04-03T14:34:00.000+01:00

I'm at Charles De Gaulle, etc. Waiting for my flight. My ride is parked outside and it's a shiny 777, hopefully with lots of good movies on its On Demand.

My four hours in Paris between train and plane were good. I snagged lunch (salad from Le Grand Epicerie and a croissant from Gerard Mullot) and then headed to the Jardin du Luxembourg and ate outside. It was really, really lovely and mild out. Kind of a perfect lunch.

The whole leaving-my-luggage-in-a-locker-at-Gare-du-Nord worked perfectly, and it's ridiculously convenient. I felt a bit Jason Bourne with all my stuff stashed there, though I'm pretty sure he didn't have to shell out 10 euro to keep his ten thousand passports in a locker. I did. I'm also a bit salty about the SIX euro CDG is charging me for 30 minutes of internet.

I've got to say, CDG's international terminal is WAY nicer than the shorthaul Europe budget one. If I only ever flew out of this terminal, I might like this airport much more.

I can't believe I'm heading home in an hour. HOME. Back to the States. I'm sad to leave Belgium/France, but I'm really, really excited to go back.

Tickets, money, passports?

2009-03-27T16:01:00.004Z

The weather here in Glasgow has been crazy this week, going from sun to rain to sleet to howling winds to sun again. It seems to be stuck in this pattern, changing hourly. It was pouring two hours ago when I walked back from City Centre. Now? Blue skies and sun abound.

But it doesn't matter, because I'm headed for sunnier climes, as continental Europe is apparently much more pleasant right now than Scotland. Sunday I hit up Paris, then jump on the train that evening for Mons, and then spend the next week with Rachel and her parents in Belgium (and sometimes France). All before hopping onto a 777 next Friday and heading home.

It's going to be a crazy travel week, but I'm really looking forward to it. I'm at my happiest when in transit.

It's also going to be Twitter-only for me most likely next week. I really need a cheaper mobile company.

Fear the Turtle.

2009-03-20T09:20:00.003Z

I'm officially done with classes, and Glasgow is celebrating with me by having spectacular weather. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday were all sunny, mild, and almost 60°. Glasgow has become a different city; it's like everyone immediately evacuates their houses at the first sign of sun, and spreads out all over grass and parks and outdoor bars and cafes and just takes it all in. We've been following suit, and it's been phenomenal.

It's a rough life when your afternoon activity consists of French beer and people-watching for hours at an outdoor table on Ashton Lane. No worries, there's still the weight of tens of thousands of words to be written by August hanging over my head!

I might be on the other side of the pond, but that doesn't mean I stop being American, which includes making my bracket picks. I was really excited last night, because I was 12-for-16, which for me in the opening round is fantastic! And then I looked at the standings for my group and saw that I'm sitting at the very bottom. It's just a point of self-pride, I guess.

My first weekend back in the States will be spent out in Ohio, not only doing the family thing, but also fitting in a Blue Jackets game. It's been almost a calendar year since I saw live hockey. So Jackets-Hawks is going to be phenomenal.

The Tale of the Magical Blooming Cactus

2009-03-16T19:31:00.013Z

Gabriella left yesterday, on the morning flight from Glasgow to Newark, which is also the only non-stop flight between Glasgow and the States during the winter. The price you pay for the convenience of not having to transit through Heathrow is a 4:15am alarm, because the taxi has to arrive at 5:30am since the flight is at 8am. So for the past day and a half, I've been a bit groggy, even though me myself did not go anywhere except downstairs to give her a hug and kiss before putting her in the cab. 4:15am is 4:15am.

It was an uneventful week, with the daily schedule going something like this: eating, drinking, eating, shopping, eating, drinking, drinking, eating, drinking. I now feel incredibly well versed in the Glasgow restaurant scene, having now dined at standouts like Mother India Cafe, The Left Bank, and the previously mentioned Two Fat Ladies, all of which I'll be thrilled to accompany people to when they visit me here in Glasgow (provided you pick up the check; I'm a poor student after all!).

But maybe the most impressive thing we did (in between all the eating and drinking) was a trip to the Glasgow Botanical Gardens. I really, really, really wanted to go this week, because word on the street is that one of the Gardens' rare cacti was blooming -- the first time it's bloomed in twenty years -- and it has a very short bloom-life. So off we headed to check out the Puya alpestris, a Chilean plant that's just incredible.

And see it we did, along with other items of planty goodness and the rest of our Saturday in Glasgow.

All right, Mr. DeMille, Puya is ready for its close-up. These flowers are only seen once every TWENTY YEARS, and for a very brief time period of a few weeks.

Another of the Puya.

Gabriella attempting to bite the cactus that is used to make tequila.

A very cool plant. I have no idea what it is, other than pretty.

Pretty.

Prettier.

Modest Mouse-inspired street art near St. George's Cross.

Gabriella in a quintessential Glasgow shot: Irn Bru on a windy day on the walkway over the M8.

Looking west from Garnethill. In the distance, you can see the spires of the Main Building of the university.

Me and Gabriella, all cleaned up and out on the town.

It was a quick visit -- just a week -- but it was good to have her here. A week with my baby sister is better than a week without. And then in three weeks, I'll be back in the States, so it wasn't a tearful goodbye, like they normally are. Last time, we were both crying fools outside of hallway to security at Glasgow International. We were those people. So this time was a bit better.

I'm also realizing that the excessive amount of plant pictures are borderline old-ladyish. At least I didn't post all the plant pictures I took. And at least they weren't pictures of cats.

That's amore!

2009-03-08T09:12:00.005Z

I'm pretty thrilled because Gabriella landed yesterday for an entire week here in Glasgow. It's her Spring Break, and so I get her for the next seven days. What this translates to is lots of afternoons spent holed up in pubs, lots of meals out at restaurants I've been dying to try. Yesterday was nothing new for me, as we first cozied up in The Left Bank for late-afternoon snacks and drinks, before making our way over to Byres Road (I was out of cash) and popping into Common Rooms to escape the downpour, grab another drink, and most importantly, try to figure out dinner.

Glasgow, especially over here in the West End, in filled with restaurants and cafes. They might not all (or none, I think) have Michelin stars, but it's definitely an area with good food. And last night, I was jonesing for Italian, of which there's a ton here in the West End. So we swing by all the major players on Byres Road, Paperino's, the new one Sputini, take a look at Prego, which recently opened on Dumbarton, and finally head into Lamora on Argyle, where a waitress gives a no-room-at-the-inn speech and a look that says, "You fools, who doesn't book ahead for our amazing restaurant on a Saturday night?" And the thing is, I'm actually kind of okay with the snub. The problem with all of the aforementioned Italian spots within a mile of my apartment, is that they all seem rather generic and unimaginative. They all have hip decor, cool lighting, and interestingly-shaped plates, but their menus are all so limited. We're talking five or six pasta choices, one or two meats. And very standard fare. Bolognese, cabonara, etc. Nothing that really got me excited for ITALIAN FOOD.

Our last resort was Villa Toscana, a little Italian place that's across from Tesco and SPAR on Argyle Street. I pass it every day. I've always said, "I should try it!" but never have. Last night, in the pouring rain and howling winds that render umbrellas useless, we popped in. And the second we did, I knew it was a good choice. This was an ITALIAN RESTAURANT. It wasn't a hip and trendy restaurant that served Italian food. It wasn't hip or trendy at all. But it was warm and inviting, the (Italian) owner was friendly and welcoming, and the food. The food! It was exactly what I wanted, a real Italiany Italian restaurant, with a menu full of pages of pasta and risottos and pizzas. It reminded me so much of my favorite Italian (and maybe just favorite) restaurant in Bethesda: The Pines of Rome. Just GOOD FOOD in a clean setting. With no funky wall decor or mood lighting necessary. Sometimes, you want a hip, trendy spot. Sometimes, you just want a good bowl of pasta. And we got that here. Gabriella had a spinach tortellini that was clearly homemade and fresh; I had a seafood risotto that was full of king prawns (the size of a computer mouse, no lie), fresh mussels, and squid. For two of us to get out of a restaurant on a Saturday night with great food and wine for under £40 is pretty impressive.

Two very enthusiastic thumbs up. I am really excited to have finally tried it.

Next up on our culinary tour of Glasgow: Two Fat Ladies, one of the city's top seafood restaurants.

This is my kind of spring break!

In like a lion.

2009-03-05T08:18:00.003Z

Currently, it is -1° and (ever so lightly) snowing. My poor crocuses. I'm ready for some new weather, please.

There are only two weeks of teaching left in the term (didn't it just start?), which also means that there are only two weeks of teaching left in the whole of my Master's program. It is slightly overwhelming. After March 16th, it's just independent work time, and I have from March 16 - August 11 to churn out 25,000 words of a creative dissertation.

However, that creative dissertation won't get written next week; Gabriella lands here in Glasgow on Saturday morning! Which means next week will be filled with pubs and cafes and walks and lots and lots of cooking, and probably not so much with close readings of Kundera. Which is fine by me.

If can't find black spaghetti though, a huge kink will be thrown into my cooking plans.

I'm getting entirely too big a kick out of following Ryan Seacrest on my Twitter.

