A Visitor

Krista came to visit this past week and besides having an awesomely good time, we did the usual Scottish round-up. A Scottish round-up includes going to almost every pub in St. Andrews, travelling by bus through the Scottish countryside (although I made Krista go to Edinburgh on her own - my schedule was not very flexible this past week), I made haggis, we were entertained by my British flatmates, and we discovered one of the finest beaches in Scotland. Of course, there was the usual St Andrews tour, which takes about 2 hours: the castle, the cathedral, the campus, the town, and the golf course. Add on another half an hour to walk back to my flat.

Correction: As Krista pointed out, as did several other visitors, I do not exactly walk through fields to get to class. There is a paved path. But the fields border it - one side being hay fields and the other being a hedge and playing fields. The rabbits and ravens are the most frequent site along this walk.

Budapest, Part 1: Arrival

It's been awhile since I set foot in the land of writing blog entries. For the past several weeks, I travelled to a myriad of places. Nothing too obscure - unless we want to discuss the Beckett I read for my Irish literature class - I jaunted my Bohemian self across the plains of Europe to better explore Budapest and Paris. Of course, if I needed any less Bohemia, it might be now. But that may be another story to follow.

I arrived in Budapest around midnight, following a day of airports. If I ever appreciated train travel, it is now after spending at least 2 full days at airports in order to acquaint myself with Europe on a budget. I have come to learn that the budget airlines of Europe are all talk - they are extremely uncomfortable, inefficient, and often make up the 'budget' price with a variety of fees. However, after a jaunt with WizzAir from London to Budapest, I was more than happy to meet the transportation of Eastern Europe. (My experiences of public transportation in Poland were very limited.) Lena, who I was visiting, met me at the airport and we then took the night bus back to her flat in the center of the city. Unfortunately, she had never been on a night bus this far from the center of Budapest and it proceeded to become an adventure, one in which we picked up some random Italian guy, also hoping to get to the center of town.

After getting off the airport shuttle at the metro stop, we waited for a bus, Lena, me, and the Italian. We waited at the stop, trying to ignore the exceedingly drunk and fat Hungarian man. But unfortunately this was no ordinary drunk, content with talking to himself. He kept making noises at us, "Wsht, wsht, wsht" he would say, and then he kept getting closer, close enough for us to see the spittle we had previously imagined. Luckily for us, the bus arrived. Unluckily for me, the drunk decided to climb on the bus ahead of me, and as I tried to climb the stairs with my suitcase, he fell backwards off of the steps. I jumped off before he could hit me, jamming my finger against the handle of the suitcase, while tentatively trying to get past him. Eventually, I joined Lena on the bus and we were off.

After about forty minutes, we made it back to Lena's apartment, a grand relic of the Soviet era. It was like the similar Polish relics I had seen, but it was surprisingly decent on the inside. While small, the apartment was comfortable and the owner had made a thorough attempt at decorating it. I readily admired the various retro Hungarian ads the filled the walls and the simple, yet attractive mixture of antiques and Ikea. As it was late, we went to bed, Budapest waiting for the next day.

The Laundry Conundrum

I've noticed a strange phenomena among British students: before they go home for a break, they always do their laundry! This seems very unintuitive to the American student. To go home means good food, no work, and a suitcase full of dirty laundry. Among my friend in Berkeley, there were many who went home specifically to do their laundry. It was a littler harder for me, home being six hours away, but when I did go home, I remember packing suitcases full of dirty clothes. On one occasion, even the clothes I were wearing were the least dirty out of everything.

Yesterday, I went to the laundry room to do my laundry. I needed to do it since spring break was shortly approaching and as I will be travelling for several weeks, I needed to make sure I had the right clothes to travel with. However, this past Wednesday afternoon, the laundry room was packed. It was the laundry rush hour. Everyone was doing their laundry before going home and I heard several students mention they had to do it before they caught their train that afternoon. I was extremely perplexed.

Another thing I have yet to figure out is the laundry code of law here. In my dormitory in Berkeley, when someone's washer or dryer was done, you waited at least 10 minutes before unloading it and then you would put it in their basket, which was normally sitting on top of or next to the machine. Yesterday however, I arrived five minutes after my laundry was done and found it heaped in a pile on the bench in the middle of the room! They hadn't even bothered to put it in the empty dryer overhead. There are always bizarre stories with college laundry (one of my friends had all of his underwear stolen from the washers at Caltech), but generally there's an unwritten courtesy. And no one really wants to touch a strangers 'delicate' items.

