Left

Things I will take with me:

a toffee muffin

mochas with marshmallows

a baby in the window

Wellies

nice people on trains

small talk in grocery stores

Hugh MacDiarmid

Margaret Oliphant

inaudible cab drivers

Uncle Ben's Curry sauce

makeshift sidewalks

cobblestone

romance

fresh fruit

exploding loaves of bread

bad teeth

cider

cheap soap

microwaved naan

a piggy mug

french press

creepy hairstylists

sexism

cute boots

faux fur

folk music

whisky

Twix and tea

small cars

fog

Christmas lights

Quality Street

big hills

bagpipes

vegans

"I can't sleep"

Aye

writing exercises

two journals

dim lights

train rides

maps

a perfect view

Things I will leave behind:

Broken umbrellas

A gym membership

free-for-all sidewalks

Quebecois

drunkards

fire alarms

ugly curtains

dry pens

red tape

unfinished books

4 euros

two pounds

accents

plaster

Irn Brew

Iron gates

Natural light

a cell phone

a time zone

Leaving

I just came back from Pico, my favorite coffee shop in Glasgow, where Gavin and Michael, my favorite baristos, gave me a Christmas card to send me off.  "Wishing you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!" it says.  "Was a pleasure serving you coffee.  Remember to visit--weekly!  Much Love, Gav (xxx) and Michael (xxx)"  They told me to come in tomorrow to get a free cup of coffee before I leave.  I almost started crying there and then in the coffee shop.  Who knew that little old Caitlin, the shy American who used to whisper her coffee orders, would be missed?  It's so reassuring to know that I've accomplished my biggest goal here: to make a home for myself and to touch people's lives, even if it's just for a few months.  I think that if someone told me to, I could definitely do this for a whole year.  It's nice to feel like I have another home to come back to.  Maybe I'll be back here after I graduate.  We will see.

I will miss traveling so much.  Paris was beautiful, sparkly, wonderful--all the things people tell you it is.  I got an email from Steve Wright (my English professor/advisor/hero) this morning in response to a letter I sent him.  He told me about his travels in Europe that always made him feel like "the bravest person walking."  I have never heard a phrase that more aptly described the way I feel when I travel.  In Paris, I was all by myself, speaking French, navigating the subway system, taking pictures on frigid bridges, and ducking into cafés for good bread and good cheese.  I had no one but myself to guide me, and that was empowering.  I really did feel like the bravest person walking down the street.  It makes me feel like I could go anywhere and do anything as long as I have a map.

Now it's about thirty hours until I leave.  Haven't packed a thing, feeling overwhelmed with sadness and excitement.  My mom told me that she had a hard time studying in Switzerland when she was in college, but she vividly remembers crying on the train ride to the airport on her last day.  I have a feeling that's where I'm headed, but hopefully I'll be able to delay the waterworks until my plane ride home.

Clip From Dublin

Here is a video from Dublin, in case you wanted to know what an Irish, Spice Girls-themed drag show looked like:

Dreams

I've been having strange dreams lately about coming home and coming back to Beloit: either people don't recognize me in my dreams or I don't recognize them.  Usually my dreams are enigmatic glimpses into my subconscience that I end up picking over for days afterwards, but in this case, the reason behind them seems a bit too obvious.  I think my brain is mocking me.

I do not feel irrecognizable, however.  Maybe I'm a little smarter, a little cooler than I was four months ago, but not a completely changed person.  Yet for some reason, it feels like I'm going through some kind of premature culture shock.  I'm not really sure how Scotland is going to fit in with the rest of my life.  Sometimes when I wake up from my dreams about home, I think Scotland is a dream, and vice versa.  I'm afraid I'll come home unsure of where I was or what it meant and it will all seem like a four-month long coma.

I suppose I'll find out what it all meant soon enough.  I have exactly a week here, which is pretty unbelievable.  Amelia Buzzell put it well in her letter to me: "This has been the shortest and longest semester of my life."  When I think about saying goodbye to my parents in front of the security line in September, holding back tears and telling myself to be brave, it seems like eons ago.  The leaves were still green, the days were still long.  But I guess that's what happens when  you think about time in terms of seasons instead of moments.  Green leaves and long days seem worlds away from the brown and gray outside my window now.

Tomorrow I leave for Paris, and when I come back on Wednesday, I will have about two days in Glasgow to say goodbye.  Sarah and I made a list of things we want to do before we leave, but I doubt we'll get around to it all.  Today I was walking down Great Western Road, past all the restaurants I meant to go to, and I felt pretty blue.  I looked up at the rooftops because I remember the first day I was here when my cab driver from the airport told me that "people in this city forget to look up," and that the city is a whole lot prettier when you look at the skyline or the rooftops.  This little trick has helped me get through a lot of sadness in the past four months.  Every time I want to say "I hate it here," for some reason I always end up looking at someone's roof.