Just about a month now until I'm home. Mark your calendars: April 3 - 19.

Say cheese, Glasgow.

2009-03-01T14:07:00.026Z

It was a nice day yesterday. Nice is a Glaswegian word for "not raining." Because it was "nice," I took the opportunity to go for a long walk with my friends Beyonce, Kelly Clarkson, and Jennifer Hudson. I also brought my camera.

As always, clicking on the image will bring it into its full, high-res glory.

The Islay, our pub on the corner. A good, friendly, cheap place, just stumbling distance from the flat.

My local coffee shop (Beanscene) and chippy (Cafe Orlando).

No one in Scotland seems to understand the function of the apostrophe. Cafe Orlando is no exception. Another Cafe Orlando fun fact: in true weegie style, they offer to deep fry everything, from Mars bars to pizzas.

Glasgow has a basketball team! Perhaps I'll start going to games to fill the void left by not being able to watch the NCAA tournament.

Spring is almost here! Crocuses on the lawn of the Kelvingrove!

Scots are never deterred by weather. You can sit outside at a cafe all winter when they provide blankets.

Naughty litter in the West End.

I am well aware that my campus is beautiful.

Gibson Street, another great West End drag filled with cafes and bars and restaurants. The Left Bank has quickly become one of my favorite spots.

If I could find a souvenir

Just to prove the world was here...

You've gotta love the big advertisement for premium imports...

Sadly, this is not a place to find cheesesteaks, Tastykake, scrapple, water ice, or Yuengling. It is just another Glasgow take-away that has a bad case of apostrophe-itis.

High five!

A look down Great Western Road, one of the main arteries of the West End. Stay on Great Western Road headed west, and it will take you all the way up to Fort William and the Highlands.

Even traffic signs are polite.

Fooled you! This is not another picture of a church. It is Oran Mor, which was a church, but is now a bar and nightclub. While last call at pubs and bars is midnight here, Oran Mor is open until 3am, so on a Friday or Saturday night at 12:30am, it feels like the entire West End is there.

Parked across the street from Oran Mor, at the intersection of Byres and Great Western Road, the Maggie is a late-night West End institution for all things unhealthy and stomach-coating. Their crown jewel is the Scoobie Snack: a burger, bacon, sausage, cheese, a fried egg, and a potato scone on a roll. I never have (and hopefully never will) consumed one, but I'm always in awe of the people who do. And pity their arteries. Though nothing hits the spot like Maggie's chips and cheese with brown sauce after a night on the tiles. Proof once again that no matter the country, a food truck is always the way to go.

And thus concludes your March 2009 Glasgow Photo Tour.

Tale from the Pony Express

2009-02-28T11:21:00.002Z

This morning's mail call was the worst kind of publishing fake-out.

Sitting on the kitchen counter for me when I stumbled into the kitchen to make my coffee were two envelopes: one from my bank (most likely yelling at me to stop buying plane tickets) and one from a magazine whose short fiction competition I entered last month, with a prize of £2,000.

*cue heart pounding*

*cue palms sweating*

Way back in high school, the college application process instilled in me that that thin envelopes are bad (since it only takes a single sheet of paper to reject someone) and thick envelopes are good. Today's envelope was medium-sized. There were clearly multiple sheets of paper in there.

I tried to wait until I was back in my room to rip it open, but only made it as far as the kitchen door.

...and it was a subscription advertisement.

Far too dramatic a way to begin a lazy Saturday.

Ridic.

2009-02-27T16:27:00.002Z

This is a new low for the airline industry: Ryanair considers charging passengers to pee.

It makes easyJet look like Emirates.

And people ask me why I don't like flying the big yellow plane.

Dumplings, steamed buns, shrimp balls, oh my!

2009-02-27T08:19:00.008Z

There are times when I love Glasgow so much that I can never see myself leaving, despite the rain and the wind and the stink and the impenetrable accent.

Then there are times when I think that if I'm away from Philadelphia for one second longer, I'll go crazy.

Strangely (fatly?) enough, most of those moments revolve around food. Mainly Mexican and Asian. Within the American expat community in the UK, Mexican food is a holy grail and has taken on mythical status. It does not exist here. There are no local burritos joints, food trucks, taquerias, nada. There are a couple restaurants that call themselves "Mexican," but aren't (they serve tapas. Or fish and chips). And then there's the so called "Mexican" store, which got me really excited when I first moved here, because I thought that if couldn't go buy a burrito, I could at least make one. Except the store isn't so much Mexican as it is a place to buy down-home American goods (Betty Crocker cake mix, A&W Rootbeer, or a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch for £7), with some Spanish spices and cans of Jumex lying about. Not really a south of the border culinary one-stop.

Additionally depressing is the lack of Asian food. Most important though is that "Asian" here isn't "Asian" at home. I hear Asian and think Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Southeast Asian. In the UK, "Asian" is Indian. Pakistani. Bangladeshi. Technically correct, but confusing when it comes to asking about restaurants. And there are no good Chinese, Japanese, Korean, etc, restaurants in Glasgow. There's a trendy Korean place near me that's decent, but it's also expensive. That's the problem. All the Asian (C/J/K/SEA) here is expensive. I miss great little neighborhood Chinese places. Cheapy Pho. DIM SUM.

This is not a disorganized rant though. It is a dim sum-specific longing, all brought about by a weekend restaurant discussion over email with my dad. There is (was?) a little down and dirty Chinese restaurant in Philadelphia with not only the best dim sum I've ever had, but some of the best food, period. Lakeside Chinese Deli, at 9th and Race in Chinatown. It is neither a deli nor next to a lake. It's outside sign was smashed. The specials were handwritten and taped on the wall in cardboard. You wondered if the health inspector had ever paid it at visit (clearly, they hadn't). There were maybe ten tables, tops, covered in dingy, plastic tablecloths. The food was heavenly and two people could not only eat, but completely stuff their faces for well under $20 total, tax, tip, everything.

I read a rumor recently that Lakeside closed, and it hurt my little foodie heart. Not only was the food amazing, but the woman who owned it was a gem. While I know there are lots of great Chinese places on the same block as Lakeside in Philly's Chinatown, it was hands-down my favorite of restaurants of any food persuasion in any city. It was that good. If the rumor is true, it's a sad reality for dim sum.

I love Glasgow, but I miss living in a good food town. Paris would do though. I'm not sure about the burrito, but I can safely say I had one of the best Thai meals of my life in a little place on a side street in the 11^e, with sticky rice that I still daydream about, so I know that if when I move to the City of Light, I'm covered.

Thanks to http://flickr.com/photos/greyton/ for the image!

Hungry.

2009-02-25T23:21:00.003Z

Glasgow needs a Chipotle.

If I was a businesswoman, I'd franchise one and make bajillions of pounds. But I'm not a businesswoman, so for now, I must suffer without.

Dear People In The States,

Please send guac.

Love,

Me

2009-02-25T22:47:00.005Z

After a week of mild temperatures and sunny skies, dismal rain and insane wind has returned to Glasgow. Maybe not as dismal as in weeks past, but in comparison to the how nice it's been recently, the damp just sucks. And that is my most eloquent assessment of the situation.

I've got about four weeks to go until my Big March Trip '09. On the surface, it's a week in Belgium and then two weeks back Stateside. In reality, it's a very long initial day of travel (Glasgow to Paris, connecting in Amsterdam, and then a seven hour layover in Paris, before a train trip to Mons), followed by a train trip back to Paris the following week, a Paris-Dulles flight, then my two weeks back home, and then a ridiculous trip back to Scotland, that sees me going Dulles-Paris, Paris-Amsterdam, Amsterdam-Glasgow. It is a ridiculous, ridiculous string of connections, but this is what happens when I booked the whole trip under one big multi-city ticket for cheap with the fine folks at Orbitz.

The trip is especially on my mind today because of this morning's plane crash in Amsterdam. Just last night, in a burst of airplane geekery (which I have relatively often) I was jotting down on my itinerary the models of planes I'm flying for each leg of the journey, and got (again, geekily) excited that my AMS-CDG flight is on a B737-800, which I don't get to fly on frequently. I normally end up on the older model 737s without the pretty little winglets. But anyway, the Turkish Airlines flight was indeed a 737-800. I realize there is zero correlation between the tragic Turkish flight today and my flight next month. Hundreds upon thousands of 737s of all generations must go in and out of Schiphol everyday. And safely. But still. Flight itself isn't logical. Why should I be? I feel it's okay for me to be momentarily irrational in situations like these.

But let's face it. All of this talk of airplanes and weather is just a stalling tactic on my part. The gods of motivation have not been kind to me during Term Two and it's harder and harder to focus. Apparently though it's a disease that's contagious, because friends in postgrad programs across the spectrum are reporting the same kind of academic burnout and lethargy lately. I think that's what happens when you cram a program that should be two or three years long into one tiny 12 month period. You hit late February and want to close the laptop and just go lie on a beach.

I am being an especially bad academic this week. I signed up for a conference in Belfast next weekend, checking off the "pay upon arrival" option, and then forgot to book a flight or a hotel room. Now the flights are expensive and I have no desire to go to Northern Ireland in a few days. I am playing conference hooky. Shameful, I know.