I have yet to find out the reasoning behind this British phenomenon of laundry. But when I do, it will be another mystery of British academia unsolved.

Bike Lanes

For all the bicycle enthusiasts (and those who enjoy pavement, roads, etc.), SlateV posted this video recently.

On another note, I always enjoy when I recognize places in films or online videos.

A Foul Foul Beast

I woke up yesterday morning thinking I must be sick I felt so cold. Despite getting dressed and turning up the heat, I still felt cold. When I walked outside, which did not seem too cold, I felt chilled. I was wearing a wool coat, a wool ski sweater, a tee shirt, jeans, knee socks, and leather shoes. Later I found out it was negative one degree celsius and everyone was just as cold as I was.

The weather has been a tumultous beast this week. On Friday, several friends from California were visiting and as we walked into town, we encountered rain, sleet, hail, and snow. Then there was the wind. The BBC had predicted it would be around 40mph, but considering the sheer force I would have believed it was stronger. Lena commented that even the hurricane winds she experienced in Florida weren't this strong.

We went down to the beach and saw the waves washing over the top of the stone pier. We could barely climb the path back up the hill to the cathedral ruins.

This past week I've encountered snow three of the four days. Yesterday it did not snow in St. Andrews, but I had to go on a field trip to the Grassic Gibbon Centre in Aberdeenshire and along the way, the bus had to drive through an actual snow storm. In the safety of the Gibbon Centre we watched the snow pour down, tea in hand, wondering where our crazy Scottish professor would take us next. Luckily, our next jaunt to the old Norman church ended before the next wave of snow came down. By the time we reached St. Andrews, we were back in the land of sun and gale force wind.
Strangely enough on Saturday I got sunburned while we walked around the fishing town of Anstruther. It was snowing lightly and I was only outside for several hours. However, this only proves that I am fully adapting to Scottish culture, or have enough Northern European blood in me to fully weather the climate like a native.

Sporting Rumble

With March brings the hollerings of March Madness, but here in Scotland, we seem to have forgotten the inner call of all things sportif. While reading such interesting articles on Slate, like Teams We Hate 2008, I found such tidbits of juicy university sports gossip. Apparently some Oregon State basketball players challenged their Washington opponents to a rumble in the parking lot. As everyone good West Coast college sports fan knows, this is probably the most impressive thing any Oregon State team has done practically ever. It's a very bad fate if Oregon State beats you at anything.

Here in Scotland March lacks the luster of their American sporting counterparts. Then again, my knowledge of British sports, while vastly improved, has yet to compare to any local's. Everyone asks what kind of expectations I had when I arrived in Britain and how they altered or were confirmed. I usually forget to mention sports when this comes up, but one expectation that was fully confirmed was the downright passionate love of football. Yes, I mean soccer.

The British are born with a downright love of football. You root for one team and that is your team. No exceptions. There is no separation from the sport and you. I'm not sure if this makes any sense, but football does run in the veins. It does not matter how disinterested a Brit may seem, they do in fact care.

The other national sport that seems to dominate Sundays along with the latest football match is rugby. I knew it was popular but not this popular. I think the guys in the flat next door care about rugby more than they care about football. But then again, rugby is considered a classier game. (I wonder what Frank Deford would say about this.) Rugby is considered a more elite sport. It is not dominated by chaves (the British equivalent of white trash) and their even trashier wives (Footballers' wives - there's a sitcom on it). Instead, it belongs to the boys who went to the British public schools and eventually inherit some estate. But yet it reaches to a lower class as well, showing pure bouts of aggression and passion. Emotion is acceptible in this sport.

Of course the most elite sport is polo. No description needed. Although at St Andrews, the membership is extremely high, riding lessons essential and not included (they are 40 pounds a lesson; minimum 2 a week). Several of my friends have had run ins with the polo team and the lasting impressions are now infamous. (I only wish it had been like the Oregon State rumble: Californians vs. St Andrews Polo Players.)

My favorite sport (and least known) is shinty. As it was once described to me, it is the more violent, Gaelic cousin of hockey. Played in a field, shinty uses hockey sticks, although one is not required to only hit the buck/ball. This sport is known for its brutality and impressive players. If you think hockey players don't have teeth, go find a shinty player.

