Observations from the Mothership: Day 3

The Day I Planned Badly

Today I had great plans to spend the day in the Edinburgh archives before heading down to Derby for an event tomorrow.  Problem is, because the bus tour never finished up last night like it was supposed to, I felt obligated to complete it in the morning before my 24-hour ticket expired, especially since I'd already paid for it.  Turns out if we're going by stereotypes, I'm definitely a little on the Scottish side.  Waste not, want not, right? 

So I did what any dutiful Scot would do--I went to finish my bus tour.  And I enjoyed it, not the least because of the gloriously beautiful weather the day brought.  I saw the birthplace of Alistair Sim, arguably the quintessential Scrooge, a building unironically titled Kickass Hostels, and a road entitled Cowgate, which just made me think it involved some kind of sinister plot involving Hairy Coos and the ghost of Richard Nixon.

A hairy coo is a happy coo.

While on the bus I also passed a whole street of used bookstores (fortunately the subsequent drooling was dispersed by wind since I was on the upper deck of an open air bus), learned that 50 years ago Sean Connery was a nude life model for art students (when he wasn't delivering milk or polishing coffins), and was utterly confounded by the life-sized statue of a zebra looking out on the street from inside an office building's window.  This bizarrity was second only to being told upon viewing a large statue of King George I that he had once visited Scotland for which he had swathed his 25-stone frame (that's around 350 lbs to you and me) in an entirely too-short kilt, causing some lady of the aristocracy to comment that if he'd "worn a longer kilt we'd have seen much less of him."  We were told his questionable attire may have also been the inspiration for the rhyme about Georgie Porgie kissing the girls and making them cry.  The more you know...

While on the bus tour I availed myself of the "hop-on, hop-off" feature to visit Holyrood Palace (the Queen's official residence when in Scotland) for the first time.  It was pretty typical as museums go, though I did enjoy getting to see Mary Stuart's and Lord Darnley's apartments, particularly the samples of a letter and some embroidery done by Mary's own hand.  Near the end of the tour I passed a room filled with family portraits of Queen Elizabeth's and felt a little like things had come full circle.

Holyrood Palace...or an extra-fancy parking lot.  Either way.

The Holyrood gardens were closed for some rare care exhibition, but there were a few cars in the forecourt I got to see, including a classic Rolls Royce and a Jaguar.  After finishing my tour I grabbed a quick bite at the Holyrood Cafe where I learned that Mac n' Cheese with broad beans mixed in is not quite as bad as it sounds.  Made for a weird texture, though, not unlike putting pebbles in one's pasta.

When you care enough to drive the very best.

After Holyrood I finished the bus tour, collected the assorted souvenirs requested of me (including an Outlander-inspired ring for myself), and headed over to the archives.  To my chagrin, I found that I had only a couple of hours left before the archive closed.  Still I went, only to be told that it would cost £15 regardless how long I was there and that I could only search something quickly if I had a name.  I offered a couple from the Scott line but was met with supreme skepticism, so I asked if they had wi-fi, thinking I could look more detail up on my phone (my computer was in lockup at the hotel).  After a suffering a look of piteous scorn, I was directed to the shopping area next door...which also lacked free wi-fi. By the time I'd found a McDonald's and written out the entire branch of the tree I realized I'd only have around 40 minutes to go searching and gave it up as a bad job.  I have absolutely no doubt that the staff in the Archives building were relieved the idiot American with no sense of preparation had disappeared.  Seriously, though--how does a library/archive not have wi-fi these days??

I couldn't go anywhere without seeing these signs any more than I could keep from filling in the missing 'i' every single time

On the one hand I was pretty annoyed with myself, knowing full well that the previous day's oversleeping was largely responsible for my missing most of the day planned in the archives today whether because of a lack of time or because I hadn't properly prepared as a result.  So really, I've no one to blame but myself.  On the other hand, I realized that even if I spent every hour of every day that I'm here in a library or an archive, I still would only be scratching the surface of what I want to learn.  There simply isn't enough time to search everything out when it's scattered in so many different parts of both this country and the US.  As a result, I refuse to punish myself for not completing the impossible.  I can still walk the roads my ancestors trod and can still see the countryside which they helped build and still get to know the local people who likely share many of those ancestors with me.  At the end of the day, that is enough.  Any additional information I can uncover is simply icing on the cake.  This trip is a birthday party, after all, and one that includes all sorts of people:  the random pipers busking on corners, the dude with the ear hole plugs sporting Captain America shields, the storekeeper of Indian descent with the very incongruous Scots accent, the rapidly scurrying students everywhere in their tights and skirts and hipster pants...these are my people, and I am them.

After this little epiphany I went to collect my belongings and and head to Derby a little early.  On the way I grabbed a Cornish Pasty (I am becoming seriously addicted to those things) filled with bacon and cheese and potatoes and tasting distinctly like a loaded baked potato pie.  Then I boarded my train, which was packed full of people.  The trip went smoothly enough, at least till we neared Darlington, which had been compromised by a blackout and was therefore delaying trains while trying to restore the signalling system.  It took nearly two hours before we got moving again, but I eventually made my way safely into Darlington and onto Derby, assuming you think dragging my luggage through the streets of Derby at midnight to the hotel constitutes "safe."  But all went well, and now I get to look forward to Whooverville tomorrow with Dean!!

Kilt Count: 9.5, the .5 being an adorable wee lad in full regalia for a wedding.  It also includes two
                          students wearing kilts over pants, which should not count

Trews Count:  2, not counting the trews and girl kilts worn as uniforms by staff at Holyrood House.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 3

The Day I Planned Badly

Today I had great plans to spend the day in the Edinburgh archives before heading down to Derby for an event tomorrow.  Problem is, because the bus tour never finished up last night like it was supposed to, I felt obligated to complete it in the morning before my 24-hour ticket expired, especially since I'd already paid for it.  Turns out if we're going by stereotypes, I'm definitely a little on the Scottish side.  Waste not, want not, right? 

So I did what any dutiful Scot would do--I went to finish my bus tour.  And I enjoyed it, not the least because of the gloriously beautiful weather the day brought.  I saw the birthplace of Alistair Sim, arguably the quintessential Scrooge, a building unironically titled Kickass Hostels, and a road entitled Cowgate, which just made me think it involved some kind of sinister plot involving Hairy Coos and the ghost of Richard Nixon.

A hairy coo is a happy coo.

While on the bus I also passed a whole street of used bookstores (fortunately the subsequent drooling was dispersed by wind since I was on the upper deck of an open air bus), learned that 50 years ago Sean Connery was a nude life model for art students (when he wasn't delivering milk or polishing coffins), and was utterly confounded by the life-sized statue of a zebra looking out on the street from inside an office building's window.  This bizarrity was second only to being told upon viewing a large statue of King George I that he had once visited Scotland for which he had swathed his 25-stone frame (that's around 350 lbs to you and me) in an entirely too-short kilt, causing some lady of the aristocracy to comment that if he'd "worn a longer kilt we'd have seen much less of him."  We were told his questionable attire may have also been the inspiration for the rhyme about Georgie Porgie kissing the girls and making them cry.  The more you know...

While on the bus tour I availed myself of the "hop-on, hop-off" feature to visit Holyrood Palace (the Queen's official residence when in Scotland) for the first time.  It was pretty typical as museums go, though I did enjoy getting to see Mary Stuart's and Lord Darnley's apartments, particularly the samples of a letter and some embroidery done by Mary's own hand.  Near the end of the tour I passed a room filled with family portraits of Queen Elizabeth's and felt a little like things had come full circle.

Holyrood Palace...or an extra-fancy parking lot.  Either way.

The Holyrood gardens were closed for some rare care exhibition, but there were a few cars in the forecourt I got to see, including a classic Rolls Royce and a Jaguar.  After finishing my tour I grabbed a quick bite at the Holyrood Cafe where I learned that Mac n' Cheese with broad beans mixed in is not quite as bad as it sounds.  Made for a weird texture, though, not unlike putting pebbles in one's pasta.

When you care enough to drive the very best.

