Pack Rat

I cleaned out my room.

It's not empty, no. I'm not that far yet in the moving out process. I have simply discovered that a beautiful procrastination technique is cleaning and organizing, because then there is at least something to show for the time you have, apparently, wasted.

Now, when I sit bent over my desk plastered with notes and handouts and notebooks, I watch people plodding over to their parents' cars, drooping under backpacks, pillows, duvets, boxes and plastic bags stuffed to bursting. Just yesterday, Thursday, I had to force myself to comprehend the idea of two weeks. Then it'll be me hauling whatever I can squeeze into one suitcase, a backpack, a pillow and a messenger bag. I have two weeks left in Edinburgh. I think, no! There's so much more to do! I haven't read the books I meant to finish, or explored the museums I haven't even seen the reception desks of; I haven't seen some of my friends since before spring break!

Well, after exams are over (TOMORROW I WILL BE DONE!) I hope my evenings are going to be spent attending all of those "birthday/end of exams" parties that have sprung up on facebook. I do hope that the rain clears up a bit. Although it's reassuring to know that the sun isn't shining while you're rereading far too many powerpoint slides, it's not fun to walk to the gym in the rain. It is also not fun to go to an exam in the rain, and realize, when it's time to leave, that your coat and bag, crumpled by a back wall in the exam hall, are just as wet as when you came in. But I am proud of you, clouds of Edinburgh, for actually raining, not misting or producing dampness and humidity, but actually raining.

Anyways, I'm sorry you've had to endure that bit of complaining. It's not a thrilling post, I am well aware. It's just that, today, I found myself picking through piles of receipts, ticket stubs, programs, letters, lists, pamphlets, flyers, etc., and stuffing at least fifty or eighty plastic bags into a larger plastic bag. Now, I know the first observation is one of a typical pack rat, which I am. I love saving those little papers that, when I find them days, months, or years later, I smile at and lay in a box safe for keeping. Of course, sometimes I find things that have lost their meaning, and those fly straight into the garbage, or, if I remember, into the paper recycling.

But back to the bags. They're not for sentimental value. No, I do not smile when I come across an old, torn Tesco bag. I save them to put my climbing gear in, or to replace the garbage bag in my mini wastebasket. Bags have been folded, stacked and stuffed into corners of the houses I have known.

Back home, we have a stack of brown bags, and a separate doorknob for those nifty, cloth, reusable shopping bags. Our coat rack in the kitchen plays host to tote bags, lunch boxes and backpacks, and a jacket or two may reside there. But really, the jackets belong on the vestibule coat rack. The plastic bags used to gather in our beach bag, but now have been introduced to a giant trash bag of their own, so they aren't evicted each time we need to pack up towels, sunscreen and sunglasses. Before long, I started a plastic bag collection of my own, stuffing a wicker basket on my closet shelf full, until I got fed up, and began folding them.

My grandparents prided themselves on their crisply folded translucent plastic bags destined to protect cheese from the fridge and transport sandwiches from kitchen to picnic.

I remember my horror when, I'm not sure where anymore, I saw someone let their possibly practical plastic bags go to waste away in the trash can. Well, I shall never let that happen. I cleared out the bags under my bed, and could not bear to bring them to the green can in the pantry marked "All other waste". They wouldn't even get their own bag! They now sit, happily scrunched together in a clear plastic bag under my desk, waiting to be useful.

P.S. I wrote this on Friday, the day before my last exam for first year. Now, I can say that I am finished. Oh- and a new, hot pink Superdrug (toiletries shop) bag has been added to my collection.

A Post Long Overdue: Up, Up, and away!

I would like to thank whoever it was that invented the train. I cannot imagine a better way to travel through Scotland. The first few hours out of Glasgow passed by beautifully, but now, it's absolutely magnificent. I almost feel as if I should shove my notebook back into my backpack to stare at the landscape that has swallowed us up.

