Because sometimes you have to remember that these things do happen.

It's 3:32AM. I'm sitting on the sofa in Dover 12, listening to the Postal Service and keeping watch over a violently intoxicated friend. My partner-in-care is taking a nap, and I'm at 1st watch. I should be doing homework, something productive with my night vigil, but sometimes, every once in awhile, you have to leave behind a little bit of evidence, if only as a reminder that college wasn't always so great. A pillar of honesty to keep yourself grounded in yourself.

Happy All Saints Day!

Homestay + Fire

This post will concern two things:

1) Homestay in Stirling

2) Juggling Fire!

So part of the IFSA Butler program is to spend a weekend in the home of a Scottish family. I was paired with Juliana (complete coincidence; we didn't have any choice in the matter) and sent to Stirling by bus, which picked us up in St. Andrews. The ride was, by all accounts, uncomfortable, due to the bus driver's erratic driving habits and the winding roads of midland Scotland. I enjoyed a conversation with Aaron for the duration of the trip, and luckily we were seated at the front of the bus, with a view out the windshield, so neither of us were motion sick. Unfortunately I can't speak for everyone...

We arrived in Stirling and waited in a cold, dark, empty car park for about 45 minutes. We decided to call the coordinator of the program, and we found out that our families were told differently, and were waiting in a park about a 10 minute drive away. Our bus driver, already disgruntled by various events, turned downright nasty and yelled at the coordinator, a tiny elderly woman, when we arrived at the right car park. She put him in his place, however, and he drove off. We didn't have to negotiate with him anymore, which was a relief. We were met by our families, and some were driven off to the homestays. Juliana and I rode a taxi to our host mother, because she didn't drive. When we arrived, she was standing in the doorway, and told us immediately to take off our shoes. The house was immaculate, but I don't want to give the wrong impression: she was very hospitable and encouraged us to make ourselves comfortable.

Our host mother, Mary, is at least 80 years old, with a bad leg and widowed. She has 3 grandchildren, their pictures proudly displayed in her bay window. She had recently moved to Stirling from London, where she had lived all her life, to be close with her sister and nieces and nephews. The neighborhood she lives in now is a little rough, but she completely updated and redecorated the house, with upscale kitchen appliances and very comfortable, new furniture. She's very fond of air fresheners (she had those little contraptions that *puff* freshener every few minutes. It took awhile to get used to their little exhalations) and she loves trifle.

That's about all I found out about her, unfortunately. We did our best to draw her out and talk with us, but she seemed to think that we would prefer to keep to ourselves, and was surprised that we wanted to spend time with her. The TV was on constantly, and since there was a TV in the living room, dining room, and her bedroom, she was never without it. Her bad leg kept her from going out much, though she said that she occasionally walked into town with her sister. She wasn't lazy, per se. Like I said, the house was immaculately clean and organized, and she insisted on cooking for us and doing the dishes (towards the end of the weekend, she didn't insist as much; I was allowed to make lunch on Sunday and load the dishwasher). Every time we entered the house, she offered hot drinks. I really didn't know what to make of the situation, and did my best to encourage conversation. We were there, after all, to get acquainted with Scottish culture. Unfortunately, she couldn't tell us much about Stirling (having only lived there a few months), and I think the only thing I learned about UK households is that television plays a big role.

Ah, it feels cruel to tell it this way. She really was a sweet woman, and I think she really appreciated our company, for what it was. She had us give her our addresses, so she could "send Christmas cards." I thought that was incredibly sweet, an indication that she liked us, even if she wasn't expressing it in curiosity about us.

On Saturday, we were picked up by the taxi service hired by the homestay program, and were taken to the William Wallace Monument. Built in the late 19th century, the monument is a essentially a stone tower, topped with gothic-style spires. It was raining, but the setting was still beautiful: the monument is set on a hill, overlooking the town and the autumn colors, with mountains in the distance. After listening to a William Wallace reenactor, we climbed the steps to the top of the tower. It was like entering a different level of the atmosphere (though in reality, we weren't incredibly high; only high enough to be a danger to low-flying airplanes): very high winds, very fast, pelting rain. The wind really was incredible, which is kind of a theme for Scotland. Definitely rivaled the gale force winds in Anstruther.