No mushy peas?

2009-02-23T14:12:00.005Z

The weather this week continues to be lovely: mid-50°s and sunny, though as I type, the clouds are rolling in. Still, the sense that spring is coming is definitely present and crocuses (croci? Croqui?) are all over the park. It makes life here so much more pleasant.

Gym culture here in the UK is just strange compared to the US. For as much crap as people give us for being one of the fattest nations on earth, we're also some of the most gym-obsessed and we don't mess around when it comes to working out. It's not quite the same level of hardcore here, and I still can't get over the fact that the majority of women I see at the gym (women in their 20s, mainly) working out in non-workout clothes. Some of them work out in regular bras, tank tops that you'd wear as clothing, and some kind of non-workout pants. I'm not being judgey; it genuinely looks uncomfortable. The concept of "girls sports" is definitely not the same here as it is in the States, where we've made sure to work the hell out of Title IX and large percentages of girls and women are big time athletes. It's just a different mentality with women and working out. You work out because it's "healthy." It has nothing to do with sports. It's weird.

On the most un-gymmy note ever: Walkers' new Fish & Chips flavored crisps are disgusting. And I am normally all about my flavored crisps. Give me ketchup, prawn cocktail, roast chicken, cheese and onion, or grilled steak, and I'm a happy camper. But these are just horrible! They're part of the new "Vote for Your Favorite" of six new varieties that Walkers has rolled out. To be fair, I haven't tried any of the others to see if they are equally as disgusting. And the Cajun Squirrel flavor is for real. It is safe to say that as curious as I am about it, I'm not curious enough to actually try it. Maybe one night after last call at the pub, Cajun Squirrel crisps will seem like a good idea, but right now I think I'll pass.

I really like Kelly Clarkson's new album. Two very enthusiastic thumbs up.

2009-02-20T16:19:00.005Z

The tree outside of my window is apparently blooming. It's February. Is this normal for this time of year in Glasgow or is it just God huggin' us closer?

Schrier, out!

2009-02-20T12:07:00.004Z

Today is the first Friday in a very long time that I've had nothing due. Not even a short assignment. It's a very strange sense of freedom, and I've celebrated in the most lazy of ways by sleeping in, sitting in my pajamas all morning, and slowly consuming a pot of coffee. I normally have a rule that on days I don't have class, I still have to be "up and dressed" by 9am. But it's been a grueling second term so far, and so I'm allowing myself a pass today.

In another episode of The Continuing Expansion of Genevieve's Cultural Knowledge, I'm attending my first ever Fassenacht party this evening, which seems to be kind of like German Mardi Gras. I was told I had to wear a costume.

On a far more serious note, I hadn't realized until coming to Scotland just how big the whole Catholic/Protestant divide is. There are times here when it feels like it's this mythical thing that people allude to, and other times it actually feels like the 1960s in the south. Because the religious split is the main form of prejudice in Scotland. People might say, "Scots don't like the Asian immigrants!" but that's really quite small. What it is in Scotland is that Protestants don't like Catholics and Catholics don't like Protestants, and everyone talks about it. It is a big deal here to be Catholic. To the point where I am slightly uncomfortable thinking about walking home from Mass on Wednesday evening with ashes on my forehead. I'm probably completely blowing it all out of proportion. However, after last week's Old Firm match, Rangers fans are being accused by the SPL of singing sectarian chants towards Celtic, with a possible fine or points-docking for the club, it's in my mind again just how big a deal it is. It's just mindboggling that there is so much outward bigotry. In the States, we cover it all up under veils of political correctness! Racism and prejudice behind closed doors only!

On a far less serious note, I've found I can stream TV from the States and watch American Idol LIVE, which means that A) I will not be subject to evil spoilers on the internet, and B) I am very, very tired the next day. But it is oh so worth it.

Tuesday.

2009-02-17T09:33:00.006Z

Walking to my neighborhood Tesco Express yesterday afternoon, I realized that there were three

new cafe/restaurant/bars on the section of Argyle Street, in between my street and the PC World (why can't the rest of the world use the all-encompassing "Resto-bar" like the Quebecois do?). I haven't even made a dent in most of the older places yet, let alone some of these shiny new ones.

Credit crunch, my foot. Glasgow's West End is still hopping.

Oh, Baxter, you are my little gentleman. I'll take you to foggy London town...

2009-02-16T13:02:00.010Z

Since it seems impossible for me to stay still, this weekend was a quick jaunt down to London. A 6:30am flight down to Heathrow on Saturday morning, then a 6pm train back up on Sunday. Blink, and you miss it. Still, the change of scenery is always nice.

I like London. A lot. The problem is that I don't like it as much as I like Paris. One of the reasons that I love Paris (oh why, oh why do I love Paris?) so much is because it is a ridiculous city. It is a city that operates on pure emotion and passion and romanticism. It's not always logical. It's not always convenient. But I get that, because I am rarely logical or convenient. I like the ridiculousness of Paris, how everything must be beautiful and delicious. In London, things are much more reserved and British. Which is fine. That can be good too. But when comparing the two major world cities, I do prefer Paris. And if I am going to spend ungodly amounts of money to live in one of them, it's going to be Paris. Bang for your buck. Euphoria for your euro.

Not that I'm moving to Paris. I'm not. I'm just saying.

We learned that if you walk around the Harrod's food hall on Valentine's Day (and maybe this is every day, I don't really know), you can receive many, many free chocolate samples. They also were peddling macarons samples, and while they weren't Keebler cookies, they were just okay. Maybe they would have been great had I not just had Gerard Mulot macarons last month. I was left unimpressed and unwilling to pay for prepackaged, not freshly-baked ones.

(This was not supposed to turn into a LONDON vs. PARIS, ULTIMATE SHOWDOWN. I love London! I do! I just love Paris more. Also, I fear this entire blog is shifting from "GENEVIEVE IS GETTING HER MASTER'S IN CREATIVE WRITING IN GLASGOW," and turning into "1,001 REASONS GENEVIEVE LOVES PARIS." Which is bad. The blogosphere is completely oversaturated with blogs of expats in Paris. Not that there's a dearth of blogs of whiny grad students abroad either, but still.)

We went out for dinner on Saturday night, to a nice little place near our hostel in Kensington. I had lamb, and it was excellent. So was the Chilean cab. The food and the wine on Saturday night were two huge pluses of the trip!

From this weekend:

Sunrise over the Midlands from 37,000 feet.

Myself, K, and J in front of the Victoria Fountain.

Look kids, it's Big Ben.

It is in the 50°s here today, and while I am thankful for the mild temperature, there is something about the air and the gray and the wind today that feels like Ocean City in late October and it's making me a little homesick.

The weather outside is frightful...

2009-02-04T23:08:00.002Z

So well into Term 2, we finally received our grades for our Term 1 portfolios today. It's a bit nervewracking, to have my entire grade for my first two classes be decided by one large piece of work. I did pretty well: a 17 (B1) for one and a 15 (B3) for the other. And I have to say, I'm thrilled. Grading here isn't like in the States. "A" grades are very seldom given out (I've heard rumors of entire classes of no one receiving anything in the "A" category), so to get a mark at the top of the "Bs" is pretty damn good. That puts me in the "upper second class honors" range for now, which I can definitely live with, and also makes it possible for me to still confidently apply for PhD programs.

It's been a snowy week here on this side of the pond. Perhaps you've seen the reports on the news of the snow that's costing the government over £5 billion? The reports of the UK's death have been greatly exaggerated. 6 - 8 inches of snow does not a blizzard make. Here in Glasgow, it's been very snowy for the past few days, but random bursts of sun and rain keep making it disappear. Only to have it start snowing again.

Still, campus in the snow looks eerily like Hogwarts. Or more so than campus usually does.

Also, I'm out of my favorite chapstick and also need to take the GREs, so I'm heading back stateside for two weeks in April. It just so happens I'll be back for Easter, Passover, the NHL playoffs, and the start of the MLB season. In between test-taking and chapstick purchasing, I plan to attend many sporting events and eat a lot. Who needs Cancun when you can hit up the Baltimore suburbs? And I am not being sarcastic.

From Russia, without love.

2009-02-01T17:31:00.004Z

We are fulfilling our civic duty as Americans tonight and heading down to the Sports Cafe on Sauchiehall to watch the Superbowl. Only I could not care less about it. I may be a superjock, but I cannot seem to scrounge up an ounce of emotion about this game. And to make matters more bleak, while we'll get the Fox feed of the actual game, they don't show the commercials. What is the point of the Superbowl without commercials?!

I am however digging the dijon dressing I made for my spinach salad.

Also, it is freezing out. Arctic air is blowing in from Moscow, making things here in Glasgow rather unpleasant.

A lovely cheese pizza, just for me.

2009-01-29T22:14:00.004Z

Best way to beat poverty, pizza-style?

Take one plain cheese, frozen pizza. My favorite is the £1 one from Iceland, because it's the closest thing I've found in the UK to Ellio's. Add baby spinach, red onion, crumbled feta, and drizzle a little extra virgin olive oil on it. Bake it normally. It is so insanely good that you will temporarily forget that your student loan checks for the semester haven't cleared yet! It fills the void left by not having the money to eat at Pizza Express for now.