Traditionally shinty encouraged stamina and better swordplay during battle, or so I've been told. One English friend of mine tried shinty his first year and decided that although fun, even shinty players were too 'hardcore' for him. This is a guy who is over 6 feet and drinks like no other most nights of the week. In fact, I believe what got to him was the extreme parties.

I don't think any explanation of cricket is necessary and despite any rumors, is nothing like baseball. The British do like to compare their game, Rounders, to baseball. I however believe that baseball is a much more complicated and intellectual game than the childhood physical education game of Rounders.

For all who were wondering, I still think golf is boring. No amount of Scottish scenery is going to change that.

The Watergaw, or My Last Wild Look

Ae weet forenicht i' the yow-trummel
I saw yon antrin thing,
A watergaw wi' its chitterin' licht
Ayong the on-ding;
An' I thocht o' the last wild look ye gied
Afore ye deed!

There was nae reek i' the laverock's hoose
That nicht - an' nane i' mine;
But I hae thocht o' that foolish licht
Ever sin' syne;
An' I think that mebbe at last I ken
What your look meant then.
-Hugh MacDiarmid

This morning I arose at 6am, after a mere two and a half hours of sleep, and caught the bus to the train to the airport in Amsterdam. When I landed, I took another bus to the train station, caught a train, and then took a bus back to St. Andrews. That took approximately 5 hours. The flight was an hour and a half.

Despite my near deathly state of fatigue, it was nice to walk around the streets of Utrecht, a few other scattered early risers joining my morning, but equally ready to keep it a solitary experience. I saw the sun rise, red lines stretching among the clouds and scattering into faded pink blurs. It was surprisingly not cold and fairly sunny.

A more delightful moment of being so fatigued was the sheer surprise when I handed the conductor my ticket on ScotsRail and learned I'd accidentally bought a first class ticket. He promptly helped me move my stuff, had the tea trolley man pour me a cup of tea and give me some shortbread, and settled me into the 1st class compartment. There was one man there, in his middle ages, reading a variety of local papers, as all Scots of a certain age are prone to do. And once again, I found myself in the strangely comforting and solitare world of the landscape. (Even better, the 1st class ticket equalled the price of a 2nd class ticket and a cup of tea from the trolley.)

Last week I realized that I have seen the more sunrises this year alone than in any other part of my life. The fate of the poor traveller is one of odd hours and odder company. Just the week before I arose at 5:30am in order to catch my 10:30am flight in Edinburgh. I was going to take the bus that stopped in front of my building at 6:30am, but after a serious debate I decided it was more important to eat my still cooking fried egg and walk the mile to the bus station. Although exhausted and nearly shattered, the walk was incredible. For as much as I normally hate the long walk between fields, with nothing to greet you but crows and North Sea winds, those few isolated moments are perhaps some of the most momentously beautiful. I walked dragging my suitcase in the cold pre-dawn air, while rabbits hopped around nibbling grass and looking at this strange intruder. The birds whistled and chirped, all varieties I had never seen before, and grouse flocked among the fields trying to find a seed here or there.

Then the sun rose, slowly waking people and cars and the isolated townie walking a dog. Correction, not walked, but let run among the fields and grass, and with a well pursed whistle, the dog would immediately come running. Then as I stepped into town, I could feel the gray cobblestones dissolving their frost and the tendrils of sun creep along even the darkest Medieval alleys.

These are the moments I love Scotland. I love its grand gestures and its outwardly harsh landscapes. Even the clouds are violent, moving against a timid sky. One evening I was walking home, once again among the fields, and found the world falling asleep. The rabbits once again nuzzled the grass and the light quickly withdrew itself, pushing the trees and the distant ocean into darkness. In an instant, the stars were visible, point upon point of distant sky revealing itself. I had thought the stars in the remotes of the United States were magnificent, but nothing compares to a fierce evening wind revealing a fragile night sky.

They say if you hate something, you had to have loved it. I am starting to believe Scotland is just as fierce in its love as in its hate. The earth has some magnetic force driving you towards it and the harder you try to pull away, the stronger the grasp. I escape every time, falling in love with a new place, only to be driven back with an even fiercer longing for this strange home.