We then got back into taxis and drove into town, to see the Stirling Castle. Unfortunately, we only had 15 minutes to see it, an no one wanted to pay the 5 pound charge to get in, so we wandered around the gift shop.

We then walked down the hill to the Old Town Jail, now a museum with a theatrical tour. Fairly self-explanatory; the Scots apparently pride themselves on their history of reformative prisons.

After the prison, we were set loose into the city; though, as we had no map and no tour book, we had no way to direct ourselves. Unfortunately, we ended up at the Stirling mall, wandering aimlessly and vaguely hungry. We hailed another taxi, which took us back to our homes. Juliana and I ate chicken curry with Mary, then watched the British equivalent of Dancing with the Stars, called Strictly Come Dancing.

On Sunday, I made Skyline chili for Mary and Juliana. It was more or less a success; Juliana liked it and Mary was happy not to cook. Around 3:15, we were picked up again, and we boarded the bus back to St. Andrews.

Now, fire juggling! The St. Andrews JuggleSoc has fire nights every month or so, on Castle Sands, and last night was the first I was able to attend. I was pretty nervous (never juggled fire before), but incredibly excited. Juliana came with me, acting as my official photographer. It was 8pm, well after sunset, and my biggest worry was the fact that I wouldn't be able to see the torches, only the flames. So I arrived, some people gave me vague advice on how to do it, I soaked the torches in paraffin, and gave it a try. At first I was failing miserably, dropping them over and over again. But then I got the hang of it, got used to the sound of flames twirling in my face (it's quite loud!), and figured out where the torch handles were in the dark. It was so fun! I singed the hair off my hands, but I'm none the worse for wear. The paraffin doesn't burn that hot, really.

I originally was going to leave it at torches, but I was feeling brazen and decided to try fire poi. I'm not a great poi spinner, but I did all right. I think it has more of a spectacular element than juggling anyway. Juliana took pictures, Aaron showed up after a while, and John took his mother down to see it. Others were doing fire poi, staff, and these fire fan things, which were pretty cool. I'm glad I got the chance to work with fire, and I'm psyched about getting a fire show going at Kenyon when I get back.

Now, I just need to write my Montaigne essay, and then I can enjoy Halloween. Juliana and I are thinking of dressing up as Grendel and Beowulf, respectively. I'll be sure to get pictures!

Signing off,

Your fearless explorer

"Pomegranates bring out the worst in me."

A guy studying here from Middlebury takes his pomegranates very seriously. He's also a very talented pianist.

This past week I've focused on getting two essays prepared for their due dates next week, so forgive my absence, dear reader. I still haven't started the second essay, but it will get done. It always gets done.

Last week was a bit of a let down after Inverness, I'm afraid. I expended a lot of time and energy trying to digest and package the Highlands weekend into pictures, journal entries, etc. I've also been a bit sleep deprived, the result of having very exuberant neighbors and paper-thin walls. Combined with a spike in workload, my demeanor has been rather gray.

BUT my life has taken a pretty interesting (and I hope meaningful) turn in the last week or so. For one, I've rediscovered my love of running. Sure, I've been running on and off for years, but I'm really enjoying my runs now, even look forward to them. I have a goal to run the half-marathon on Earth Day in the spring, and I'm drawing from a deep-well of resolve and positive energy at the moment. I've decided to make running my therapy; it calms me in a way that no other activity can.

Secondly, I know what I want to do after graduation. I've played around with the idea of the Peace Corps for years, but I've never really committed my mind to it. I always thought I'd go to somewhere in Eastern Europe, where I could use my Russian. But I don't know much about Eastern Europe, and all I have to go on is a vague interest and affection for the place, probably born out of watching Fiddler on the Roof. But it never took hold, never assumed any greater meaning than an inclination. But now, I think I know where I want to go: the Philippines. It hit me when I received an email from my mother, telling me that much of our family over there had to be evacuated after the typhoon and flooding earlier this month. They're all ok, but the situation is dire for the country, with shortages of clean water, food, sanitation, etc. I'm not in a position to help them, and I feel terrible about that. I want to make it up to them. Going there for two years, learning the language, engaging in my culture in a way that I never have before would, and helping, finally giving back after all my years living in privilege in America, would be a meaningful, worthwhile devotion of my time after college. I'm really, genuinely excited about graduation in a couple years now. I've never felt that before. Having purpose is so fortifying.