The new student union building, the HUB, opened on campus the other week, complete with big, open, airy cafeteria area, and two new cafes. They have crazy student discounts, powerpoints at a lot of the tables, and are open until the evening. Two very enthusiastic thumbs up to the university for actually having a cheap and quality place to get hot food during the cold, rainy Glasgow days. The university has done something right!

Word on the street is that we may be getting a new flatmate, this time a German, as Indian Flatmate² moved out last week. He was the second occupant this year in that room. We can't keep anyone there; it's become the Defense Against the Dark Arts teaching job of Flat 1/2. However, if the German moves in, I think it will be a good fit. He seemed very eager to be both clean and quiet. If he does move in, we will be two Americans, an Indian, a Russian, and a German.

The nice weather yesterday has confused the tree outside my window into sprouting something that almost looks like early spring buds. Silly tree. It's still January, though finally, it's staying light until 4pm these days. Remind me of my complaints regarding the dark when it's July and the sun is staying up until 11pm.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot...

2009-01-26T00:57:00.003Z

In honor of my first ever Burns Night Supper:

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

...I thought it would be a lot of fun (which it was!) and a lovely dinner party (which it was!), but my favorite part of Burns Night? The fireworks over George Square.

Imagine being a writer who 250 years later is still celebrated yearly with food, drinking, and fireworks? I don't think it gets much better than that.

Most importantly? I GOT TO CUT THE HAGGIS! This is apparently a big deal.

Overall, a wonderful first Burns Night Supper.

We twa hae run about the braes...

2009-01-25T11:54:00.005Z

Term 2 in Glasgow has been flying by. It's already almost February, which just feels astounding when the due date for my dissertation is August 11. Six months (and change) seems like a lot, but in reality, I don't think it's very much time at all. Especially when there's a giant question mark that follows it and the possibility of having to leave Glasgow. Which I don't want to do.

Today is a very special occasion indeed: the 250th anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns! There have been festivities going on here in Glasgow for the past two weeks, but tonight is the official night. I have an invite to my first ever Burns Supper, which (from what I gather) consists of haggis, neeps and tatties, lots of drinking, lots of recitation of Burns' works, lots more drinking, and well, more drinking. The Scots are quite big on their drinking. But whisky aside, I'm pretty excited. A more or less national holiday for a writer? Involving lots of food and drinking? This country's got it right, I tell you.

So I spent my day in the library yesterday doing research, and one of the books in the impossibly large pile on my study carrel was a collection of Zora Neale Hurston's letters. I was pretty psyched about tackling it, until I opened the book:

Tell me what's wrong with this picture.

I feel like this only happens in the Glasgow Uni library. I feel like soon I'm going to start opening books with all blank pages. For £9,000 a year in tuition, I feel like I should be entitled to some damn numerals. Is that too much to ask?

It is raining today. I finally did the math on it, and found that Glasgow average almost 80 inches of rain a year. Seattle only averages about 40 inches. That, my friends, is a lot of rain.

Don't like the weather? Wait thirty seconds...

2009-01-18T13:18:00.009Z

It is snowing here in Glasgow!

Not only is this a rare occasion (the west coast of Scotland is much warmer than the east, but far, far wetter), but it's a cool one to have happen on a Sunday afternoon. My university-run apartment complex is for international postgrads, and so it's as close as you can get to being the Olympic Village without a McDonald's. With the exception of a handful (albeit a big handful) of Americans and Canadians, most of the "international" come from really far away countries. India, Nigeria, Malaysia, Pakistan. Countries where it doesn't snow. So the snow starts falling, and suddenly, you see all the windows in the courtyard open and cameras poke out from behind the glass. People start to congregate in the doorways to watch. It's an event.

Personally? I'm just happy I don't have a car to scrape. Though I doubt I'd even have to. These are humongous, wet snowflakes, almost like feathers.

...and just as soon as it starts, it's already switching back to rain and the sun is coming out. Glasgow, I'd expect nothing less from you.

It's been a busy two weeks that haven't seen a blog update from me. London. Then Paris. Then the start of term. I think there are probably worse things to complain about. Feeling completely overwhelmed with the start of Term 2 (which I am feeling -- completely overwhelmed) because I was hanging in Paris for the start of the winter Soldes, when all the shops have their massive sales? It's a bit of a self-inflicted wound, so I'll stop whining about being completely behind and just shut my mouth and get to reading Kafka. Yay.

Paris II was a most excellent trip for me and Gabriella (whose birthday it is today -- HAPPY BIRTHDAY!). Though a cold one, with temperatures being the coldest in Europe in decades. It limited the amount that we could just stroll, but regardless, we had a great time. We had excellent meals (both French and Thai), got into the Louvre for the evening for €6 total (not per person), visited the hauntingly beautiful Église St-Etienne-du-Mont (where the tomb of Ste. Geneviève is located), and got turned down by a homeless man with a "J'AI FAIM" sign, who snubbed his nose and shook his head at the ever-so slightly-smushed croissant I offered him.

...Gabriella at the top of one of the sets of escaliers de Montmartre.

The rest of the pictures from the trip are here, and Paris, far and away, remains my favorite spot on the planet. Though to be fair, I haven't seen all the spots on the planet.

It's a bit hard to believe that I'm already in the second term of the school year. A one-year Master's program isn't a great idea, kiddies. Trying to cram two years of work into just one? We're almost in February and my dissertation is due on August 11th. I think the plan for now is that the second I turn it in, I'll go head somewhere for a few weeks. I want to go completely off the grid, maybe get a villa on the Amalfi Coast that has no phone and no internet and just hang out there until it's time to go rejoin the real world again. So if anyone has any rich uncles or benefactors with a spare ocean-front property in Positano? Point them in my direction, please.

I love living in Glasgow, but the crappiness of the weather is really wearing on me. I swear I'm applying for PhD programs in the deep south and the deep south only. Somewhere with almost-perpetual sunshine and heat. I need it after the daily hurricanes that western Scotland has to offer.

(Forget I mentioned snow; it's now blindingly sunny and the skies are blue.)

And because I feel guilty for not blogging in so long, as a peace offering, I coming bearing Ghetto Superstar from the steps of the Sacre Coeur.

The little steam engine that couldn't...

2009-01-02T15:36:00.002Z

I'm back in the U.K., and shamefully (from a blogging perspective) have been for about a week now.

Currently, I'm on a National Express train, heading from Glasgow to London. Free wifi is a fabulous thing, especially for a six hour train journey. Free wifi, power ports, booze on board... it doesn't get much better.

Except, it does. Today's train ride is brought to you by the letters "U" and "SUCKNATIONALEXPRESS."

Situation: a small plane crashed in Staffordshire. On the line. The small plane crashed on the train line, making all the west coast line trains (which are the ones running from Glasgow down to London) canceled. So all passengers on those trains were stuck on our east coast Glasgow to London line. Which was already an overbooked train. This is not the part that is National Express' fault. They cannot help the plane crash. But they can help canceling all reservations, which means that all the assigned seats are no longer assigned. It became an everyman for himself situation. Which again, we were all fine with in Glasgow. Because half of us didn't have seats, and were thrilled to be told we could sit down. I was one of those who without the canceling of reservations, would have been sitting on the ground outside the toilets for six hours.

But they didn't tell the people getting on at Edinburgh. Which seemed to be the entire population of Edinburgh. So you've got loads and loads of people overflowing on a train, people sitting in other people's reserved seats (which are no longer reserved), and it's just a mess. An absolute mess. People are angry and cursing and it's really, really unpleasant.

(I must pause to say that I'm currently about 50 feet from the North Sea, and as always, it's spectacular. I love the east coast train line down to London.)

(I must pause again to say that while the North Sea is on my left, the sun is setting on my right. Oh, United Kingdom, you are a gorgeous beast, even if all your shops are still closed on January 2nd.)

But that is my current status quo. I'm on a very crowded train.

It's been a busy week, post-USA. In that time I have:

Suffered some pretty wicked jetlag;
Done a freezing day in Edinburgh with Gabriella;
Done a terrifying ghost tour in Edinburgh that had us almost in tears;
Put Gabriella on a plane (well, replacement bus to the airport, as the trains from Central weren't running) to Holland;
Started submitting more writing to mags and journals;
Spent the weekend with Mom and Tom in Glasgow;
Celebrated my first Hogmanay in Scotland -- Happy New Year!
Recovered from my first Hogmanay in Scotland. They definitely don't mess around here about their New Year's festivities;
Mistakenly set my alarm for 7:30am instead of 8:30am, depriving myself of a much needed extra hour of sleep. New Year's Resolution: LEARN TO TELL TIME.

...and that takes me up to just about now, to sitting on this train. I really would like to get up, but am terrified of losing my seat, so there's a chance I will not use the bathroom between here (still about an hour north of Newcastle) and London, where I don't even know if I have 30p for the superloo at King's Cross.

Still, paying to urinate aside, I'm so happy to be back in the UK.

Though I leave it next week again.

For Paris!

Despair in the Departure Lounge...