After Holyrood I finished the bus tour, collected the assorted souvenirs requested of me (including an Outlander-inspired ring for myself), and headed over to the archives.  To my chagrin, I found that I had only a couple of hours left before the archive closed.  Still I went, only to be told that it would cost £15 regardless how long I was there and that I could only search something quickly if I had a name.  I offered a couple from the Scott line but was met with supreme skepticism, so I asked if they had wi-fi, thinking I could look more detail up on my phone (my computer was in lockup at the hotel).  After a suffering a look of piteous scorn, I was directed to the shopping area next door...which also lacked free wi-fi. By the time I'd found a McDonald's and written out the entire branch of the tree I realized I'd only have around 40 minutes to go searching and gave it up as a bad job.  I have absolutely no doubt that the staff in the Archives building were relieved the idiot American with no sense of preparation had disappeared.  Seriously, though--how does a library/archive not have wi-fi these days??

I couldn't go anywhere without seeing these signs any more than I could keep from filling in the missing 'i' every single time

On the one hand I was pretty annoyed with myself, knowing full well that the previous day's oversleeping was largely responsible for my missing most of the day planned in the archives today whether because of a lack of time or because I hadn't properly prepared as a result.  So really, I've no one to blame but myself.  On the other hand, I realized that even if I spent every hour of every day that I'm here in a library or an archive, I still would only be scratching the surface of what I want to learn.  There simply isn't enough time to search everything out when it's scattered in so many different parts of both this country and the US.  As a result, I refuse to punish myself for not completing the impossible.  I can still walk the roads my ancestors trod and can still see the countryside which they helped build and still get to know the local people who likely share many of those ancestors with me.  At the end of the day, that is enough.  Any additional information I can uncover is simply icing on the cake.  This trip is a birthday party, after all, and one that includes all sorts of people:  the random pipers busking on corners, the dude with the ear hole plugs sporting Captain America shields, the storekeeper of Indian descent with the very incongruous Scots accent, the rapidly scurrying students everywhere in their tights and skirts and hipster pants...these are my people, and I am them.

After this little epiphany I went to collect my belongings and and head to Derby a little early.  On the way I grabbed a Cornish Pasty (I am becoming seriously addicted to those things) filled with bacon and cheese and potatoes and tasting distinctly like a loaded baked potato pie.  Then I boarded my train, which was packed full of people.  The trip went smoothly enough, at least till we neared Darlington, which had been compromised by a blackout and was therefore delaying trains while trying to restore the signalling system.  It took nearly two hours before we got moving again, but I eventually made my way safely into Darlington and onto Derby, assuming you think dragging my luggage through the streets of Derby at midnight to the hotel constitutes "safe."  But all went well, and now I get to look forward to Whooverville tomorrow with Dean!!

Kilt Count: 9.5, the .5 being an adorable wee lad in full regalia for a wedding.  It also includes two
                          students wearing kilts over pants, which should not count

Trews Count:  2, not counting the trews and girl kilts worn as uniforms by staff at Holyrood House.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 2

The Day of Extreme Oversleeping

Sometimes things don't go quite according to plan.  Today was just such a day.  I'd intended to get an early(ish) start and do all my sightseeing today when I could leave my junk behind at the hotel and not have to worry about carting it everywhere, thereby saving the Scottish archives for tomorrow.  Instead, I was jolted awake at almost 1 pm by a horrific screeching noise blaring through my hotel room.  I've got to tell you, that's one hell of a way to wake up, and not one I care to repeat.  I don't know if all fire alarms in Britain or Scotland are that loud, but there might as well have been 6 ambulances parked around my bed.  I have a new sympathy for the plight of Odysseus trying to keep his sailors deaf to the Sirens' songs. While certainly I didn't intend to sleep past 10 am or so, a random fire drill still seems an unnecessarily enthusiastic wake-up call on the part of my hotel. That's not how you elicit tips, people.

Restored to enforced alertness, I took a quick shower involving a hotel bath towel far larger than the traditionally postage-stamp-sized towels we generally get in American hotels, got dressed, and checked my messages before finally making it out the door around 2-2:30.  While perhaps understandable after the jet lag and caffeine of last night, losing some 4-5 hours of potential adventure to sleep still seems an egregious waste of my already far too limited and precious time on this continent.  Didn't stop me from trying to make the most of what day was left, however.

My first stop upon leaving the hotel was to go grab one of the city's sight-seeing buses even though I took the tour some 15 years ago in the scant 3 hours I had here.  But I figured it would be the quickest and easiest way to get around where I wanted to go and I was assured that the hop-on, hop-off buses would be running till 8 pm tonight.  Plus, I got a discounted ticket to the Castle (which I've also seen but still wanted to visit again).  I didn't spend too much time on the bus before arriving at the castle stop, but I appreciated the modern upgrade in technology which allowed me to plug in earphones to the side of the bus so I could more easily and clearly hear the audio tour.  No doubt this also saves the cost of paying salaried workers to stand around in the cold and rain repeating the same spiel 5,000 times a week.  And because I could hear over the road noises and the rattling of the buses, I learned several interesting tidbits like the one about the brewer who was responsible for building Usher Hall and who happened to be a teetotaler, or that a young Sean Connery once posed nude for a student life studies class at the College of Art (is that your sporran, or are you just happy to see me?) The more you know...

Once at the castle stop I jumped off the bus so I could see everything before the castle closed at 6 pm.  This proved to be a wise move as I was one of the last people to leave the environs.  Whichever tour guide said to allow 2-3 hours to view the grounds was spot on.  Another handy technological upgrade was the addition of DIY audio tours.  I was given headphones and a giant iPhone into which I could punch the numbers listed conveniently around the castle and listen to stories and facts about that particular part of the castle.  This was actually nice because it allows you to move throughout the grounds at your own speed, as well as to repeat or fast forward through any bits of audio you liked.  As a result, I learned several new things about the Castle that I didn't remember from my previous trip, including that the castle is built on top of Castle Rock, which was formed by a volcano that erupted some 350 million years ago, that St. Margaret's Chapel is the oldest building in Scotland (12th century) and that my 1st cousin Sir Walter Scott (of Ivanhoe fame) was one of the people who set out to find and recover the Honours of Scotland (Scotland's crown jewels), which had been hidden away for over 100 years after the Acts of Union cause the dissolution of the Scottish Parliament.  Yup...my family is just that awesome.

Royal quarters

While there I saw the Scottish War museum, the war memorial, the prison (which I didn't remember) and the esplanade lined with cannons.  These were wussy, lackluster cannons compared to Mons Meg, a behemoth bombard built in 1449 as a gift for James II.  The "largest gun ever fired in anger on British soil," this 20" caliber cannon took 400 lb (insert rude jokes here); when it was fired in salute for Mary Stuart's marriage to the dauphin of France, the shot was found some two miles away.  That's some serious firepower for the time.  No wonder the Stuarts were gunning for Elizabeth I.  I also got to see the tiny closet chamber where James VI/I was born and I took a selfie with Mary Stuart, because why  not?  She looked bored...positively stony, in fact.  Meanwhile, visitors to the castle were truly diverse; I overheard conversations in French, Spanish, German, assorted Asian languages, and various dialects of American and British English.  I also saw a woman with Canadian flag gloves and a big, fuzzy hat that made her look a little like Cookie Monster.

Mons Meg

After leaving the castle, I wandered down the upper part of the Royal Mile for a bit to look for some clan scarves because I wanted a little of the Scott tartan now that I know I am descended from that clan (among others).  Not surprisingly, this section of the Royal Mile consists almost exclusively of shops flogging cashmere and lambswool scarves and assorted other kitschy trinkets, so much so that I'm now convinced "Royal Mile" is Gaelic for "Tourists, Please Spend Your Money Here."  I did purchase a couple of scarves, springing for the good stuff since I'm not likely to get this way again any time soon.  Mmmmm, cashmere....  I was also treated to an odd group of people wearing matching t-shirts emblazoned with a symbol that looked like nothing so much as a space-age number nine.  Obviously they were together, but I've no idea what their group was and I hadn't seen them at the castle.