Anyway, Scotland. I haven't left St. Andrews since Inverness, so I've had a lot of opportunities to get to know people better. Last week I attended Poetry and Cake (!) with Brennon, and we met up beforehand to make puppy chow (great success with the British students, by the way). We had a blast, and stayed for over 2 hours. It's such a simple thing, but when implemented well, very enjoyable. There was this guy from Maine who recited at least 10 pages of Kipling poetry by heart. Amazing. Another read some Russian poetry. I shared my favorite John Montague poem ("Uprooting"). I plan on making Poetry and Cake a weekly thing.

I also went to my first "JuggleSoc" meeting. I...was a little surprised. I was expecting the St. Andrews crowd to have the edge on talent, but they're all pretty amateur, I guess. I was one of the best jugglers there, and I don't think that's ever happened. I tried my hand at juggling knives, but I lost confidence and didn't do more than 2 (they're really heavy). I was also a little disappointed with their equipment, which was a little shoddy (though they have a lot more than Kenyon). I guess Nathan really knows what he's talking about when he orders from Dube. But there's a fire meeting this Monday, out on Castle Sands, and I'll definitely be there.

Right now, everyone is planning their Reading Week travels in November. I spent last night talking to Aaron, the Amherst guy, about Rome, where he will be spending the week. Oh, I really want to go back! But I'm not bowing to temptation; I need to see more of Europe. So, I will be traveling with John and Juliana from York, to London, to Paris, to Frankfurt (to see an airfield that John's grandfather helped build during the War), and end in Berlin, taking a flight back to Edinburgh. It's fast-paced, but I think we can do it. Paris! So excited.

The Royal Post is on strike, so I have no idea what will happen to this next batch of postcards that I'm sending out. Wherever you are, I hope you are getting my mail.

Waxing on Inverness

The Highlands are overwhelmingly beautiful. Ineffably so.

Last weekend was the first of the two IFSA Butler excursions for this semester. We left early Friday morning from St. Andrews, traveled through Dundee and typical central lowland countryside, and stopped at an ASDA in Perth (the Scottish equivalent to Wal-Mart. Seriously) to meet the other students from Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Sterling. While sitting in the little cafe, eating a blueberry muffin, I spotted a familiar visage. Sarah Dowling! She had come from the University of Glasgow, where she is studying studio art for the semester. I almost knocked over a chair as I stumbled over to greet her (got a high five from Brennon for that), and we caught up a bit on each other's lives and abroad experiences. Talking to her was a little surprising; she had picked up a pretty strong Glasgow accent during her month her, and I couldn't help smiling a little whenever she used classic Scottish inflection and phrasing.

I won't get into detail of everything on the trip; it would be a lengthy task for me to do justice to everything and, I'd imagine, a little tedious for you, dear reader. I'll just name some highlights.

We traveled to the Hermitage in Dunkeld, which is a fir forest arboretum located on the banks of the Braan River. What I remember most distinctly is the air: cold, crisp, smelling of pine and moss and ferns. It resembled a California forest, with giant, well-established trees and gnarled roots. The pine needle floor hushed our footsteps, allowing us to hear very distinctly the rush of the waterfall, tiny particles racing through crevices and soaking the mossy stones.

But I'm waxing. We traveled by bus everywhere we went, and like I said, I couldn't get over the beauty of the place, and took to snapping pictures out the window of the bus. None of them really turned out any good. We listened to Snow Patrol and a variety of Scottish folk, when we weren't listening to the tour guide tell stories about the landmarks we were passing, or going into detail about how certain clans got their names. I remember dozing on one of these occasions, waking only to catch certain, very disparate details of a story involving an archer, a crocodile, a king (to whom the crocodile belonged. I think.), a hapless family, and a block of peat. My guess is that the king challenged the archer to kill the crocodile, who had recently been crowned king on the block of peat, creating a dual power system. Having killed the crocodile, the hapless family stole the block of peat, to memorialize their dead king, and vowed to seek their revenge on the actual king. The king, furious at the insolence of the hapless family, ordered the block of peat to be placed on their heads, and again asked the archer to "do his worst." The archer, formerly under the impression that his king was a good guy, realized that this was in fact not the case, as it was his own hapless family that stood beneath the block of peat. So, in order to kill two birds with one stone, he shot the block of peat off their heads, thus relieving them of their burden (both their metaphysical commitment to a reptile, and the physical commitment of having a block on their heads, a block head, a head, a head on a block, a block block).