2008-12-10T14:28:00.002Z

Location: Heathrow

On the final hour of my four-hour layover before I board to head to Dulles. As much as I DREAD the long plane flight, especially westbound because it's during the day, they just made an announcement for an Air New Zealand flight, that has a stopover in LA, and oh man, I don't know how those people do it. That must be like 24 hours of flying. UGH. I'll try not to complain about my transatlantic jaunt.

I ran into a girl from my program at Glasgow Airport, and it turns out she was on my same flight to London (she's from Toronto and was connecting at Heathrow as well). It's so rare that I travel with people, that's it's always nice to do it. Of course, she ended up having to change to Terminal 3 (I'm a Terminal 1 kinda gal), so I did NOT have company for my long layover.

I'm trying desperately to keep myself distracted so I don't run into the French Connection store and drop £93 on a dress. It is so very tempting. So far, I've behaved and kept myself in check though.

It was a clear day for flying down the west coast of the UK. The pictures I took from 30,000 feet don't lie. I would share them with you, but apparently £5 per hour for internet here at the airport isn't enough to give you enough juice to upload images. T-Mobile, you suck!

Talk to you again from Eastern Standard Time!

Coming to America

2008-12-08T13:35:00.003Z

I am going home in two days! How is this possible? I feel like I just got here!

To be fair though, it's not like Christmas break is the halfway point. I'm actually going to be headed back just two days shy of my three month Glasgaversary. But still. I feel like I just got here!

I'm charging my U.S. cell phone in preparation for it being used again, which is just weird. It feels so clunky and old compared to my U.K. one. The battery was almost dead, from when I used it like crazy during Travelgate '08, and spent an entire afternoon and evening on the phone with my sister, parents, US Air, parents again, US Air again, parents, US Air, sister, parents, US Air, roughly in that order when they kept canceling and uncanceling my flight. So it's getting all charged up again, and I got really curious about how many bajillion voicemails I'd have when turned it on in the States again (there's no Verizon service in the U.K., at least not for me, maybe for rich and fancy people). And so I burned like 3¢ on Skype to call myself and find out.

And... ZERO. No voicemails! How anticlimactic!

Since tomorrow is a crazy busy day, with two classes in the afternoon/evening, followed by Christmas drinks with my classmates, I'm starting to pack today. This is early for me. Normally I don't pack until right before I leave, but since I have to head out at like 8:30am on Wednesday morning, I didn't feel like getting up at 5am to pack, and inevitably forgetting something important. Like my house keys, which I just snagged from their super secret hiding place (where they live with my passport and visa documents). It's weird looking at my house keys. And I got all nostalgic looking at my little keychain library card that's with them.

Then it hit me: I don't remember returning the last batch of library books I had from before I left.

So now I'm worried that I'm going to owe Howard County Library like $100 in overdue fees. Which is a bummer if it's true and I did indeed forget.

On another note, I think I might be a conflicted lunatic. On hand, I'm incredibly sad reading about the 100,000 Irish pigs that have to be culled because apparently they're contaminated. My heart aches for all the gentle little Wilburs. And then on the other hand, I just think BACON, and daydream about diner food this weekend. This might officially make me a monster.

T-minus 60 hours till I'm Stateside!

...because we only get seven hours of sunlight a day now.

2008-12-06T18:21:00.004Z

Today was a rare, gorgeous day in Glasgow. Not just a nice day (which is any day where it's not raining), but a bonafide spectacular one. It was brilliantly clear and sunny, with temperatures in the mid-40°s. Having finished the last of my big assignments for the term last night (!), I took myself out to the Kelvingrove today. It's the museum/gallery in Glasgow, only three blocks from my flat, with free admission, and shamefully, I have not yet been. So I decided to remedy that today.

And it's... nice. A bit bizarre, because I thought it was an art gallery, but it's not. It's an Everything gallery. Yes, there is art. But there's also fossils, dinosaur skeletons, the history of tartan, neolithic relics, exhibits on sectarianism in Glasgow, taxidermy, armor, Egyptian mummies, pantomime pieces, sculpture... it's all a bit thrown together. Almost comically, as if the curators raced through some warehouse of artifacts and just grabbed whatever they could off the shelves and threw them into their shopping cart during some bizarre form of a supermarket dash for museums. Nothing really goes together, it's just like, "LOOK AT ALL THESE OLD, SIGNIFICANT THINGS!" And the art collection was nice, but small. The big piece that the Kelvingrove houses is Dali's "Christ of Saint John of the Cross." And that was nice. That's the thing. The Kelvingrove is nice. The exterior and interior architecture are gorgeous. But it is not a core-shaking, life-changing museum.

So I learned a valuable lesson today: don't go to any other art gallery in the same week that you've visited the Musee d'Orsay, because unless it's the Louvre, MoMA, National Gallery, or Hermitage, you will probably be very disappointed.

I had brought some schoolwork with me, and after I was done, I popped across the street to the Beanscene to be productive (though okay, I really just wanted a slice of ginger cake, and got one under the guise of being a studious postgrad). And then when I left to head home, and the sun had gone down (which these days, is just after 3:30pm), I found that the temperature had dropped almost 15° with it. Silly me hadn't thought ahead and brought a warm enough scarf or hat, so I froze all the way home. Three blocks seem like three miles when you're really, really cold.

Now I sit here typing this with my feet up on the radiator, trying to thaw before heading out later this evening, as it's my last Saturday night in the GLA. It's bone-chilling nights like this, in the city whose latitude is higher than Moscow's, that I miss having a car with a heater.

I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles.

2008-12-01T22:20:00.039Z

Oh why, oh why do I love Paris?

The question should really be why don't I love Paris?

And the answer is: there isn't one. I cannot think of a single, solitary reason that I don't love Paris. In the freezing cold, the sleeting rain, it didn't matter. I love Paris. I LOVE PARIS! I just want to shout it from the rooftops.

Three days and two nights in La Ville-Lumiere. And it was magnificent. From my first Parisian sight -- a glimpse of Sacre Coeur as the train made its way into the city from Charles de Gaulle -- the city just had me. It felt like a sound stage, because things that I saw, things happening around me just felt so fake, like I was in a movie. Except it was real. That's Paris. The Paris that you imagine when you think of Paris, of the iron balconies, the gargoyles on Notre Dame, the old men walking home with baguettes wrapped in newspaper, the accordion buskers on Metro, lovers kissing everywhere you look, outdoor tables spilling out of cafes onto the sidewalk even in the winter... it's all real. It's all Paris. It's better than I imagined, because in my imagination, there was no way it was living up to that fantasy. Except it did. It surpassed it. Paris was just so Parisian. That romantic, idealized Paris of books and movies? Is real.

I was staying at a fantastic little hotel in the 5e, the Quartier Latin. Not fancy, but clean, comfortable, and a block from Metro. It was so comfortable that on Sunday, I overslept by over an hour, because it was so nice to sleep in a big bed after an autumn spent sleeping on a thin, twin ~~prison~~ dorm bed provided by the university in my hall. The hotel was so perfectly located, right on Boulevard St. Michel, just blocks from la Sorbonne, the Pantheon (which honors, who else but Ste. Geneviève, who saved the city from the Huns), Jardin du Luxembourg, and the Seine. It felt like the entire Left Bank was right at my feet.

It was a whirlwind trip. Short, but I squeezed a lot in. Saturday was Notre Dame (including walking the 400 steps up to the top towers and the bell for an incredible view and more incredible workout), Jardin du Luxembourg, wandering up St. Michel. Walking from the Arc de Triomphe down the Champs Elysee, all lit up for Christmas and bustling on a Saturday night, down toward Place de la Concorde.

Sunday was spent strolling Cimitiere Pere-Lachaise on a cold and rainy Sunday morning to see the graves of Oscar Wilde, Balzac, Sarah Bernhardt, Chopin, Moliere, Edith Piaf, and everyone who's anyone to ever die in Paris in the past 300 years, before getting mildly creeped out that it was my birthday and I was spending it in a cemetery! So I left the most wonderful graveyard I've ever seen, and headed back towards the 7e and the Musee d'Orsay, where I spent the following three hours with Cezanne, Monet, and a special Picasso exhibit, while avoiding the rain. Then it was a quick hop up to Montmartre as it was getting dark. A cup of vin chaud from the Christmas market behind Sacre Coeur, and spectacular views from its front steps. Next it was a wander through the Bastille, with a stop at a neighborhood boulangerie for a birthday pastry, my "birthday cake," before heading back to the hotel to wash up and change for dinner. It took an hour of wandering around both the 5e and the 6e, before deciding on a little restaurant. Restaurant? Bistro? Brasserie? I still don't know all the differences. But after a frustrating hour of Goldilocksing every restaurant (too touristy, too full, needed reservations, too trendy), I went for the place with reasonably priced duck listed on the blackboard out front, and French football on big screens inside, full seemingly of locals and not fannypack-wearing Americans and Brits. A glass of champagne (it was my birthday!), plate of tender duck and potatoes, and another glass of red wine later, and it was off for one last essential late-night birthday stop: the Eiffel Tower.