After making my purchases I went to the bus stop, only to discover that I had just missed the last run of my particular tour.  This confused me, since they'd said they would be running till 8 pm (which it wasn't yet), but after loitering for over half an hour waiting on buses that should be running every 15 minutes, I finally gave it up as a bad job and started walking. Unfortunately, my feet were hurting from treading all the cobblestones, on which I'd earlier half-rolled my ankle twice.  I'm starting to remember why I gave up wearing orthotics a few years ago  Sure, they keep your feet aligned and ease the pressures of unsupported arches and insteps, but they also encourage already weak ankles to fall off the side of any non-level surface, aka the entirety of Castle Hill and the Royal Mile.  As a result, I wimped out and started looking for a taxi.  One finally stopped in front of me and I waited for the current passenger to get out, only to have him fall literally at my feet after stumbling over a step on the taxi.  If I had known that Edinburgh was going to rain men at my feet, I'd have come to visit here much sooner.  Anyway, I checked that the man was okay, then climbed in the taxi and took it to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner.

Apparently there's more to do in Edinburgh than see the castle or shop for wool.

Okay, I realize that Hard Rock is a bit of a cop-out when one is surrounded by the unique cuisine of an entire nation, but I was exhausted by this time and it was close and a known quantity.  Besides, I can now say that I have eaten at a Hard Rock in 4 different countries (not that I'm bragging, or anything...nope).  Totally worth it, though, for no other reason than my server Crrrrrrrraig, who was really a bartender, but who waited on me while I sat at a table by the window.  Crrrrrrraig was tall, had sandy hair, and was lovely and charming and made me laugh.  We discussed the relative merits of the barbecue options when compared to Memphian BBQ:  "I don't knooooow about Mehmphis barrrrrbecue..."  "It's world-famous."  "Weeeeel, if it's wharld-fehmous, you might find this a wee bit disappointing..."  He suggested instead a Hickory Smoked burger which involved cheddar, carmelized onions and bacon, because I was too big a coward to try the burger with haggis and it was indeed delicious.  Crrrrrrraig did tell me that you could get some haggis samples at some of the food stalls so that you could try it without committing to a whole meal of it.  Crrrrrrraig kept coming over to chat with me and check on me; I think he enjoyed the novelty of my accent as much as I enjoyed his.  When he asked if I wanted dessert, I said I wanted some, but didn't really need any. I then asked him about the apple cobbler, only to have him warn me about the abundance of cinnamon in the dish..."Do you like cinnamon?"  Oh, Crrrrrrraig, if you only knew. He then told me that I needed to "trrrrrrreat myself because I'm on holiday."  Twist my arm, Crrrrrrraig, twist my arm.  Hell, I'll start making your car payments if you just keep talking to me in that accent all night.  Seriously--I am such a Highland brogue whore.

Across the street from my window was The George, a hotel I'd considered when making my reservations for Edinburgh because it wasn't far from the archives.  Ultimately I selected a different hotel instead because it was cheaper and actually isn't far from stuff either. Still, I'd be willing to bet this gorgeous Georgian-style hotel doesn't assault its patrons with the song of the bean sidhe.  I mean, I know I'm in Scotland and all, but banshee sirens seem a little above and beyond the call of duty.  If that's the difference, perhaps I should have spent the extra few pounds for the swankier hotel...the façade certainly was lovely.

After dessert I paid the bill and received well-wishes from Crrrrrrraig, then headed back to my hotel, my feet much happier after the brief respite.  Outside the last of the sunset was fading away, leaving the skies a deep azure falling like a protective blanket over the glorious spires of the city and giving me a most beautiful and peaceful walk home.  What more could a girl want?

Blue skies at night, Scotland's delight.

Kilt count:  4 1/2 (Caught a quick flash of one, but not a proper look...and no, not that kind of
                             flash, ya perv.)
Trews count:  3   (Still not as good as kilts...no knees showing.)

Observations from the Mothership: Day 2

The Day of Extreme Oversleeping

Sometimes things don't go quite according to plan.  Today was just such a day.  I'd intended to get an early(ish) start and do all my sightseeing today when I could leave my junk behind at the hotel and not have to worry about carting it everywhere, thereby saving the Scottish archives for tomorrow.  Instead, I was jolted awake at almost 1 pm by a horrific screeching noise blaring through my hotel room.  I've got to tell you, that's one hell of a way to wake up, and not one I care to repeat.  I don't know if all fire alarms in Britain or Scotland are that loud, but there might as well have been 6 ambulances parked around my bed.  I have a new sympathy for the plight of Odysseus trying to keep his sailors deaf to the Sirens' songs. While certainly I didn't intend to sleep past 10 am or so, a random fire drill still seems an unnecessarily enthusiastic wake-up call on the part of my hotel. That's not how you elicit tips, people.

Restored to enforced alertness, I took a quick shower involving a hotel bath towel far larger than the traditionally postage-stamp-sized towels we generally get in American hotels, got dressed, and checked my messages before finally making it out the door around 2-2:30.  While perhaps understandable after the jet lag and caffeine of last night, losing some 4-5 hours of potential adventure to sleep still seems an egregious waste of my already far too limited and precious time on this continent.  Didn't stop me from trying to make the most of what day was left, however.

My first stop upon leaving the hotel was to go grab one of the city's sight-seeing buses even though I took the tour some 15 years ago in the scant 3 hours I had here.  But I figured it would be the quickest and easiest way to get around where I wanted to go and I was assured that the hop-on, hop-off buses would be running till 8 pm tonight.  Plus, I got a discounted ticket to the Castle (which I've also seen but still wanted to visit again).  I didn't spend too much time on the bus before arriving at the castle stop, but I appreciated the modern upgrade in technology which allowed me to plug in earphones to the side of the bus so I could more easily and clearly hear the audio tour.  No doubt this also saves the cost of paying salaried workers to stand around in the cold and rain repeating the same spiel 5,000 times a week.  And because I could hear over the road noises and the rattling of the buses, I learned several interesting tidbits like the one about the brewer who was responsible for building Usher Hall and who happened to be a teetotaler, or that a young Sean Connery once posed nude for a student life studies class at the College of Art (is that your sporran, or are you just happy to see me?) The more you know...

Once at the castle stop I jumped off the bus so I could see everything before the castle closed at 6 pm.  This proved to be a wise move as I was one of the last people to leave the environs.  Whichever tour guide said to allow 2-3 hours to view the grounds was spot on.  Another handy technological upgrade was the addition of DIY audio tours.  I was given headphones and a giant iPhone into which I could punch the numbers listed conveniently around the castle and listen to stories and facts about that particular part of the castle.  This was actually nice because it allows you to move throughout the grounds at your own speed, as well as to repeat or fast forward through any bits of audio you liked.  As a result, I learned several new things about the Castle that I didn't remember from my previous trip, including that the castle is built on top of Castle Rock, which was formed by a volcano that erupted some 350 million years ago, that St. Margaret's Chapel is the oldest building in Scotland (12th century) and that my 1st cousin Sir Walter Scott (of Ivanhoe fame) was one of the people who set out to find and recover the Honours of Scotland (Scotland's crown jewels), which had been hidden away for over 100 years after the Acts of Union cause the dissolution of the Scottish Parliament.  Yup...my family is just that awesome.

Royal quarters

While there I saw the Scottish War museum, the war memorial, the prison (which I didn't remember) and the esplanade lined with cannons.  These were wussy, lackluster cannons compared to Mons Meg, a behemoth bombard built in 1449 as a gift for James II.  The "largest gun ever fired in anger on British soil," this 20" caliber cannon took 400 lb (insert rude jokes here); when it was fired in salute for Mary Stuart's marriage to the dauphin of France, the shot was found some two miles away.  That's some serious firepower for the time.  No wonder the Stuarts were gunning for Elizabeth I.  I also got to see the tiny closet chamber where James VI/I was born and I took a selfie with Mary Stuart, because why  not?  She looked bored...positively stony, in fact.  Meanwhile, visitors to the castle were truly diverse; I overheard conversations in French, Spanish, German, assorted Asian languages, and various dialects of American and British English.  I also saw a woman with Canadian flag gloves and a big, fuzzy hat that made her look a little like Cookie Monster.