The sun gleams every now and then from behind the misty clouds that hover just above the horizon, almost brushing the peaks powdered with snow. The hills glide down, with tufts of brown grass peeking out. Snow begins to fall, but I'm safe behind glass and steel, under my new hat and my thick-knit sweater. Suddenly, the song "I've Got My Love To Keep Me Warm" trumpets out of my headphones. I smile.

At one of the last stops before Fort William, when a station consists of small wooden buildings huddled together, we are told to step out to use the bathroom. The conductor assures us, her words curling under her Scottish brogue and her smile disrupted by missing teeth, that the train will not leave without us. I think of times when trains waited an extra moment for a gasping traveler to hurdle in through the doors. We stumble out of our seats, backpack straps tripping us up, and as soon as we emerge, I stick my tongue out to welcome the snow. My first snow in Scotland. My friends laugh and wish for their cameras and I stand admiring the stillness, the quiet that comes with falling snow.
The train does wait.

 Lochs stretch alongside the mountains, their surfaces rippling and opaque, while the streams that sink below the tufted hills shimmer for a few moments before sinking away again. And those mountains rising above are cracked and creased with creeks and ruts running down with bare trunks and branches  folded into them. Firs and birches and conifers flash past, a nuisance when we try to capture the view. And the forests look so soft, with trees grown so close together their tops repeat jagged, green patterns.

After four or five hours, we step off the train and into Fort William. First, we'll get groceries and then we'll head off to the Ben Nevis Inn, at least a mile out of town. But that will all come later.

Thank you, Mr. Sendak

When I open my bedroom door at home, books confront me. A bookcase stretching upwards to the ceiling creates a square halo of spines. The shelf at about shoulder height houses a small pile of miniature books: The Nutshell Library. They are fawn brown with light hardcovers wrapped in fabric that open to reveal characters that take control of their pages and the other characters on them.

I haven't posted here in a while, and I can excuse myself by muttering about exams and essays and Easter holidays, but today I'd like to thank Mr. Maurice Sendak. As I sit here writing, and listening to the Tammy Grimes narrated versions of his stories, Sendak's drawings burst open in my mind. I can see the tiger in One Was Johnny and the trees that transformed Max's bedroom.
There are many children's books, but not all of the stories, not all of the authors, have the power to light up our imaginations. Maurice Sendak always did. Stories that grab our minds and hearts as children are beautiful gifts; because when you return to your childhood home or a box of books at the back of a closet somewhere, it's like finding your supper still warm on the table, when you have been gone so long. Those memories are still crisp and colorful, waiting on the page to grab you once more.

There is no frigate like a book

A week or so ago, I found myself with time on my hands, so I browsed the stacks at the library for a not-so-tattered copy of Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own. When looking through a copy at a bookstore, I had thought of my mother and her room at the back of our house where she often writes her poetry. She always closes the door, against disruption, against distraction, and against cats. Whenever I venture in for paper, or her laptop, it feels as if I've entered another place, another world: one of her creation. The entire right-hand wall as you enter is lined with books, a few trinkets balanced between. One shelf pays homage to the Day of the Dead, with little skeletons lying about, painted and papery. Several real skulls perch around the room as well. More books and manuscripts and boxes of music are stacked around the floor, sometimes leaving only a narrow path, or maybe a few far-apart foot holes, to her two desks.
Now, maybe I shouldn't be giving away this description of the poet's den. After all, it is so secret that even most of her closest friends have never seen it. Our dear, late friend Mardi mused once that there must have been beautiful hanging gardens thriving in her study to rival those in Babylon. But the most wonderful thing about that room, for me, is the light and the smell. The scent of old books mingles with the cane she carves to make her reeds, and that aroma will only ever exist pocketed away in my home. And the light. In morning and early afternoon, the light fades through the window, and seems to waft through the air like dust, never settling, never staying. I hope I can find a room of my own one day, a room like that, where all you need to do is allow inspiration to seep in while you inspect the skulls and brush your finger over the moss garden and gaze at the painted skeletons with bright flowers adorning their heads, and maybe even pose the Mozart action figure.
Without books, though, the room would seem empty.  I have inherited my mother's love of books, and it prods me into almost every bookshop I pass, where I will undoubtedly want to add to my small, but growing, collection. All additions, when well thought out, are rewarding. Today I opened my collection of Tennyson to rediscover a few browned flower petals pressed between the pages. I smiled, thinking of the last owner who must have left them there, and stroked the browning pages curling at the edges. Unfortunately, at university most of my reading tends to be attached to my courses, which do usually supply good articles and books, but I want to be able to read whatever strikes my fancy. So today, I have decided to take a leaf from a friend's book: she makes reading schedules! I haven't added dates to mine yet, but hopefully it will encourage me to read, so I may tick off the chapters and sections as I've read them.
Just today I acquired a new textual treasure, but it's something I don't need to finish or schedule. On my way back from my first lecture, I (not so subconsciously) took a route past my favorite bookshop, hoping it would be open. As the green shopfront peeked out from behind a corner, I saw the outer door had been pushed back to reveal an 'open' sign hanging inside the glass door.
For the past week or so I had been looking around for Emily Dickinson poetry collections, and when I asked the sweet, bespectacled man crouched behind the counter, he quickly led me to a book he had received only yesterday. He always knows whether he has something or not; each book leaves a lasting impression. I immediately bought it (only £3!) and told him of my search. He then responded, "Well, now you know where to come first next time!" I certainly do. I couldn't wait to read and flipped through the poems while walking back, occasionally glancing up just in time to avoid collision, and I stumbled upon this:

               There is no frigate like a book

                   To take us lands away,

               Nor any coursers like a page

                   Of prancing poetry.

               This traverse may the poorest take

                   Without oppress of toll;

               How frugal is the chariot

                   That bears a human soul!

One day, when I'm retired from whatever I settle on doing, I'd like to open up a used bookshop, let the aroma of ink and paper lure book-lovers of all ages in, and I would know every spine sitting on a shelf. Well, I'd like to think so. I would sit and ponder, patient, and wait for wanderers to open the word-packed treasures, soaking up the stories that poured out.

Kuplink, kuplank, kuplunk!

I love it here in Edinburgh, but I will never deny that it can be really wonderful to get random, little reminders of home.
Last Thursday turned out to be a hectic day, and I ran back to Pollock Halls between my first and second lectures, hoping to stop at the gym for an hour or so before my two o'clock tutorial for Linguistics. For each tutorial, we have to do some sort of homework based on the week's lectures. That week we had started talking about spoken discourse and why old or new information will often be placed at the beginning or end of a sentence. Well, the "speech" they used to mimic speaking was an adaption of a children's book: Blueberries for Sal. As soon as I sat down to rush through the work, I stopped and laughed to myself. I sat there reading the excerpt over for a few minutes hearing the words "kuplink, kuplank, kuplunk" echo in my ears from the hundreds of times my mother read me that story. My mind wandered to Maine, and Acadia, and how I long to return, how I'm so jealous that my brother is going there Memorial day weekend.
While going over the exercise in the tutorial, I couldn't stop thinking about Maine, and when my tutor got to explaining that "New England", when mentioned by the speaker, would be old news to the hearer, since it's a commonly known place, she also figured that "Blueberry Hill" was probably some made-up name for the book. My smile burst out and I told her, "No, it's a real place and this is a great book. Blueberry Hill is in Maine. I've been there." It didn't matter that no one else had even heard of the book. I was swept up in memories.
And just the day before a friend had told me that I could probably find a New York Times at the International News Agent on the Royal Mile. One little piece of home is just a short walk away from George Square. I know I can read 20 articles a month online without being charged, but there's something nice about being able to sit on my bed and peruse the editorials and articles on real newsprint. Maybe next weekend I'll try to get a weekend paper so I can read the travel section and save all the pictures. Or maybe not. It's just nice to know it's there.