I didn't necessarily want to "do" the Eiffel Tower, but I did want to see it up close, especially at night. My Quasimodo-inspired climb up Notre Dame the day before had given me my fill of heights for the trip; I didn't really feel like shelling out €12 to take a glass elevator ride that would quite certainly result in my acrophobia kicking in and me left curled in a corner of the platform shaking and crying and sweating. I just wanted to look at the Eiffel Tower from the ground. So I got off the Metro and headed in the direction of the arrow. It was late, almost 11pm. I was exhausted from a very long day of walking and being on my feet. And I was worried about getting back to my hotel in time. And I'm walking down Quai Branly, and I start feeling annoyed. I took the train all the way out here and I can't see the tower. Which at that point, I was calling the "stupid tower, " because I was tired and cold and I had to pee after all the champagne and wine. I rounded a corner and I was angry. I couldn't see the Eiffel Tower from a distance. I'd schlepped all the way down to that part of town and now I couldn't even find the damn thing.

And then, boom. There it was. Around the corner and suddenly directly in front of my face. And then I realized: I was at the base of the thing. And it was massive and lit up blue and just spectacular. It was gorgeous. I headed across the street to a crepe stand for a late night crepe with Nutella to serve as my "birthday cake" (I'd conveniently forgotten about the first "birthday cake" I had while walking down Rue de la Roquette). That was when Paris, the City of Light, the city watched over by the saint with my same name, decided to give me a birthday present. I turned around from the crepe stand, about to bite into the gooey, chocolatey dough, and suddenly the the tower lit up.

It was a million flashing and glittering lights running up and down it, like it was a giant sparkler. It was one of the most spectacular things I'd ever seen. I hadn't planned it. I didn't even know about the light show. But there I was, standing at the base of the Eiffel Tower, on my 27th birthday, with my "birthday cake" and Paris gave me a show. It was perfect. Again, it was like some kind of scripted movie, except if it was a movie, I wouldn't have watched. It would have been entirely too cheesy: girl goes to Paris by herself, runs around the city all day, and caps it off at night on her birthday by somehow accidentally stumbling upon the Eiffel Tower's light show. It would have rated something like a 27% on RottenTomatoes. Except it was real life and my real birthday! My life, even if for one day, was movie-script cheesy!

My last day, today, was great, but in far less cheesy ways. And short, as I had a 2pm flight from Charles de Gaulle back to Glasgow. I checked out of the hotel into the rain, and found myself in the midst of "Normal Paris," which is the Paris of businessmen and students and people going about their daily lives. It was almost better than cheesy Paris, because it still felt amazing and it was so encouraging, seeing people living their normal lives in this incredible place. I hopped the Metro and headed over to the Bon Marche to not shop (racks of Zac Posen and Stella McCartney intimidated me too much to even browse and pretend; I was afraid the sales clerks would yell at me for touching the pretty clothes). And then Le Grand Epicerie, which is also known as the Greatest Food Store on the Planet, also known as Where I Want To Go When I Die. It makes Balducci's look like FoodLion. I've never seen seafood or meats or cheeses like this in my life. I've never smelled olives that were so intoxicating or seen fruit that fresh. It was unreal. But alas, with a full carryon, no bag to check, and restrictions on bringing cheeses and wine (liquid) back to the UK, I just had to stare longingly at the stinky cheeses, and move on, again, hopping on the Metro towards Place de la Madeleine, for window shopping and breakfast, halfway through which I realized that it was after 11am and my flight left at 2pm, and I had to change trains twice to even get to the RER train to take me out to the airport.

So my final memories of Paris include me being That Person sprinting through Metro tunnels and throwing herself at closing doors on trains. I also have to point out how amazingly easy and efficient the Parisian Metro is. By the end of my trip, I felt like a Metro old pro, and it came in handy when running ridiculously late for my flight. But clearly, I made the flight and made it back to Glasgow (though I did get searched by Customs when arriving in Scotland, which has never happened before, so well done me for not trying to smuggle contraband cheese back in).

I miss Paris. I mean, I really miss Paris. If I have a new life goal, it's that I'll someday live in Paris. And I realize that a lot of people say that ("What's your secret dream?" "Oh, to live in Paris!"), but I really mean it. Paris. I'm living there sometime in the not-too-distant future. I mean it.

Also, the whole myth of "IF YOU SAY SOMETHING IN FRENCH, THEY'LL HEAR HOW BAD YOUR ACCENT AND YOUR FRENCH ARE AND SWITCH TO ENGLISH!" is just that. A myth and a lie. No one switched for me. I limped through in bad French, but for the most part, understood and was understood, even if my verbs were all poorly conjugated, my grammar was all over the place, and I couldn't tell if words were masculine or feminine if they were waving letter-genitals in front of my face. And by the third day, even though it was far from good French, I was so much more comfortable speaking it, not caring if I stumbled. If I could wake up tomorrow with any super power, it would be fluency in French.

Also, Part II, I had multiple people come up to me and ask for directions! Which meant that on some level, people saw me and thought, "Oh, she lives here!", which is really the greatest compliment any traveler can receive. The best part? The first woman who stopped me? Was French! And the even better part? I was able to, without hesitation, answer her and give her directions to a point where she seemed like she really did believe me and headed off in that direction! Oh, the joys of passing!

I realize how ridiculously saccharine and glowing this all is. But I'm just bursting with love for Paris. Poor Glasgow. Poor dirty, small, smelly Glasgow. I'm being wooed. What are you going to do about it? Come on, Glasgow. Fight for me. Show me you're worth keeping around. Are you really going to let the Frenchie swoop in and steal your girl away ?

And I took pictures. Not many though. These are all worth clicking on and viewing in full size.

Jardin du Luxembourg, with the Eiffel Tower in the background and a wedding in the foreground.

The wedding with the Palais du Luxembourg as a backdrop.

Fontaine Saint Michel on Boulevard St. Michel.

Looking across the Seine from the Left Bank.

Notre Dame de Paris. With Christmas tree!

The doors of the cathedral.

Looking out like Quasimodo did over the city from the top of Notre Dame, though his view would have been sans Eiffel Tower.

Another view from one of the towers, with La Defense in the background.

Looking out from Notre Dame to Sacre Coeur and Montmartre in the north, with the help of one of Notre Dame's gargoyles. This picture is worth clicking on to see it in full-size, not to toot my own photography horn.

The top of the cathedral.

"Sanctuary! Sanctuary! Sanctuary!"

From higher up still. The very top of the towers of the cathedral. Not inteded for people with a fear of heights. Meaning, me. It was problematic for me to say the least, but I'm glad I did it.

The Pantheon, also known as the city's homage to Ste. Genevieve, for the whole stopping Atilla and his gang thing.

Is this another Puerto Rican in Paris?!

The Arc de Triomphe.

��Aux Champs-Élysées, aux Champs-Élysées... Au soleil, sous la pluie, à midi ou à minuit... Il y a tout ce que vous voulez aux Champs-Élysées...��

Oscar Wilde's grave at Pere-Lachaise. Women leave lipstick kisses on the stone, in addition to the standard flowers.

A look out towards Montmartre through the clock inside the Musee d'Orsay.

The Salle des Fetes in the Musee d'Orsay. You can actually hold events there. I just wanted to sit on the floor and stay there forever.

The main hall inside of the Musee d'Orsay.

The Christmas market behind Sacre Coeur.

Sacre Coeur.

Sacre Coeur, front on.

A blurry look down the steps of Sacre Coeur onto Paris.

A look up at Sacre Coeur from the bottom. Paris is all about steps. It's why Parisians are all in such good shape.

The Eiffel Tower, Part I.

The Eiffel Tower, Part II.

I really, really, really love Paris.

Thanksgiving.

2008-11-28T12:19:00.017Z

It is very odd for it to be Black Friday, and yet everything is normal. People have work and class, no one is out boosting the economy, it's just a normal day.

Thanksgiving was a rousing success yesterday. We had invited about 10 North Americans (and my Indian and Mauritian flatmates) over and asked them to help out with side dishes, but K (my Bostonian flatmate) and I took on the brunt of everything else that is THANKSGIVING. I tackled turkey, stuffing, and a salad; she handled desserts. And it was fabulous. Really, really fabulous.

Not to toot my own culinary horn, but the stuffing I invented? It's probably going to make appearances at future holiday meals. Yes, Virginia, it was that good. And I can't lie, the turkey wasn't second-rate either. But the food isn't the important part. Because at the end of the day, there was something so incredibly satisfying about pulling off hosting a major holiday. And to top that, about making it a real holiday for my American (and Canadian) friends here when we're all so far away from home. It didn't feel like it was a lame collection of foods and people, just because we thought we should get together for Thanksgiving. It felt like Thanksgiving. It felt like a bonafide celebration of a major holiday, and it wasn't until I went to get in bed (at 3am) that I realized that I just did Thanksgiving without my family.

That's not to say I didn't miss everyone. Because I did. But this was good too. Thanksgiving with my little expat family. I think we did America proud last night.