Mons Meg

After leaving the castle, I wandered down the upper part of the Royal Mile for a bit to look for some clan scarves because I wanted a little of the Scott tartan now that I know I am descended from that clan (among others).  Not surprisingly, this section of the Royal Mile consists almost exclusively of shops flogging cashmere and lambswool scarves and assorted other kitschy trinkets, so much so that I'm now convinced "Royal Mile" is Gaelic for "Tourists, Please Spend Your Money Here."  I did purchase a couple of scarves, springing for the good stuff since I'm not likely to get this way again any time soon.  Mmmmm, cashmere....  I was also treated to an odd group of people wearing matching t-shirts emblazoned with a symbol that looked like nothing so much as a space-age number nine.  Obviously they were together, but I've no idea what their group was and I hadn't seen them at the castle.

After making my purchases I went to the bus stop, only to discover that I had just missed the last run of my particular tour.  This confused me, since they'd said they would be running till 8 pm (which it wasn't yet), but after loitering for over half an hour waiting on buses that should be running every 15 minutes, I finally gave it up as a bad job and started walking. Unfortunately, my feet were hurting from treading all the cobblestones, on which I'd earlier half-rolled my ankle twice.  I'm starting to remember why I gave up wearing orthotics a few years ago  Sure, they keep your feet aligned and ease the pressures of unsupported arches and insteps, but they also encourage already weak ankles to fall off the side of any non-level surface, aka the entirety of Castle Hill and the Royal Mile.  As a result, I wimped out and started looking for a taxi.  One finally stopped in front of me and I waited for the current passenger to get out, only to have him fall literally at my feet after stumbling over a step on the taxi.  If I had known that Edinburgh was going to rain men at my feet, I'd have come to visit here much sooner.  Anyway, I checked that the man was okay, then climbed in the taxi and took it to the Hard Rock Cafe for dinner.

Apparently there's more to do in Edinburgh than see the castle or shop for wool.

Okay, I realize that Hard Rock is a bit of a cop-out when one is surrounded by the unique cuisine of an entire nation, but I was exhausted by this time and it was close and a known quantity.  Besides, I can now say that I have eaten at a Hard Rock in 4 different countries (not that I'm bragging, or anything...nope).  Totally worth it, though, for no other reason than my server Crrrrrrrraig, who was really a bartender, but who waited on me while I sat at a table by the window.  Crrrrrrraig was tall, had sandy hair, and was lovely and charming and made me laugh.  We discussed the relative merits of the barbecue options when compared to Memphian BBQ:  "I don't knooooow about Mehmphis barrrrrbecue..."  "It's world-famous."  "Weeeeel, if it's wharld-fehmous, you might find this a wee bit disappointing..."  He suggested instead a Hickory Smoked burger which involved cheddar, carmelized onions and bacon, because I was too big a coward to try the burger with haggis and it was indeed delicious.  Crrrrrrraig did tell me that you could get some haggis samples at some of the food stalls so that you could try it without committing to a whole meal of it.  Crrrrrrraig kept coming over to chat with me and check on me; I think he enjoyed the novelty of my accent as much as I enjoyed his.  When he asked if I wanted dessert, I said I wanted some, but didn't really need any. I then asked him about the apple cobbler, only to have him warn me about the abundance of cinnamon in the dish..."Do you like cinnamon?"  Oh, Crrrrrrraig, if you only knew. He then told me that I needed to "trrrrrrreat myself because I'm on holiday."  Twist my arm, Crrrrrrraig, twist my arm.  Hell, I'll start making your car payments if you just keep talking to me in that accent all night.  Seriously--I am such a Highland brogue whore.

Across the street from my window was The George, a hotel I'd considered when making my reservations for Edinburgh because it wasn't far from the archives.  Ultimately I selected a different hotel instead because it was cheaper and actually isn't far from stuff either. Still, I'd be willing to bet this gorgeous Georgian-style hotel doesn't assault its patrons with the song of the bean sidhe.  I mean, I know I'm in Scotland and all, but banshee sirens seem a little above and beyond the call of duty.  If that's the difference, perhaps I should have spent the extra few pounds for the swankier hotel...the façade certainly was lovely.

After dessert I paid the bill and received well-wishes from Crrrrrrraig, then headed back to my hotel, my feet much happier after the brief respite.  Outside the last of the sunset was fading away, leaving the skies a deep azure falling like a protective blanket over the glorious spires of the city and giving me a most beautiful and peaceful walk home.  What more could a girl want?

Blue skies at night, Scotland's delight.

Kilt count:  4 1/2 (Caught a quick flash of one, but not a proper look...and no, not that kind of
                             flash, ya perv.)
Trews count:  3   (Still not as good as kilts...no knees showing.)

Observations from the Mothership: Day 1

The Day of Endless Travel

A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to get my trip all planned out around the chaos at home, my friend Leslie commented that she "couldn't wait to read all my observations from the mothership." Now I don't know about you, but to me this comment was clearly screaming to be the title of a blog series about my adventures overseas...so thanks, Leslie!  And thus the blogging begins...

Once my plane took off from Philadelphia, the 7-hour flight itself went fairly smoothly, sketchy mechanical issues notwithstanding.  I did spend a rather uncomfortable beginning of the flight learning that Delta Comfort Plus seats aren't particularly comfortable and freezing my ass off (if only), which convinced me that we were flying to London via the polar ice cap.  To stave off the frigid cabin, virtually every passenger broke out their complimentary little red blankets, which were hardly more substantial than fuzzy red toilet paper of the thinnest possible variety (you know, like the kind used in airports--ironically appropriate, no?)  After two hours of trying to type with ice blocks for fingers, the captain finally found the heater switch and the cabin slowly returned to a less glacial temperature. I tried doing a little writing during the flight, but had issues with my laptop throwing up obnoxious pop-up ads every time I tried to access Google and with keeping the in-flight wifi signal, so I gave up and instead did some crossword puzzles and watched a movie about Queen Elizabeth I staring Cate Blanchett.  Considering the first leg of my journey will take me to the home of Elizabeth's chief rival and my namesake, the choice seemed oddly apropos. 

Once disembarked at the airport I eventually managed to navigate my way to the Heathrow Express, an overpriced direct train from the airport to Paddington Station in central London.  Sadly, I saw no cute teddy bears in blue coats while wandering around Paddington pretending to know where I was going and not looking at all clueless.  From there I grabbed a taxi to King's Cross, figuring it would just be less hassle since I didn't want to get Tube passes till I was actually going to be in London for more than 20 minutes.  Once at King's cross I went to find a bathroom, unexpectedly passing Platform 9 3/4 along the way.  Somehow I had foolishly thought that the mockup of Harry Potter's trolley would be at a wall legitimately placed next to Platforms 9 and 10, but I suppose that would be a logistical nightmare given the number of travelers--never mind tourists--on any given day at King's Cross.  I was amused that one staff member was snapping photos for people while another arrayed each patron with the house scarf of their choice, flipping it in the air at the crucial moment to make it look like you were really being sucked through to the hidden platform.  I wandered about trying to snap a photo just of the cutoff trolley, but the photographer lady just looked at me and said "Come on, you know you want to..."  So I did.

Real Ravenclaws don't fall for tourist schlock like this.

After my photo op I grabbed a quick to-go breakfast from a shop called Pret-A-Manger (French for "ready to eat").  The sandwich was pretty tasty, but the chocolate chip cookie had the texture of a steamrolled hockey puck.  Anyway, I grabbed the bag of food, went to the ticket office to get my rail pass validated, and had 15 minutes to spare before the express train to Edinburgh departed.  I was lucky enough to get a seat by a table so I could do some writing before my laptop battery died and ended up sitting across the aisle from a lovely older British couple on their way to visit Scotland for the first time.