Some details may have been fudged along the way.

Anyway.

We drove about 2 hours to see our childhoods chug by. The Jacobite Express, also known as the Hogwarts Express, went over a viaduct featured in the HP films, as about 80 students stood perched on a hillside and sighed collectively.

We visited a sheep farm on Saturday. The sheep, however, were really background noise to the sheep dogs, upon which all of us lavished our affections for about an hour. We literally swarmed the place, engaging our nurturing tendencies as puppies were passed around and dogs zipped skillfully around our ankles. We had the chance to shear sheep ourselves, which we were more or less successful at. We left with heavy hearts, making vows to do this again one day, perhaps setting out to find shepherds and shepherdesses to woo and marry.

The final experience I want to detail is Loch Ness and the Urquhart Castle. We took a 30 minute cruise on the loch, on boats with a top deck in open air, and a bottom deck with windows. I stayed the entire time on the top deck, as I couldn't imagine descending below and putting glass between me and the scenery. It really was that beautiful. The wind blew relentlessly as we wound ourselves up into a giddy high, watching the shoreline go by with increasing admiration and deep, abiding awe. Again, many pledged to find a way to live here, somewhere, and settle down with a Scotsman or woman. It was so invigorating.

Urquhart Castle I approached more solemnly. It's a castle in ruins on the banks of Loch Ness, destroyed in the 17th century to prevent the Jacobites from using it as a stronghold. I found myself exploring it alone, which was fine by me, as I seemed to have a lot on my mind. I stood for a while, beneath the ramparts of the castle with a view onto the loch, and kind of meditated. It was good to be alone for just a while, collecting my thoughts and marshaling my senses. I wanted to take some of this with me, make it part and parcel of me. I think I understand why so many people on the trip sighed from the depths of their being when they saw beauty like this. It's not enough just to see it, admire it. We have an innate desire to become familiar, become intimate with the objects of our admiration. Being able to call the Highlands home would be more than just living in a beautiful place. It would intertwine with your identity, become enmeshed inside the tiny cells and particles of your nature. It's the same way with people: it's not enough to admire from a distance; we attempt to coalesce with others that we see as beautiful. We may become them, and they us.

Anyway, the trip was wonderful and I think I came away from it the better. Returning to St. Andrews was a bit of a let-down, though. Oh, the woes of academic rigor! I'm trying to play catch-up in International Relations, having started late, and I'm feeling a little anxious about that. I miss Ohio, but I really am having a good time here. I've been writing a good deal, more than I anticipated, and I've found it truly to have a cathartic effect on me.

Until next time, be well.

Accordions enhance every aspect of daily life

I think I've danced every single night since I've arrived at St. Andrews. It's been fabulous.

Two nights ago, I was spending time over at Juliana's flat with John, Michael (we've decided to call him by his real name. He doesn't deserve a mean-spirited nickname), Daniel (Michael's flatmate), and Aaron, the Amherst guy. The evening took a turn for the better (best) when Michael decided to grab his accordion from his flat and play waltzes and polka for us. He said he only knew a few chords, and he could pick out Scarborough Fair, but he managed to play quite well, and Juliana and I were soon teaching Aaron and John how to waltz. We also made an attempt to choreograph a good ceilidh. The night ended out with a frightful rendition of the Doors' "House of the Rising Sun," sung by myself, John, and Aaron, accompanied by Michael. The cacophony was wonderful to behold! Aaron and I rounded out the evening by putting his new skills to the test, waltzing down the path from DRA, buffeted about by the wind that was picking up that evening.