Anyway, most of you are probably home by now, basking in post-exam relief and indulging in your mom's best cooking.  I hope to see at least some of you when I get back to D.C., but until then, hold down the fort.  I'll be there soon!

P.S. I found out what the deal is with Cheerios in the UK (prepare yourself, this may blow your mind): What the British call "Cheerios" in the UK, is actually what we call "Multi-Grain Cheerios" in the states.  "Cheerio Oats" most resembles the Cheerios we're used to, only with four more grams of sugar, as I came to learn this week.  I guess that's what you get when Nestle monopolizes the cereal industry.

Breaking News

The plain Cheerios here are sugar-coated.

FINALLY

I can finally, FINALLY say that I am happy here.

This comes less than a month before I leave, but I suppose that's how study abroad usually goes.

Hanna came to visit me for Thanksgiving, and it completely changed my morale.  Hosting someone when you're overseas is interesting when you're still feeling like a stranger yourself.  Scary to think that it was only two months ago that Hallie came to visit me.  I had a wonderful time with her, but it was a little bittersweet because it made me realize just how much I missed my friends from home, and it was especially disheartening to think I had so much time left in Glasgow before I would see them.  Seeing Hanna last week, however, was totally uplifting because I could enjoy spending time with her knowing that it wouldn't be long until the next time we would see each other in January.  

Having a guest can also make you re-appreciate all the qualities that make your study abroad unique.  I took Hanna to my favorite vegan restaurant in the city and afterwards we went shopping at my favorite vintage store.  It was fun to see Glasgow through her eyes because sometimes I forget about all the cute little restaurants and stores that I can call my own.

We spent Thanksgiving dinner at an Indian restaurant, and afterwards we went to bar where we made friends with Said, a guy from Kenya, who told us that we talked "like rappers."  It was an absolutely fantastic evening, filled with wonderful conversation and many a pint.  Said was cool, maybe a little creepy too, so when he bought Hanna and me cocktails, we poured them out on the floor for fear of getting date-raped (it happens quite often around here).  "We're smart women," Hanna said proudly.

Friday was mostly spent in Edinburgh.  There was a beautiful Christmas festival going on just off Princes Street, and Hanna and I rode the ferris wheel, bought warm hats, and drank German Christmas punch outside in the freezing cold.  It was absolutely magical.  Everytime I go to Edinburgh I end up falling in love with Scotland all over again.  For some reason, it just seems more authentically Scottish to me--probably because of all the pretty cobblestone streets and the gargantuan castle on a hill looking over it all.  While Glasgow can be pretty grubby-looking, Edinburgh is like looking at Scotland through rose-colored glasses.  It's so romantic (sigh).

We stayed in a youth hostel that night.   I swear, this was the coolest hostel I've ever stayed in.

  It was kind of like one big, trippy maze and we often got lost trying to navigate the place.  Every door and every hallway had a mural, and the dining room had all sorts of crap on the walls.  We ended up hanging out with some Spanish guys while they ate a late dinner, listening to classical music under a disco ball.  Went to sleep around 2, only to wake up at 5 when some South African boys barreled into our room, turning on all the lights and stumbling around drunkenly before passing out in their respective bunks.  One of them slept above me and kept me up even longer with his snoring.

Woke up feeling tired, but happy.  Hanna and I said goodbye at the train station and I headed back to Glasgow, which greeted me with bagpipes.  The music, the subway ride to my apartment all felt so familiar to me.  I finally feel like I live here.  I'm not just a homesick little American anymore.  This is a city I can navigate and fall in love with, just like DC or Beloit.  My sister wrote in a letter to me that she predicts that when I come back to DC, I'll wish I were back in Scotland and realize that I have two homes.  Then I'll wonder "what really is home if [I] feel disappointed in both?"  She also wrote this on a postcard of a morbidly obese man wearing a leopard-print Speedo, which may or may not have undercut the poignancy of her letter, but I still appreciate her wise words.

Had my last creative writing class that Saturday.  Afterwards, the class took me out for a pint and I got to say goodbye to some sweet old ladies drinking tomato juice.  One of the women in my class just got a book published about vampires and she gave me her card, shaped like a coffin that you can open to reveal her contact information.  Genius.

Everything just seems to be comin' up Caitlin. In the past week, I've done most of the things I wanted to do before I left: went back to Ediburgh, had some meaningful conversations with some cool people, and even took the time to check out some folk music on Saturday night.  Saw James Yorkston with a friend who just happened to have an extra ticket.  Music was beautiful, even if you could hear the toilet pipes sloshing around in the ceiling over the beautiful crooning.  Gotta love Glasgow.

I even saw snow on Sunday, which just felt like the icing on my cake of a weekend.  Got some hot chocolate with Sarah and got cozy.  On the way back, I noticed the surly Glaswegians didn't hesitate to scribble profanities into the windshields of unassuming cars, but I just sort of smiled to myself because really, I would expect nothing more from this beautiful, angry city.