I also now understand the sheer terror and panic my mom and Tata seem to have whenever they throw something like this. I spent the entire day freaking out that there was no way I'd have enough food. I was worried about people being hungry, running out of meat, running out of everything. And at the end of the night, we just had way, way too much food leftover. I made three huge turkey breasts. We only got through one and a half of them. Which I think made all the boys happy when I sent them home with tupperwares full of turkey. I'm leaving for France tomorrow. I didn't want it all to go bad!

As dinner parties have a tendency to do, by the end of the night, it was just the small, core group of us left, sitting around the kitchen, talking, drinking, and picking at the food. And one of my American friends (from North Jersey) said that we will all always remember this Thanksgiving, because we'll never have another like it again. And he was right (there's a chance it choked me up a bit, but in my defense, I'd also been on my feet cooking for six hours, was disgustingly full, and 3/4 of the way through a bottle of Australian chardonnay). Family Thanksgivings will come and go, but for this being everyone's first Thanksgiving outside of the States? It was special. Really special. I'll stop before I get cornier.

But I was so thankful it ended up being a good evening. I'd been so frustrated earlier in the week, trying to shop for Thanksgiving in a country where it doesn't exist. I had to go to four shops to find fresh sage. I couldn't find cornbread (for my stuffing) anywhere, and eventually had to settle for brioche (which ended up being the BEST SUBSTITUTE EVER and from here on out, I will forever make my stuffing with brioche). And then I couldn't seem to snag a whole turkey (not a fresh one, anyway), just whole chickens, so I had to buy three humongous turkey breasts instead. I was hitting a bit of a wall, in terms of missing the States (yes, it happens!) and having a Thanksgiving away from family looming over my head. I'd been a bit bah-humbug about it all. But the turning point was in line at Woolworth's yesterday, waiting to pay for my paper plates, tupperwear, and additional cooking supplies, realizing there American kids in line behind me doing the exact same thing. Undergrads, trying to muddle their way through their first Thanksgiving away from home too. And we talked for a minute about how to cook gravy, exchanged Happy Thanksgivings, and it was a nice moment.

Still, as wonderful as last night was, I am over the moon to be going home for Christmas!

Getting ready to start cooking, early Thursday afternoon.

Trying to get into the spirit of things.

It wasn't a whole bird, but it was a hell of a lot of meat.

K prepping the apples for her delicious Apple-Walnut Crisp.

The base for my stuffing.

A bit blurry, but the turkey in the oven.

Again, blurry, but the finished turkey!

Resting turkey, with mashed potatoes and gravy on the stove.

FOOD! And that's not even everything. Notice the pack of Miller on the table -- we thought it would be appropriate, given the Americanness of the holiday. It was that or Bud; there's only so much American beer you can get over here at the corner Tesco.

My stuffing. Definitely not healthy though. Chock full of butter and buttermilk. Paula Deen would be so proud!

Myself and K at the end of the night, having changed into pajamas once everyone but a select few friends had left. Proof that if we can live together, host Thanksgiving together, and sit side by side, that all ethnic and religious groups really should be able to get along. World peace, ACC-style!

It was a most auspicious occasion indeed; even the legendary fox of Kelvinhaugh Gate made a Thanksgiving appearance! I like to pretend he's a magical fox. Though he's a bit of a rude one; we tossed food down to him and he ignored it, and just went sniffing around in the trash. Who turns down my turkey? I mean, really now.

Overall? A phenomenal holiday!

And now I pack because I have a morning flight to Paris tomorrow!

Frequent flier miles.

2008-11-25T10:09:00.002Z

I am very, very excited because we have a guest speaker tonight for class, and it's Marina Lewycka, who wrote A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian! We've had a bunch of guest speakers this term, but no prominent, modern novelists. Especially not ones I actually LIKE! So I am happy and looking forward to class!

This weekend is my Paris trip. Three days and two nights in the City of Light to mark my entrance into the world 27 years ago. I'm over the moon that I'm going, but I really wish it wasn't going to be the worst Parisian weather weekend ever while I'm there. Freezing cold and raining. Sound familiar? I don't mind the cold, but it would be nice to have a respite from the rain for even a couple days.

Next term (and summer), I'd like to try to hit the following locations: Florence, Vienna, Krakow, Ljubljana, Copenhagen, Barcelona, Budapest, Stockholm, Prague, and Berlin. I realize that maybe only two or three of these will be possible, but a girl can dream, can't she? RyanAir, with its £10 flights, makes traveling so easy here.

We are hosting a Thanksgiving here at my flat for a bunch of other Americans (and my Indian and Russian flatmates). It's potluck, so there's not too much stress involved for me, but I'm on turkey duty, so I'm a tad bit nervous. And I'm nervous about relinquishing culinary control. If I had it my way (and had both the financial and kitchen resources), I'd love to do Thanksgiving 100% myself. But I'm poor and have no pots/pans/utensils. So potluck it is.

I fly back to the States two weeks from tomorrow. In someways, it feels like I just left, and I think it's because my core group of friends ended up being American (there are so many Americans in both my housing complex and my program). So I don't feel very removed. Though I do feel removed from Chipotle. And Target.

Paris, je t'aime (I hope).

2008-11-19T00:29:00.003Z

Who is going to Paris next weekend for her birthday?

THIS GIRL IS!!!!!!!!!!!!

Those exclamation points don't do my excitement justice!

2008-11-16T15:07:00.002Z

Glasgow is one of those places where the weather is so bad that on days when it is not raining, that automatically signals Glaswegians to live it up like it's summer.

Case in point: all the people wearing shorts and t-shirts today. The high (the high!) is 9°C (or 48°F for the uninitiated). It's not exactly balmy and tropical. But it isn't raining. And the sun is out. Therefore, SHORTS!

Mockery aside, it's lovely out. But it's strange to have it so lovely out at 3pm and to know that all that loveliness will be gone in about an hour's time. Since I live more or less up at the North Pole where there is 1.5 hours of sun each day.

Boo.

2008-11-11T17:53:00.004Z

I really like living in Scotland. It's a wonderful place full of wonderful people.

But I am sick today.

And all I want is some GD chicken noodle soup and crackers. I'm not even shooting for the moon here by thinking I should be so lucky to find chicken and stars. I just want chicken noodle soup.

Tesco?

Has neither.

No chicken noodle. There is chicken and vegetables. There is chicken broth. There is cock-a-leekie, which has (in addition to a funny name) chicken, carrots, and rice. But no chicken noodle.

The crackers didn't exist in any form. PRINGLES was the closest I could find to crackers. No saltines. No Triscuits. No Ritz. They just didn't have crackers.

So the moral of the story is that tonight, when I am sick, I really miss being in the States.

The end.

(Don't) stop this train...

2008-11-10T22:32:00.007Z

The days have started to get incredibly short here in Glasgow, and it's now pretty much dark by 4pm. It takes some adjustment, but isn't as bad as I thought it was going to be.

I was down in London this weekend, which was fabulous and made me momentarily pause and want to scream, "AFTER GRADUATION, I AM SO MOVING DOWN HERE!", because hello, it's London. But when I got back to Glasgow, I had this great feeling of being home. And it was a really nice thing to feel. And made not feel as desperate to move to London.

Oh, silly Glasgow, with your bad weather, insane football teams, unintelligible accent, crack-laced soft drink, smelly air, archaic subway system, and your Neds. I heart you. I really do, Glasgow. You and I will be friends for a very long time.

But back to London. I flew down and then took the train back up from King's Cross. And I love King's Cross. Mainly because it's so historic and you feel like you can see Mrs. Pevensie waving goodbye to her children during WWII as she loads them onto a train to send them away from London and the Blitz. But really, because of Harry Potter. It would be a total lie if I said I didn't get minorly giddy being in the station. I play it cool and don't go running over to Platform 9 3/4, but the Superdork part of me is always on guard, looking around and listening, just in case.

ALSO, I very much had a HPCOS moment there (albeit in the tube station and not the main rail station) when I went thump into the barrier at the exit and couldn't get through. Except it wasn't because of magic. I just hadn't put enough money on my card. Sorry, Dobby.

The train ride up from London to Glasgow is fantastic. It cuts straight up through Peterborough, then into Yorkshire and York, before continuing up to Newcastle, where it cuts across the Tyne on a high bridge where you can see all the other bridges, and then follows the coast for about an hour or so. And I mean "follows the coast" in the most literal sense. The rail is on a cliff overlooking the North Sea. It is spectacular.

And so I took pictures:

Somewhere in Yorkshire.

The North Sea. This photo does not do it justice.

Back in Scotland.

So it's a six hour train journey, but a really beautiful six hours. Plus, on trains in the UK, they have free wifi, and you are free to eat and drink it up. The cafe car has a bar and hot food, and you can bring your own booze, as I happily learned when a stag party got on and invaded my car in Edinburgh and I spent the rest of the journey to Glasgow sipping champagne with them.

On a slightly different topic, you know what's incredibly underrated? CABBAGE. It gets no love. But really, it should. A little extra virgin olive oil, garlic, lemon juice, and onion sauteed with the cabbage? Delish!

This is our now...

2008-11-05T22:41:00.003Z

The election came and went, and we are still standing.

As a nation.

I, however, am not so much.