I remember liking the trains from my previous trip to the UK 15 years ago.  All told, they are surprisingly comfortable and efficient, something Americans could desperately stand to emulate.  Other than a brief bit of rain through Newcastle, it was a beautiful and sunny morning and I quite enjoyed the trip north.  The large windows in each carriage made it much easier to enjoy the countryside speeding by, which didn't look so terribly different from home what with all the farmlands and giant windmill turbines, especially if you pretended not to notice the gothic churches and castles and country cottages dotting the countryside...as if one ever could.  I particularly enjoyed seeing a few neighborhoods that perfectly evoked the #4 Privet Drive of the Harry Potter books, as well as the North Sea lapping the shores of Berwick-Upon-Tweed. At one point along the route I saw what appeared to be an apartment building with brightly colored boxes installed over random windows that I found fun--very Mondrian. I even appreciated the little hand grips on the back of each aisle seat provided to give passengers a place to pull up or to hold on when the train lurches about without actually having to fondle the seat and/or a passenger's shoulder by accident the way we would have to do. It struck me as terribly British--polite to a fault.  Either that or just a concerted effort to avoid contact with strangers...either way.  I did discover to my chagrin that I fail at working the toilets on the train, though.  First you have to stagger like a drunken badger to the bathroom, working against the rhythm of the train, then you have to work out which button works the door and push it firmly after the first couple efforts fail to yield any results other than people in the next carriage smirking at your ignorance.  I eventually figured it all out, though you almost need seat belts to keep from careening headfirst into the wall opposite during some of the more enthusiastic train lurches.  The doors slid open and shut in such a way that I deeply wanted them to make the whooshy sounds of the doors in Star Trek and was terribly disappointed when they didn't.

Absolutely beautiful countryside.

So far I have found the people I've talked with perfectly friendly and helpful, if perhaps a bit cautious (stranger danger!)  There were even some train staff singing and jamming to music in the cafe car behind me, pretty much negating the many American stereotypes that all British people are stuffy, very proper graduates of Oxford who have nothing but tweed in their closets, including their undergarments (though frankly, if I had to wear tweed skivvies, I'd probably be a bit tense and reserved  too).

As we went along I listened to the various train stops being announced and thought the practice was likely helpful in more ways than one, such as in keeping idiot foreigners from mistakenly pronouncing  things like "Derby" instead of "Darby" or  "Worechester" instead of "Wooster."  I hope this will aide me in Wales, because otherwise I'm screwed.  Pronouncing English city names is one thing--I've mostly got that down--but the Welsh deliberately steal all the vowels from their language and ship them overseas (I'm guessing) to languages consisting mostly of vowels in some sort of devilish linguistical exchange designed to torture residents and foreigners alike.  At l.east I know how to pronounce "Aberystwyth" and "Llewellyn" properly...that's a start.

After I departed the train station in Edinburgh, I schlepped my stuff down Princes Street to my hotel, passing the Walter Scott Memorial along the way (Hi, 'Cuz!  Did you miss me?).  I eventually found the hotel tucked away between a New Look (not that I know what we're supposed to be looking at) and a Starbucks (manna from heaven!).  Upon reaching my room I discovered that I have to leave my card in a little slot in the wall to keep the electricity turned on.  I can only assume that electricity thieves run rampant throughout Edinburgh otherwise.  Either that or they knew I was coming from Philly, home of Benjamin Franklin, the original electrical thief.  I seem to recall his efforts involving a questionably-deployed key as well.  I'd also forgotten that British tubs are frequently so tall one needs a stepladder or stilts to get in and out of the basin.  On the plus side, there will always be enough bath water to completely cover a person wider deeper than 3", unlike with American tubs.

Now, with convenient handrails to keep you from falling to your death on the way out.

After spending a few minutes exploring the room amenities, I sat down, took off my shoes, and checked all my messages.  And, since I'd not really slept on either the plane or the train, I nearly passed out on the bed but forced myself to stay awake till a normal (or slightly early) bedtime in order to recalibrate my internal clock.  I also took the time to change out of my sweaty and gross clothes; nearly 24 hours of nonstop traveling of one sort or another can make a person just that little bit ripe.  The funny thing is that a friend suggested before my departure that I should only take old underwear and socks and just ditch them as I go, freeing up more room for souvenirs and such in my bag.  Ironically, I had already been considering this, though I confess to wondering how this will go over with the hotel maids.  Can you imagine?  One of two things is likely to happen:  either they'll think someone is making random sacrifices to the trash and knickers gods or else they'll try to solve the mystery by following the trail of underpants left behind in my wake all over Great Britain, which can only lead to all sorts of awkward questions such as "What exactly were you doing in all those British hotel rooms again???" or "Is that how you were paying for your trip???" Ah, well...that might be embarrassing, but it's not like some random American can damage our international reputation much more than it already has been. Besides, think of the story the maids would have to tell their families that night...almost better than a tip, right?

After a couple hours of rest, I ventured out to find some dinner.  I'd seen a steakhouse online that had gotten pretty good reviews and set out to find it.  All I can say is that I don't have to worry about being considered an 'Ugly American' after my expedition, because all the locals were likely too busy smirking over my Keystone Kops antics.  I must have spent an hour walking around in ever-expanding circles while trying unsuccessfully to find this place, which included an eloquent and graceful faceplant (think the dancing hippos from Fantasia) onto the pavement after I tripped over one of the ubiquitously uneven flagstones in the sidewalk and skinned my knees.  A couple minutes later I looked up and saw a pub called 'Shakespeare' and thought to myself, "Screw it--I'm tired and sore.  Also?  BILLY SHAKES--duh."  So I crossed the street and went into the pub, only to learn that their kitchen was untimely ripped, erm, closed for the day.  Sigh.  Exhausted as I was after the long traveling, this only served to make me more determined to find the steakhouse.  I ended up going into a small cafe with wifi, thinking to look it up on my phone, but was assisted by a young man at the counter with a beautiful Scots accent (I can't help it...it's a thing.  I have an inexplicable weakness for a good Scottish brogue. Genetics, bitches.)  Fifteen additional minutes of walking later, I finally arrived at my destination:  McKirdy's.  I found it disconcerting that a place with such good reviews seemed to be a complete and utter mystery to the locals I'd asked for directions. Turns out McKirdy's is a steakhouse run by a family of butchers for that fresh-to-table-hunk-of-bloody-meat sort of thing.

After consulting with the owner, I opted for a classic burger over the more expensive rib-eye or filet.  The nice thing about talking to the butcher himself is that you get the inside track, like that the burger is basically just chopped-up rib-eye and,  I have to say, that burger was arguably the best burger I have ever put in my mouth...it was freaking DELICIOUS.  Those Lothian cows are damn tasty. The burger came with some perfectly serviceable curly fries and a pepper sauce which I found surprisingly subtle and tasty when dipping both fries and burger into it.  I also learned that "Rocket" is a type of lettuce described as "peppery."  Between the peppery mustard and pepper sauce and peppery lettuce, I'm beginning to sense a theme here in the Isle of the Mighty.  Could it be that the British are secretly spicy?  I couldn't remember the name of that type of lettuce back home, so had to look it up later in my hotel room.  Seems that 'rocket' = 'arugula.'  Who knew?  For desert I ordered the cheesecake of the day, a sticky-toffee cheesecake which looked uncomfortably like cat food paté with a couple of piroulines stuck in the top and a scoop of ice cream beside.  Looks notwithstanding, the cheesecake was tasty enough, though nowhere near the caliber of the burger.

For when you need utensils long enough to feed your neighbor.

After dinner I meandered back to my hotel, stopping first at Boots for some chapstick, water and to look for a particular cough syrup for a friend.  I couldn't help noticing as I walked that with the majority of shops closed the streets had mostly cleared of everyone but young people and young couples.  Seems even in Edinburgh teens and college-age kids go cruising, just on foot or by bus instead of cars.  And I don't think I saw a woman of any age not wearing some variety of tights or hose with her skirt or pants, though I imagine in this climate that is nothing more than sheer (ahem) practicality.

All in all, it was a very pleasant evening, in spite of my Coca-Cola and jet-lag kicking in.  On a side note, how is it that Coke tastes lovely and refreshing when poured over ice but once the ice has melted it burns in much the same way I imagine paint stripper might.  What's up with that?  How are ice cubes the magic ingredient?

Likewise, how is it that it takes approximately 12 hours of excruciating pain to trudge towards one's hotel but the same distance is traversed later in a pleasant 10 minutes?  Stupid perspective and adaptive walking.

Hopefully you've all had as pleasant an afternoon as I have.  Next up, Archives and Edinburgh castle!

So what are your favorite trips/sights?

Kilt Count:  Sadly only one, and that was on a girl piper near the Scott memorial.  I did see a guy wearing plaid trews, though, and another dude with a Stewart tartan tam, so there's that.