The following day, Saturday, John, Juliana and I had planned an excursion out to Falkland Palace, the country home of the Stuarts. I would tell you all about its Renaissance architecture, teeming gardens, and charming countryside, but unfortunately, we never made it. We managed to miss the bus twice (once because we were late. Twice when we didn't think to wave down the correct bus), then we decided to abandon the whole enterprise and catch a bus out to Anstruther to find the Kellye Castle. Returning to town, we were waylaid by the farmers' market. A farmers' market! On the first Saturday of every month! I bought a bag of cheese scones and some chocolate. It was also a great opportunity to meet some locals, which is a little difficult to do in a college town. I talked for awhile with a middle-aged couple who sold preserves and cheeses, and they advised me on places to see and asked me about myself and my studies. They were so friendly! Really more pleasant and welcoming than a lot of the Scottish students I've met. So, now the proud owner of some delicious scones, we set out to find a bus that would take us to Anstruther, and beyond.

The bus ride was very enjoyable. We sat right on the prow of the upper-deck, zipping through the countryside and being tossed about well above the bus' center of gravity. The route we chose took us right down the coast, passing through tiny fishing villages and windswept villages. Right, the wind. Remember how I mentioned that it was picking up the night before? It reached gale-force by Saturday. Chicago doesn't have anything on the Central Lowlands. When we got off the bus in Anstruther, the intensity of the wind was drawing up the North Sea into whitecaps and seaspray. Walking about Anstruther, we were a bit at a loss as to how we get to the Castle, and after inquiring at a Bed and Breakfast, found out that it was at least a 5 mile walk away. Stumped, we trotted around the town looking for diversion. That came in the Anstruther Fish Bar, which advertised itself as the top-rated fish and chips establishment in the UK. This place had come highly recommended by the Butler staff, so we gave it a try. We weren't disappointed. I've never had fish and chips before, but I enjoyed it immensely. All the while a video played in the corner of the restaurant, no sound, showing clips from fishing expeditions dating back to the fifties. My mouth being stuffed with fried haddock, it was... enriching... to watch the circle of life unfold on television. No, really, it was quite nice! Just a little strange.

We walked out on the stone pier after lunch. I don't think I've ever been so close to a sea so angry. The wind was positively wild, and the waves were actually cresting level to the pier. Seagulls flapped fruitlessly against the air current, buffeted each way with every gust. Finally, when one of the waves actually crashed over the pier, we retreated, Juliana's and John's shoes and pantlegs soaked. I avoided the worst of it. We returned to the shore slightly shocked, and very windswept.

And so begins our real adventure. We had been intrigued by the little villages we had passed through on the way to Anstruther, and decided to walk along the roadway for a while, back to St. Andrews, and eventually pick up a bus at our convenience. This worked out quite well for awhile; we passed through the village of Kilrenny, which contained about 2 major intersections and sported a very classic chapel at its center. The churchyard drew us in, and we spent some time examining the centuries-old headstones and meandering through the trees and gravel paths. It was late afternoon, the sky a shameless shade of blue, and the stone walls offered some respite from the intense winds, creating a pocket of calm. The yard abutted a field of sheep grazing, and it was incredibly peaceful just to watch them munch away.

Moving on from Kilrenny, we found a dirt road that said it led to the "Fife Coastal Trail." We were in a "why not?" mood, so again we set off, against all prudence. It was nearing dusk, but I think we were all drawn to the ocean. We passed by a pig farm (not at all dirty. The pigs seemed to have very satisfactory living conditions, with plenty of room to roam) before beholding the coast, which became our constant companion for about 5 hours. The coastal path parallels the coastal road, so at any point, one could walk about .5 mile to the west and find the road, and potentially a bus stop. In any case, whether we follow the path or the road, we would make it back to St. Andrews. So off we went! Over 11 miles of beautiful Scottish countryside, fields and rocky escarpments to our right, the North Sea and the "prison island" to our right. Dusk was settling in earnest, the full moon rising to the east. It was startling how ineffably beautiful it was. And all by the seat of our pants! None of us had planned this, and it was our good luck that we had all worn good shoes and packed sufficient lunches, and that the moon was full enough to light our way in the last two hours or so of our trek. We kept spirits up by singing songs, notably "The Mariner's Revenge Song" by the Decemberists that John and I knew by heart. We climbed over stone walls, got up close and personal with a dozen head of cattle, and passed by gutted houses, unroofed and empty. All the while the omnipresent wind tangled our hair and groped beneath our jackets.