Paris

The next great adventure of December was Paris. It was so surreal to be there, especially since it was probably the first time I've had to deal with the language barrier on my own (Jack decided he'd let me try to do the talking). Even when I went to Holland, the language was already embedded in my mind, but French was completely unfamiliar.
Suddenly, I recalled "The Human Cost of an Illiterate Society" by Jonathan Kozol, which I heartily recommend. His book Savage Inequalities is also very good. Anyway, I began to glimpse what it must be like to live in a country that doesn't speak your language. In his essay, he forces the reader to sympathize with those who cannot tell the police where they are because they cannot read street signs, or the mother who mistakes a large pack of Crisco for a chicken because of the image on the front.
It was certainly unsettling to mumble a pair of words in French and hope that someone took pity on you, but luckily it didn't come close to the struggle of those who are illiterate. It just meant that Jack and I strolled around Paris, in the vague direction of the Seine, for a few hours before realizing exactly where we were. It was nice, though. For once, not caring if we lost a couple hours, because we found a fantastic little bakery, where we bought a baguette and quiche to share while standing under an awning to keep away from the drizzle.
Well, we finally got to the Seine. I couldn't stop taking pictures. I would stare in awe for a minute or so, and just as Jack started to move on, I called for him to wait so I could take a picture. I wish I could spend months just soaking in the scenery of Paris, months sitting at a cafe, sipping tea while people-watching. I could reserve a week or two to spend entirely in the Louvre and another in Musee d'Orsay, and a week or two to spend in the streets of Marais, the gay district, as well as Montmartre.
Our first official stop was Saint Chapelle: a gorgeous church crowned with starry vaulted ceilings and three walls of stained glass, each portraying a different book of the Bible, and on the opposing wall, a stained glass rose packed with the miracles of Christ.

After that small wonder, we were too tired to fully appreciate the grandiose Notre Dame, although we thoroughly enjoyed it. The only thing was, we thought it would be nice to see the towers, but couldn't find the entrance anywhere. Since we got a bit lost earlier, we hadn't stopped at the hotel, and our backpacks began to drag our shoulders down. After I had lit a candle for my Aunt Priscilla and had captured all the light I wanted in my little Cannon, we left to find food, and then the hotel.

Paris is definitely one of the best places to find good food for a reasonable price. That night and the next morning we found fairly small cafes to eat at that were fairly priced, with a delectable selection of entrees, and friendly service, defying the set stereotype of the scoffing Frenchman. Although, I suppose if we pay money, they'll be as friendly as possible. I choose to be optimistic, though!

I wish I had taken a picture of my dinner that night: pork loin with fresh mustard dressing and tender noodles on the side, topped with a juicy tomato. I barely touched the meat and it split, really melting in my mouth. Jack and I discovered that food and water have an uncanny ability to improve spirits, and we walked to our hotel much more cheerfully than when we had slumped into the restaurant.
Early the next morning, or at least early for Parisians, because when we set out around eight, the streets stretched almost bare before us on our way to the Louvre. As I said, we happened upon a nice little Cafe perfect for breakfast, where Jack devoured a lovely omelette and I "un petit-déjeuner peu de français", a little french breakfast. With fresh-squeezed orange juice and hot tea, I enjoyed the best croissant I've ever had along with buttered bread and jam. 
Soon after, we strolled over to the Louvre and got in only 15 minutes after it opened, which meant the marble sun-lit halls dappled with statues were almost empty, and they were silent. We popped up to the Dutch and Belgian paintings to see Rembrandt, but soon we left in order to make the most of a few hours in the huge museum. 
Again, I was continuously struck by the unreal feeling of admiring some of the most famous works of art, and a strong desire to be able to understand some of the (what I guessed were) art lectures held in the museum, with students sitting, pencil in hand, scribbling down the words flying out of the professor's lips. We also happened upon a few painters, practicing by mimicking the master paintings hung before them. We only really hit the crowds when we moved into the Greek and Roman statues- and then the Mona Lisa. Someday I'll go back and spend weeks gazing as brushstrokes and smooth marble and stone, but for now I will cherish those few blissful hours spent admiring art. 