Observations from the Mothership: Day 1

The Day of Endless Travel

A couple of weeks ago, as I was trying to get my trip all planned out around the chaos at home, my friend Leslie commented that she "couldn't wait to read all my observations from the mothership." Now I don't know about you, but to me this comment was clearly screaming to be the title of a blog series about my adventures overseas...so thanks, Leslie!  And thus the blogging begins...

Once my plane took off from Philadelphia, the 7-hour flight itself went fairly smoothly, sketchy mechanical issues notwithstanding.  I did spend a rather uncomfortable beginning of the flight learning that Delta Comfort Plus seats aren't particularly comfortable and freezing my ass off (if only), which convinced me that we were flying to London via the polar ice cap.  To stave off the frigid cabin, virtually every passenger broke out their complimentary little red blankets, which were hardly more substantial than fuzzy red toilet paper of the thinnest possible variety (you know, like the kind used in airports--ironically appropriate, no?)  After two hours of trying to type with ice blocks for fingers, the captain finally found the heater switch and the cabin slowly returned to a less glacial temperature. I tried doing a little writing during the flight, but had issues with my laptop throwing up obnoxious pop-up ads every time I tried to access Google and with keeping the in-flight wifi signal, so I gave up and instead did some crossword puzzles and watched a movie about Queen Elizabeth I staring Cate Blanchett.  Considering the first leg of my journey will take me to the home of Elizabeth's chief rival and my namesake, the choice seemed oddly apropos. 

Once disembarked at the airport I eventually managed to navigate my way to the Heathrow Express, an overpriced direct train from the airport to Paddington Station in central London.  Sadly, I saw no cute teddy bears in blue coats while wandering around Paddington pretending to know where I was going and not looking at all clueless.  From there I grabbed a taxi to King's Cross, figuring it would just be less hassle since I didn't want to get Tube passes till I was actually going to be in London for more than 20 minutes.  Once at King's cross I went to find a bathroom, unexpectedly passing Platform 9 3/4 along the way.  Somehow I had foolishly thought that the mockup of Harry Potter's trolley would be at a wall legitimately placed next to Platforms 9 and 10, but I suppose that would be a logistical nightmare given the number of travelers--never mind tourists--on any given day at King's Cross.  I was amused that one staff member was snapping photos for people while another arrayed each patron with the house scarf of their choice, flipping it in the air at the crucial moment to make it look like you were really being sucked through to the hidden platform.  I wandered about trying to snap a photo just of the cutoff trolley, but the photographer lady just looked at me and said "Come on, you know you want to..."  So I did.

Real Ravenclaws don't fall for tourist schlock like this.

After my photo op I grabbed a quick to-go breakfast from a shop called Pret-A-Manger (French for "ready to eat").  The sandwich was pretty tasty, but the chocolate chip cookie had the texture of a steamrolled hockey puck.  Anyway, I grabbed the bag of food, went to the ticket office to get my rail pass validated, and had 15 minutes to spare before the express train to Edinburgh departed.  I was lucky enough to get a seat by a table so I could do some writing before my laptop battery died and ended up sitting across the aisle from a lovely older British couple on their way to visit Scotland for the first time.

I remember liking the trains from my previous trip to the UK 15 years ago.  All told, they are surprisingly comfortable and efficient, something Americans could desperately stand to emulate.  Other than a brief bit of rain through Newcastle, it was a beautiful and sunny morning and I quite enjoyed the trip north.  The large windows in each carriage made it much easier to enjoy the countryside speeding by, which didn't look so terribly different from home what with all the farmlands and giant windmill turbines, especially if you pretended not to notice the gothic churches and castles and country cottages dotting the countryside...as if one ever could.  I particularly enjoyed seeing a few neighborhoods that perfectly evoked the #4 Privet Drive of the Harry Potter books, as well as the North Sea lapping the shores of Berwick-Upon-Tweed. At one point along the route I saw what appeared to be an apartment building with brightly colored boxes installed over random windows that I found fun--very Mondrian. I even appreciated the little hand grips on the back of each aisle seat provided to give passengers a place to pull up or to hold on when the train lurches about without actually having to fondle the seat and/or a passenger's shoulder by accident the way we would have to do. It struck me as terribly British--polite to a fault.  Either that or just a concerted effort to avoid contact with strangers...either way.  I did discover to my chagrin that I fail at working the toilets on the train, though.  First you have to stagger like a drunken badger to the bathroom, working against the rhythm of the train, then you have to work out which button works the door and push it firmly after the first couple efforts fail to yield any results other than people in the next carriage smirking at your ignorance.  I eventually figured it all out, though you almost need seat belts to keep from careening headfirst into the wall opposite during some of the more enthusiastic train lurches.  The doors slid open and shut in such a way that I deeply wanted them to make the whooshy sounds of the doors in Star Trek and was terribly disappointed when they didn't.

Absolutely beautiful countryside.

So far I have found the people I've talked with perfectly friendly and helpful, if perhaps a bit cautious (stranger danger!)  There were even some train staff singing and jamming to music in the cafe car behind me, pretty much negating the many American stereotypes that all British people are stuffy, very proper graduates of Oxford who have nothing but tweed in their closets, including their undergarments (though frankly, if I had to wear tweed skivvies, I'd probably be a bit tense and reserved  too).

As we went along I listened to the various train stops being announced and thought the practice was likely helpful in more ways than one, such as in keeping idiot foreigners from mistakenly pronouncing  things like "Derby" instead of "Darby" or  "Worechester" instead of "Wooster."  I hope this will aide me in Wales, because otherwise I'm screwed.  Pronouncing English city names is one thing--I've mostly got that down--but the Welsh deliberately steal all the vowels from their language and ship them overseas (I'm guessing) to languages consisting mostly of vowels in some sort of devilish linguistical exchange designed to torture residents and foreigners alike.  At l.east I know how to pronounce "Aberystwyth" and "Llewellyn" properly...that's a start.

After I departed the train station in Edinburgh, I schlepped my stuff down Princes Street to my hotel, passing the Walter Scott Memorial along the way (Hi, 'Cuz!  Did you miss me?).  I eventually found the hotel tucked away between a New Look (not that I know what we're supposed to be looking at) and a Starbucks (manna from heaven!).  Upon reaching my room I discovered that I have to leave my card in a little slot in the wall to keep the electricity turned on.  I can only assume that electricity thieves run rampant throughout Edinburgh otherwise.  Either that or they knew I was coming from Philly, home of Benjamin Franklin, the original electrical thief.  I seem to recall his efforts involving a questionably-deployed key as well.  I'd also forgotten that British tubs are frequently so tall one needs a stepladder or stilts to get in and out of the basin.  On the plus side, there will always be enough bath water to completely cover a person wider deeper than 3", unlike with American tubs.

Now, with convenient handrails to keep you from falling to your death on the way out.

After spending a few minutes exploring the room amenities, I sat down, took off my shoes, and checked all my messages.  And, since I'd not really slept on either the plane or the train, I nearly passed out on the bed but forced myself to stay awake till a normal (or slightly early) bedtime in order to recalibrate my internal clock.  I also took the time to change out of my sweaty and gross clothes; nearly 24 hours of nonstop traveling of one sort or another can make a person just that little bit ripe.  The funny thing is that a friend suggested before my departure that I should only take old underwear and socks and just ditch them as I go, freeing up more room for souvenirs and such in my bag.  Ironically, I had already been considering this, though I confess to wondering how this will go over with the hotel maids.  Can you imagine?  One of two things is likely to happen:  either they'll think someone is making random sacrifices to the trash and knickers gods or else they'll try to solve the mystery by following the trail of underpants left behind in my wake all over Great Britain, which can only lead to all sorts of awkward questions such as "What exactly were you doing in all those British hotel rooms again???" or "Is that how you were paying for your trip???" Ah, well...that might be embarrassing, but it's not like some random American can damage our international reputation much more than it already has been. Besides, think of the story the maids would have to tell their families that night...almost better than a tip, right?