As late as it was for Americans, add five hours to that. And you'll get an idea of what we were dealing with here. California didn't report until 4am our time; Obama didn't speak until 5am. When I walked in my door (after having spent the election with a group of Scottish friends at their flat), it was 6:30am. By the time I got in the bed, 7am.

Needless to say, I was dragging a bit today.

But it was worth it. I've never felt hope and optimism like this in my adult life, not from a political standpoint. It's my third election and the first two didn't go so well. But this one went so much better than expected. As an Ohio voter, to watch that state turn blue meant everything. It was the first time this election that I actually believed things could change and that Americans were capable of getting it right. And as swing state after swing state turned blue, it was such a feeling of euphoria. And proof that despite the bumps along the way, this still is the greatest nation in the world, capable of progress and change more than any other country. It was only 54 years ago that Brown vs. Board of Ed desegregated schools. 41 since Loving vs. Virgina took away states' rights to place racial restrictions on marriage. In Barack Obama's lifetime, there were states that outlawed interracial marriage. For him to now be president, to have won over that very state of Virginia says so much about this country's ability to grow, change, and reinvent itself. It was never going to be easy, but the point is that we're still moving forward and still progressing and still doing what has to be done to get this country back on track.

To say it was an emotional night is an understatement. The tears have been mainly of happiness, but also just of overwhelm. They've been springing up at random times, such as walking down Kelvin Way to class this evening. I'm sure the people around me thought I was crazy.

If I'm being honest, for the past eight years, whether in Canada or the UK, there's always been a bit of chagrin when someone asks where I'm from. I almost feel the need the apologize for being American and for what my country has done the past two presidential terms. But today, I feel so damn proud. I am American. It's a good feeling to have this kind of pride and belief in your country and your leader elect.

Additionally, if I'm being honest, it's incredibly hard to stay up till 7am, get five hours of sleep past that, and then have to go to a Joyce seminar for two hours. When your brain is barely thinking straight to begin with and you're so tired you're having difficulty tying your shoes, having to pretend to discuss (and pretend that you finished) Portrait of the Artist is a bit difficult. When the class broke down even further into a discussion of semi-colons and whether or not they're the "whores of punctuation," my brain was ready to explode. Because, semi-colons, really? I love my semi-colons, but it was all a bit much to process.

That's what we do in grad school. We debate individual marks of punctuation for hours. I feel like the joke's on me sometimes, for paying for this. Though in all seriousness, to be lectured on Joyce by one of the most important Joyce scholars in the UK is pretty awesome. Especially when he's hilarious and doesn't take the material too seriously. The English department runs a "Finnegan's Lunch" series, where you bring your lunch and the scholars read and break down Finnegan's Wake for an hour, page by page. I have no interest in Joyce, but our lecturer (also the head of the entire English department) is so awesome that I might start attending.

Because I was too tired to cook, I snagged chicken enchiladas at the postgrad club. It's actually the most decent "Mexican" food in Glasgow. Cheapest, too. £3 for a huge plate, and chips and guac.

It is Guy Fawkes Night. There are fireworks over the Clyde and a 1-1- Celtic draw with Man U in the Champions League. Today has been a good day.

I'm a mouse... duh!

2008-11-03T19:49:00.007Z

I have been a very negligent blogger over the past week, week and a half.

In summary:

The election is tomorrow. Oh, I wish the whole world was on GMT, because this is going to be a brutal all-nighter.

It's officially gotten cold here in Glasgow, and officially hat, gloves, scarf weather. This isn't a bad thing, just a fact of life.

Halloween was quite excellent, and this city knows how to do it up big. It's not like in the States where people put on a set of ears and a slutty dress and call it a costume. People here really go all out with the fancy dress. We're talking elaborate, intricate costumes. It's tons of fun. We ended up doing the ultimate bar/party crawl, hitting no less than five stops across town. Glasgow definitely deserves its reputation as a great party town.

Today's plan of Operation: Change Mobile Provider failed miserably, because apparently to keep my same number, I have to get some code from TalkMobile, and then take that to O2 (or Orange, haven't decided yet). At least... I think that was it. The guy at the O2 store on Sauchiehall had one of the heaviest Glaswegian accents I've heard yet. I was just kind of smiling and nodding politely, and the I rushed, "OkayI'llcomebacktomorrow" and just ran out of there. Because I couldn't understand the poor guy for the life of me.

That being said, I had a realization the other day that I've gotten to a point where not only can I understand most Glaswegian accents (obviously, aside from Charlie's at the O2 store on Sauchiehall), and some Scots here and there (yep, it's a different language!), but I can also pick out Scottish accents based on location! I can tell a Glasgwegian accent from an Edinburghian one. I can pick out northerners and say, "You must be from Aberdeen or Inverness!" I can tell someone's from Ayr because it means I can't understand a word they say!

I have a little over a month until I'm back in the States. Honestly, it feels like I just got here. Walking down Byres Road last home, home from M&S, I suddenly got a bit sad that I won't be here for Christmastime to see everything all lit up. I'm so excited to be going home, but a part of me wishes I could do both.

I was so very excited to order my Phillies World Series Champions t-shirt, until it came up with a $56 delivery fee to the UK. So I guess I'm going to have to wait until I go home then.

There is no Mexican food in this city. There are places that say they make Mexican food, but there is no Mexican food. The closest I've come is M&S's guacamole. Which isn't horrible, if it's the only option. But man, oh man. I cannot wait for Chipotle. Tacos for everyone!

My crazy, romantic plan of spending the weekend of my 27th birthday in Paris has been momentarily shelved.

The shine is wearing off of Glasgow, and it's just starting to feel normal. And homey. This is a wonderful feeling!

...now if only I could get the bus system down. I miss the simplicity of SEPTA, where buses run in normal directions, like east to west or north to south.

Thursday I head down to London for the weekend.

And school is going well!

That's it, in a nutshell!

Minor correction

2008-10-24T09:00:00.003+01:00

Perhaps I was ever so slightly misinformed yesterday when I said that there was no news about the weather. Now I feel slightly more sane that this kind of thing isn't taken as normal here!

Just a light breeze...

2008-10-23T19:08:00.003+01:00

Before coming to Glasgow, I'd heard about the horizontal rain.

The rain today isn't horizontal. It isn't diagonal. It's more or less upsidedown.

According to WeatherChannel.com, the wind gusts today are in the mid-50 mph range. Which means (according to Wikipedia), between the wind and heavy rain, this would be solidly classified as a Tropical Storm.

Except...

...nothing.

This is not considered anything here. No severe weather warning, watch, nothing. No mention of the fact that the wind is so strong that it knocked my earbuds out of my ears! No mention that Kelvin Way has turned into an elephant graveyard of umbrellas (though seriously, who is stupid enough to open an umbrella in this?). It is so stormy out and there is no mention of any of this weather! All the weather reports just call this "rainy" and "windy." In the States, this would be a weather event! But in Glasgow? Apparently this is normal?

Needless to say, I am having the best hair day ever in this weather.

That's Scots for "I Look Like Mufasa."

There is nothing else to talk about but the weather on a day like today.

I miss the Weather Channel.

2008-10-22T10:33:00.002+01:00

Glasgow weather is crazy. Absolutely crazy. It goes from sun to rain to wind to sun to rain to sometimes sun with rain, all in the span of about fifteen minutes. All day long. Insanity. Absolute insanity.

Case in point, yesterday. After several days of seemingly nothing but downpour, it was bright and sunny in the morning. I had to leave the flat by 9am to get down to City Centre for a banking appointment, and was totally excited to have a dry walk. Because it was so sunny out. So I step out of the building, into the sun, and it's pouring. Not drizzling. But full-out rain. While it's brilliantly sunny.

It's also gotten much colder lately, even though the actual temperatures don't seem to have varied much. But it's a chilly damp that hits your bones and really makes me wish I had real gloves (*hint-hint*) instead of the cheap $1 ones I bought at Target the day before I left that don't really keep hands very warm at all. I think the point of gloves is to have your hands not be red and numb when you walk into a building and take them off, which is what happens to me when I wear the Target ones. I'm going to have to hike the 1.8 miles back down to City Centre at some point this weekend and pick up a nice, warm pair.

Here in Glasgow, talking about the weather is not idle small talk. It is legitimate conversation!

Also, I mailed in my absentee ballot on Monday. It was very anti-climactic, voting by mail. I miss the buzz and energy of going to an actual polling place. But still:

An open letter to a fellow student:

2008-10-17T10:58:00.006+01:00

Dear Person who read Three Modes of Southern Fiction at the Glasgow Uni library before I did,

WHY DID YOU FEEL THE NEED TO CUT OUT PAGES 55-70 WITH WHAT APPEAR TO BE SCISSORS? WHO DOES THIS? ARE YOU MENTALLY RETARDED? ARE YOU JUST CRUEL? DID WILLIAM FAULKNER BAD-TOUCH YOU WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD?

SOME OF US NEED THAT BOOK, AND YOU, JERKFACE, HAD TO DAMAGE THE ONLY COPY AVAILABLE. I HOPE YOU FAIL ALL YOUR COURSES AND CONTRACT SOMETHING VERY BURNY AND ITCHY DOWN IN THE GROINAL REGION.

Not love,

Me

Seriously. WTF.