We pursued the path bravely, but when, after 5 hours of hiking, we saw a sign that read, "St. Andrews - 7 1/2 miles. Rocky and difficult terrain," we decided to head for the nearest town and pick up a bus. It was after 9, we were cold, and John's shoes were still wet from the Anstruther pier. Turning off the path was a little sad, but considering our lack of prep and time, we were happy to have made it so far. We found a bus stop in the town of Kingsbarnes, and waited for about 45 minutes for the next bus heading for St. Andrews. We ate our sandwiches, Juliana recited 18 lines from the Canterbury Tales, and then we danced polka to try to keep warm. Getting onto the bus, finally, was a relief. Even if it was full of wild clubbers, already pre-seasoned for a night on the town in Dundee. They were pretty funny, in retrospect.

Now, the start of another week. We leave for Inverness on Friday, so more traveling and hiking for me. I can't wait!

"Freedom to Roam"

My first academic week is finished! Not bad, really. 3 day weekend, with Wednesdays off too. I think I've decided to replace the intro philosophy with a course in international relations. I sat in on the lecture (with 400 of my peers, I might add. I've never been a part of a class that big), and I really enjoyed it, not least because the professor had a spectacularly dry sense of humor and wore his billowing academic robes to teach.

Outside of class, this week has been the trial period for "societies" that I'm considering joining. Thus far I've attended Celtic dancing, Doctor Who Appreciation Society (big win), Poetry and Cake (eh...the idea is great, but it's poorly organized, and they seem very unwilling to entrust the club to a coordinator), and Amnesty International (very successful. I'm taking notes). Juggling club is Saturday, but I can't go, because I'll be castle-hopping with Juliana and John. Off to explore the wild moors of Fife! I'm excited to leave campus, and Juliana and John are great company. We've formed a kind of triumvirate together, which has been pretty comfortable and fun thus far. We balance each other well.

I attended my first formal ceilidh (pronounced "kay-lee") tonight! Of course, I've been attending celtic dancing, so it wasn't my first experience, but this one had live music (drums, accordion, and fiddle), and a live caller. For those not familiar, a ceilidh is kind of like contra or line dancing in the States. You learn the dance, usually a pretty simple sequence involving partners and groups, then set it to music in 4/4 time. Really easy, really fun. The key to ceilidh is to be as enthusiastic as possible. My favorite dances were with people who weren't necessarily fantastic dancers, but who enjoyed just bouncing up and down to the rhythm of the music and generally having a blast. The ceilidh was actually being held for the residents of David Russell Apartments (where Juliana and John live), but as I've kind of been adopted into both of their flats and get on very well with all of their flatmates, I didn't feel at all out of place. Come to think of it, the 2 most memorable, enjoyable events that I've attended here were intended for residents of halls not my own: namely, the ceilidh and the bonfire I attended on Saturday. I danced 3 times with a person named Michael, nicknamed "Sam" (standing for Socially Awkward Michael), and his goofy personality and general enthusiasm made him a fantastic partner. Michael has this wonderful sense of humor, highly reminiscent of John Cleese. He has this way of saying "BUCKinghamshire!" that cracks me up every time. But yeah, one goofy kid.

Yesterday I went on a run with John that was kind of by the seat of our pants. Well, all of our runs have started out this way, mainly because we aren't sure of a good route yet. We hopped a fence, intent on running across "frothy" fields and exploring the Fife countryside. Which we did, pretty successfully, but we passed through several patches of stinging nettles (I'm still scratching) and got chased by dogs. Well, not really "chased." It's a bad idea to run from a dog. They just kind of charged us, then about 10 feet away stopped and barked. Ferociously, I might add. Perhaps we took the "freedom to roam" a little too close to heart. There are still vicious dogs to contend with. So it was an adventure! It was approaching dusk, and from our vantage point we could view the hills to the south (that I'd like to explore soon) and the town, with St. Salvator's Chapel Steeple, nestled in the folds of the terrain. It was the "golden hour," as some photographers call it, and we were essentially living in a postcard, or maybe some 18th century Romantic novel (as Liz put it). We returned to St. Andrews (yes, we actually left St. Andrews! It was a good feeling), our feet soaked and our legs covered in welts, but none the worse for wear. And I applaud John's sense of intrepid adventure; I certainly wouldn't have done it myself.

Ack, it's so late. Good night, you kings of Maine, you princes of New England.