After a couple hours of rest, I ventured out to find some dinner.  I'd seen a steakhouse online that had gotten pretty good reviews and set out to find it.  All I can say is that I don't have to worry about being considered an 'Ugly American' after my expedition, because all the locals were likely too busy smirking over my Keystone Kops antics.  I must have spent an hour walking around in ever-expanding circles while trying unsuccessfully to find this place, which included an eloquent and graceful faceplant (think the dancing hippos from Fantasia) onto the pavement after I tripped over one of the ubiquitously uneven flagstones in the sidewalk and skinned my knees.  A couple minutes later I looked up and saw a pub called 'Shakespeare' and thought to myself, "Screw it--I'm tired and sore.  Also?  BILLY SHAKES--duh."  So I crossed the street and went into the pub, only to learn that their kitchen was untimely ripped, erm, closed for the day.  Sigh.  Exhausted as I was after the long traveling, this only served to make me more determined to find the steakhouse.  I ended up going into a small cafe with wifi, thinking to look it up on my phone, but was assisted by a young man at the counter with a beautiful Scots accent (I can't help it...it's a thing.  I have an inexplicable weakness for a good Scottish brogue. Genetics, bitches.)  Fifteen additional minutes of walking later, I finally arrived at my destination:  McKirdy's.  I found it disconcerting that a place with such good reviews seemed to be a complete and utter mystery to the locals I'd asked for directions. Turns out McKirdy's is a steakhouse run by a family of butchers for that fresh-to-table-hunk-of-bloody-meat sort of thing.

After consulting with the owner, I opted for a classic burger over the more expensive rib-eye or filet.  The nice thing about talking to the butcher himself is that you get the inside track, like that the burger is basically just chopped-up rib-eye and,  I have to say, that burger was arguably the best burger I have ever put in my mouth...it was freaking DELICIOUS.  Those Lothian cows are damn tasty. The burger came with some perfectly serviceable curly fries and a pepper sauce which I found surprisingly subtle and tasty when dipping both fries and burger into it.  I also learned that "Rocket" is a type of lettuce described as "peppery."  Between the peppery mustard and pepper sauce and peppery lettuce, I'm beginning to sense a theme here in the Isle of the Mighty.  Could it be that the British are secretly spicy?  I couldn't remember the name of that type of lettuce back home, so had to look it up later in my hotel room.  Seems that 'rocket' = 'arugula.'  Who knew?  For desert I ordered the cheesecake of the day, a sticky-toffee cheesecake which looked uncomfortably like cat food paté with a couple of piroulines stuck in the top and a scoop of ice cream beside.  Looks notwithstanding, the cheesecake was tasty enough, though nowhere near the caliber of the burger.

For when you need utensils long enough to feed your neighbor.

After dinner I meandered back to my hotel, stopping first at Boots for some chapstick, water and to look for a particular cough syrup for a friend.  I couldn't help noticing as I walked that with the majority of shops closed the streets had mostly cleared of everyone but young people and young couples.  Seems even in Edinburgh teens and college-age kids go cruising, just on foot or by bus instead of cars.  And I don't think I saw a woman of any age not wearing some variety of tights or hose with her skirt or pants, though I imagine in this climate that is nothing more than sheer (ahem) practicality.

All in all, it was a very pleasant evening, in spite of my Coca-Cola and jet-lag kicking in.  On a side note, how is it that Coke tastes lovely and refreshing when poured over ice but once the ice has melted it burns in much the same way I imagine paint stripper might.  What's up with that?  How are ice cubes the magic ingredient?

Likewise, how is it that it takes approximately 12 hours of excruciating pain to trudge towards one's hotel but the same distance is traversed later in a pleasant 10 minutes?  Stupid perspective and adaptive walking.

Hopefully you've all had as pleasant an afternoon as I have.  Next up, Archives and Edinburgh castle!

So what are your favorite trips/sights?

Kilt Count:  Sadly only one, and that was on a girl piper near the Scott memorial.  I did see a guy wearing plaid trews, though, and another dude with a Stewart tartan tam, so there's that.

Who Do You Think You Are? - The Genetic Journey

Lately I've been watching a show on TLC called "Who Do You Think You Are?"  Largely sponsored by Ancestry.com, it follows various celebrities around as they trace bits of their family history.  Given my own history (and frequent lack thereof), I find this show fascinating.

On the one hand, I'm wildly envious of the stars' seemingly endless resources in hiring professional genealogists and researchers and historians to trace their lineage as they travel all over the world to discover where they came from.  Have to jet off to Europe or the Carribbean?  Oh, darn.  On the other hand, I love how much genealogical searching humanizes these celebrities; their reactions, whether of surprise or excitement or distress, appear genuine because in those moments they are just like the rest of us--regular people searching for who they are and where they came from.  And that's something we all want and deserve to know.

So far this season I've seen celebrities who've discovered they are direct descendants of European royalty and I've watched as other celebrities learned that distant relatives were murderers (though in one case it was arguably self-defense).  The common themes seem to be either how various family members persevered against great odds or how some aspect of one's personality carried down through the centuries.  For example, Jim Parsons of Big Bang Theory wanted to see if there were any creative people or artists in his line; apparently there were several.  Another actor, for whom family is paramount, discovered a long line of ancestors who routinely sacrificed for their families.  Just the other night I watched as Brooke Shields learned that her Italian lineage actually originated in France; turns out she majored in French Literature in college and has always been drawn to all things French without ever really knowing why.  Now she does.

Obviously this is a television show and is therefore edited for maximum effect, particularly in presenting the whole "rise above adversity" theme.  After all, the goal is to snag viewers.  Even so, I am drawn to the latter theme of continuity because I get it--I'm seeing it over and over again as I trace my own ancestry.  I find the idea of continuity in one's family extremely compelling, especially after growing up as an adoptee and having pretty much zero continuity or family history for more than four decades.  Certainly a great deal of who I am was instilled by my adoptive family and I'm grateful for that and for them, but those experiences only define a portion of what and who I am.  Perhaps that's why the recent search for my birth parents and my history has been so valuable to me because I am finally getting a glimpse of my unknown origins.  Some aspects of my ancestry, particularly on my birth father's side, will likely remain a mystery forever.  I wish it could be otherwise, regardless of my birth father's apparent lack of character, because his own ancestry still comprises half of my heredity and I'd still like to learn more about it...I want to see if there is a continuity present in his line as there is on my birth mother's side.

The Love of a Birthmother by Susan Scharpf

Even if I never learn anything more about my birth father, the information I've learned thus far about my birth mother's family has been a gift.  It's difficult to describe how meaningful an experience it is to be able to find a part of yourself that you didn't even know was missing...to hear the echoes of relatives long past calling down to you through the ages...to feel just that little bit more whole.  It's an amazing thing, this context, and I've watched it play out over and over in each episode of this show just as I'm now watching it play out in my own life on a much smaller scale.

It's these stories, these connections, that make everything so real for me.  Seeing names on a page is interesting and all, but when those names come to life and become real, breathing people with whom you might share commonalities?  Well, that's another matter entirely, and one which cannot be underestimated.  I've already written about some of the small commonalities I share with my birth mother, the odd idiosyncrasies that mark me as one of her line and no one else's.  Since then, I've learned a little more about her our family, even with my limited resources.  I'm starting to hear the echoes.  I have one great-grand-aunt who did medical research at a time when women were not generally that highly educated; she helped to isolate the typhus bacterium.  Her sister, another great-grand-aunt, was a musician who taught piano in Germany.  I gather my grandmother was also a pianist.  I know virtually nothing about these people, and yet I can still see glimpses of where my interests in education and music might have originated.  My great-great-grandfather himself founded a well-known mission in Indianapolis which is still in operation today.  I find it particularly ironic that it was originally founded as a home for unwed mothers (and initially called the Door of Hope) given the circumstances of my own conception and birth.  I can't help but wonder if that example might not have somehow influenced my birth mother's decision to put me up for adoption as opposed to aborting me.  If so, then I'm doubly thankful.  Regardless, the echoes are still there--I may not have done anything as big as founding a mission, but I have always liked helping people however I can.

Watching this show serves to remind me how we are all tied to our past whether we realize it or not, as well as whether we are trying to improve upon it or to merely live up to it.  Either way, we are still a product of all those who came before.  For me, this is much like the strange feeling I had a few years ago when I was in the UK.  We spent some time exploring London, though we missed many of the sites I would have liked to see such as Glastonbury, Bath, and Stratford-upon-Avon.  There were various complications along the way that made the trip less than it might have been, but when I got on the train to head to Scotland, all the frustrations melted away.  It felt for all the world like I was going home.  The closer I got to Scotland, the more relaxed I became--the more at peace--as if centuries of Gaelic ancestors were welcoming me back to my native land.  It was a surreal experience, particularly since I had no knowledge of my heredity at the time.