With a walk along the Seine, we came to Musee d'Orsay, but the queue was much too long to consider going in, which was disappointing. On the other hand, one day when I do go, I'd like to be allowed as much time in there as possible. Instead, we headed over to Musee de l'orangerie. 
Nothing can really prepare you for the spectacle of Monet's Water Lilies. All you can do is sit and stare, stare at the color, pace backward and forward while staring at one lily, and watching it take form as you step away and stare as it decomposes the closer you come into strokes of brilliant red or white or pink. It was hard to leave. The room is white and ovular, accommodating the paintings, and a hush falls over most visitors as they enter this blue-green sanctuary. 

But, finally tearing my eyes away to glance at my watch, I followed Jack to the lower levels, where a small but beautiful collection awaits. We were lucky enough to stumble upon an exhibit of Spanish art "between two centuries", which was rounded off with a few of Picasso's stunning works. I now cannot remember whether photos were permitted downstairs, but my camera was running low on battery, and so I made meager attempts at sketching my favorite paintings to remember them clearly. 
It got to be mid-afternoon, and hungry though we were it was much too early for dinner, so instead, we stopped at the Christmas Market area (or that's my guess of what it was) and shared a fresh crepe smeared with nutella and stuffed with banana slices. Yum. That was gone before we found the metro station where we could connect to a line to the Eiffel Tower. 
I absolutely LOVE going to big cities like New York, Paris and London, where the subway, underground, or metro system is so easy to follow- even a foreigner can do it! Within a half hour or so, we arrived at the Champ de Mars station and made our way around a few buildings before the Eiffel Tower burst into sight, dazzling with orange light. Although we didn't get to take the stairs up (they had closed the stair entrance-not our fault, though very disappointing) we did take them down. As we queued, six o'clock struck and the tower flashed above us, and again as we glided up in the lift. One more hour passed, and we stood on the observation deck for the last time to watch the lights flash on and off, on and off in a pattern so I stood transfixed. First,  I began following a line of lights, then trying to catch the pattern and then letting my eyes slide out of focus and just marveling at the sparkling effect. After a minute or so, I became concerned that it would suddenly stop. That I would have to break eye contact with the metal giant and descend to reality: the end of the trip. But the lights seemed to go on. By the time they stopped I was ready to go, or at least ready enough to accept it. 

P.S. I apologize for the obscene amount of pictures. I couldn't choose!

Once Upon a December...

So I've decided I'm going to try and cover at least some of what I didn't blog about, so essentially the last few months. Maybe I can just to a month at a time and then I can start talking about the present in a few days! Maybe.
Well, we kicked December off with the end of classes- implying the beginning of studying for exams- and going to a Christmas Panto. Now, A pantomime here does not mean a bunch of skinny striped guys running around making funny faces and gestures, but it means a (generally Christmas-themed) farce musical comedy. Bedlam, the fabulous student-run theatre here in Edinburgh, puts one on every year that is student-written, or adapted. Last year's was "The Phantom of the Panto", and this year's was "Harry Panto and the Goblet of F*** Yeah!". When auditions were held, there were only two gender requirements, otherwise anyone could go for any role. McGonagall had to be played by a guy and Harry by a girl. It turned out to be one of the funniest things I've seen on stage. Dumbledore skirted about the stage, jumpy and giddy, while Snape sometimes flapped around for five minutes halfway through a sentence, tumbling over chairs and students. The epitome of happiness, Harry insisted again and again that he (she) wasn't going to be "prom king", and tried to make the best of his life, even though he spent the summer mourning his dead parents and locked away in the cupboard listening to My Chemical Romance. Ron "punched a cow to death" (such a lad). And McGonagall. Well, she (he) taught sex ed. and ended up stripping down to a pink leotard while lecturing the petrified students on the birds and the bees. I do believe that the entire show is on Youtube, if you ever fancy watching a bit of it.
Now, I've begun writing about Paris and it has become clear that that must become its own entry, as I have to head off soon. I'll publish more later today. I quite like the idea of writing a bit each day. 
So, apologies for the short post. Hopefully I'll get a chance to stick a few photos in the next one.