Since then I've discovered through DNA testing that most of my ancestors originated in the UK (with a few Swiss and Germans thrown in for seasoning). Apparently Ancestry.com (which provided the testing) filtered their findings more fully because one day I received an email with updated results showing that I am approximately 31% Irish (yeah, like that's a shocker) and 27% British.  I'm even 10% Scandinavian...yay, Vikings!  Research into my birth mother's family suggests that of that UK percentage, a significant portion is Welsh and yes, there are a a few Scots scattered here and there.  So far I've not found any Irish in my birth mother's lineage to speak of (though I'm not done researching), so I can only assume I inherited the majority of it from my birth father.  Either way, I now have a context for my life-long fascination with all things Celtic (and not just their kilts, though admittedly those are pretty fabulous and tend to make me a little weak in the knees).  I've always been intrigued with the history and mythology of the Celtic nations and drawn to Celtic art, particularly knotwork.  I never knew why before--now I do.  Besides, if I'm part Welsh, I can totally claim a legitimate connection to King Arthur and to Torchwood (and possibly Doctor Who by extension).  Bright side, people...bright side.

Learning about oneself and one's geneaology is a journey in every sense of the word.  Most people get to discover their history over decades; my journey has so far been compressed into two short years, making it arguably more impactful since I didn't have the luxury of living and breathing my genetic family history as I grew up.  Suddenly I have a context for things I didn't previously understand; suddenly I can see the beginnings of a continuity connecting me throughout the years.  Suddenly I understand why my time in Scotland felt so natural and grounding, like Scotland was calling me home.

It was.

Who Do You Think You Are? - The Genetic Journey

Lately I've been watching a show on TLC called "Who Do You Think You Are?"  Largely sponsored by Ancestry.com, it follows various celebrities around as they trace bits of their family history.  Given my own history (and frequent lack thereof), I find this show fascinating.

On the one hand, I'm wildly envious of the stars' seemingly endless resources in hiring professional genealogists and researchers and historians to trace their lineage as they travel all over the world to discover where they came from.  Have to jet off to Europe or the Carribbean?  Oh, darn.  On the other hand, I love how much genealogical searching humanizes these celebrities; their reactions, whether of surprise or excitement or distress, appear genuine because in those moments they are just like the rest of us--regular people searching for who they are and where they came from.  And that's something we all want and deserve to know.

So far this season I've seen celebrities who've discovered they are direct descendants of European royalty and I've watched as other celebrities learned that distant relatives were murderers (though in one case it was arguably self-defense).  The common themes seem to be either how various family members persevered against great odds or how some aspect of one's personality carried down through the centuries.  For example, Jim Parsons of Big Bang Theory wanted to see if there were any creative people or artists in his line; apparently there were several.  Another actor, for whom family is paramount, discovered a long line of ancestors who routinely sacrificed for their families.  Just the other night I watched as Brooke Shields learned that her Italian lineage actually originated in France; turns out she majored in French Literature in college and has always been drawn to all things French without ever really knowing why.  Now she does.

Obviously this is a television show and is therefore edited for maximum effect, particularly in presenting the whole "rise above adversity" theme.  After all, the goal is to snag viewers.  Even so, I am drawn to the latter theme of continuity because I get it--I'm seeing it over and over again as I trace my own ancestry.  I find the idea of continuity in one's family extremely compelling, especially after growing up as an adoptee and having pretty much zero continuity or family history for more than four decades.  Certainly a great deal of who I am was instilled by my adoptive family and I'm grateful for that and for them, but those experiences only define a portion of what and who I am.  Perhaps that's why the recent search for my birth parents and my history has been so valuable to me because I am finally getting a glimpse of my unknown origins.  Some aspects of my ancestry, particularly on my birth father's side, will likely remain a mystery forever.  I wish it could be otherwise, regardless of my birth father's apparent lack of character, because his own ancestry still comprises half of my heredity and I'd still like to learn more about it...I want to see if there is a continuity present in his line as there is on my birth mother's side.

The Love of a Birthmother by Susan Scharpf

Even if I never learn anything more about my birth father, the information I've learned thus far about my birth mother's family has been a gift.  It's difficult to describe how meaningful an experience it is to be able to find a part of yourself that you didn't even know was missing...to hear the echoes of relatives long past calling down to you through the ages...to feel just that little bit more whole.  It's an amazing thing, this context, and I've watched it play out over and over in each episode of this show just as I'm now watching it play out in my own life on a much smaller scale.

It's these stories, these connections, that make everything so real for me.  Seeing names on a page is interesting and all, but when those names come to life and become real, breathing people with whom you might share commonalities?  Well, that's another matter entirely, and one which cannot be underestimated.  I've already written about some of the small commonalities I share with my birth mother, the odd idiosyncrasies that mark me as one of her line and no one else's.  Since then, I've learned a little more about her our family, even with my limited resources.  I'm starting to hear the echoes.  I have one great-grand-aunt who did medical research at a time when women were not generally that highly educated; she helped to isolate the typhus bacterium.  Her sister, another great-grand-aunt, was a musician who taught piano in Germany.  I gather my grandmother was also a pianist.  I know virtually nothing about these people, and yet I can still see glimpses of where my interests in education and music might have originated.  My great-great-grandfather himself founded a well-known mission in Indianapolis which is still in operation today.  I find it particularly ironic that it was originally founded as a home for unwed mothers (and initially called the Door of Hope) given the circumstances of my own conception and birth.  I can't help but wonder if that example might not have somehow influenced my birth mother's decision to put me up for adoption as opposed to aborting me.  If so, then I'm doubly thankful.  Regardless, the echoes are still there--I may not have done anything as big as founding a mission, but I have always liked helping people however I can.

Watching this show serves to remind me how we are all tied to our past whether we realize it or not, as well as whether we are trying to improve upon it or to merely live up to it.  Either way, we are still a product of all those who came before.  For me, this is much like the strange feeling I had a few years ago when I was in the UK.  We spent some time exploring London, though we missed many of the sites I would have liked to see such as Glastonbury, Bath, and Stratford-upon-Avon.  There were various complications along the way that made the trip less than it might have been, but when I got on the train to head to Scotland, all the frustrations melted away.  It felt for all the world like I was going home.  The closer I got to Scotland, the more relaxed I became--the more at peace--as if centuries of Gaelic ancestors were welcoming me back to my native land.  It was a surreal experience, particularly since I had no knowledge of my heredity at the time.

Since then I've discovered through DNA testing that most of my ancestors originated in the UK (with a few Swiss and Germans thrown in for seasoning). Apparently Ancestry.com (which provided the testing) filtered their findings more fully because one day I received an email with updated results showing that I am approximately 31% Irish (yeah, like that's a shocker) and 27% British.  I'm even 10% Scandinavian...yay, Vikings!  Research into my birth mother's family suggests that of that UK percentage, a significant portion is Welsh and yes, there are a a few Scots scattered here and there.  So far I've not found any Irish in my birth mother's lineage to speak of (though I'm not done researching), so I can only assume I inherited the majority of it from my birth father.  Either way, I now have a context for my life-long fascination with all things Celtic (and not just their kilts, though admittedly those are pretty fabulous and tend to make me a little weak in the knees).  I've always been intrigued with the history and mythology of the Celtic nations and drawn to Celtic art, particularly knotwork.  I never knew why before--now I do.  Besides, if I'm part Welsh, I can totally claim a legitimate connection to King Arthur and to Torchwood (and possibly Doctor Who by extension).  Bright side, people...bright side.

Learning about oneself and one's geneaology is a journey in every sense of the word.  Most people get to discover their history over decades; my journey has so far been compressed into two short years, making it arguably more impactful since I didn't have the luxury of living and breathing my genetic family history as I grew up.  Suddenly I have a context for things I didn't previously understand; suddenly I can see the beginnings of a continuity connecting me throughout the years.  Suddenly I understand why my time in Scotland felt so natural and grounding, like Scotland was calling me home.

It was.