Saturday, I'm headed off to Dublin to see my friends Bailey and Emily from Beloit.  I can't wait, especially because I'll have more than two days to balance the touristy stuff with the partying, unlike my trip to London, which seemed so short.

I'm hoping that by the time I get back on the 20th, I will be relishing in a semester well spent.  Can't believe that after all that grief and homesickness, I'm actually going to miss Glasgow.  I'll leave you with this video from Friday night when Hanna and I stopped by a pub that was playing folk music on the way home:

 

Please note the red coat lady's attempt at hipness.

Kaileyard = Cabbage Patch

I am scared to come home.  I am excited (boy am I excited), but the idea of coming home and having nothing to talk about except the negative aspects of Glasgow really keeps me up at night.  It's not like I totally hate it here.  In fact, I appreciate Glasgow's rough edges.  It's not afraid to be ugly, and if you can't handle it, well then you can just f*ck off to Edinburgh.  

In that way it reminds me a lot of my adjustment to Beloit.  You just make the most of it and embrace it for what it is, or else you'll get spit out with the rest of the uppity white people.

We read a poem by Hugh MacDiarmid yesterday in my Scottish Literature seminar, called "Scotland Small?", which turned out to be pretty eye-opening for me.  Here's the poem:

Scotland small?  Our multiform, our infinite Scotland small?

Only as a patch of hillside may be a cliché corner

To a fool who cries "Nothing but heather!"  Where in September another

Sitting there and resting and gazing around

Sees not only heather but blaeberries

With bright green leaves and leaves already turned scarlet

Hiding ripe blueberries; and amongst the sage-green leaves

of the bog-myrtle the golden flowers of the tormentil shining

And on the small bare places, where the little Blackface sheep

Found grazing, milkworts blue as summer skies;

And down in neglected peat-hags, not worked

In living memory, sphagnum moss in pastel shades

Of yellow, green and pink; sundew and butterwort

And nodding hareballs vying in their colour

With the blue butterflies that poise themselves delicately upon them

And stunted rowans with harsh dry leaves of glorious colour

"Nothing but heather!" --- how marvellously descriptive!  And incomplete!

This poem is so emblematic of my skepticism towards this country.  Sometimes I feel like I am the fool.  I'm the one who ignores the intricacies and simply focuses on the grey skies and drab buildings.  But then on days like today, I can take it all in: the punk kids in their tartan school uniforms, the colorful fruit stands, the wind in my hair.  I don't understand why every day can't be like today.

I think a lot of the reason why I'm unhappy here is because I'm not a part of any structured exchange program.  I applied to this university like any international student would.  I was dropped off on campus like any other international student: alone, directionless.  I have the other Beloit College students to keep me company, but it's hard to see them consistently when there's no professor here with us to organize trips or dinners out.  Sarah sees her friends from Dartmouth at least a couple times a week.  There are some people from Beloit that I haven't seen in months.

I make up for this lack of structure by creating my own: I have my favorite coffee shop, I go to the gym, and every Friday I go to the grocery store.  I also joined the International Society, which turned out to be a waste of money--that Loch Lomond trip was lame and I'm pretty sure they lied about all the various discounts at bookstores that our IS card entitles us to.

I just get really bitter when I hear about everyone else who is studying abroad.  While Keara is swimming in the Ganges and Sandy is studying dance therapy in the Czech Republic, I am brooding in pubs and dark cafés.  I suppose that's Scotland's culture, though.  It's part of the heather.

I just don't want to come home feeling angsty.  My best friend from home told me not to worry about it, that if I don't like it, I don't like it and it's nothing I can really help.  Believe me, I've tried.  Part of me wishes I could travel all the time and do tons of fun stuff every day, but my budget can be very limiting.

Sarah just left with her fam-o for some gorgeous castle on the coast of Scotland.  I am beyond jealous.  We went out to lunch today at a very posh Italian restaurant and it felt so good to just sit with an American family.  Sarah and her mom have the funniest mother-daughter relationship I've ever seen.  Anyway, made me miss my own parents, but I guess not seeing them for another 29 days will make my homecoming all the sweeter.

Now I am alone in my apartment until Monday.  I suppose this will give me time to work on a paper and be emo.  I was going to take a trip to Edinburgh, but I think I'll just wait until Hanna gets here next week.

Hanna's visit will be a good thing.  I'm also going to Dublin and Paris in December before heading home and that's another thing to look forward to.  Traveling makes a world of difference.

Be Careful What You Wish For...

So there was a fire down the street on Wednesday.  Biggest blaze this side of town has seen, and I happened to be sleeping soundly in my bed when it happened.  Was it my fault?  Probably.  I have strange influence over these kinds of things.

After Monday I just sort of gave up on trying to live it up in Glasgow.  I didn't have much class this week, so I basically sat around my apartment, wrote a lot in my journal, read books without reading them, called my parents a bunch of times at inconvenient hours.  It wasn't until last night that I pulled myself out of my rut and went out with some friends.  We went to the cider festival currently going on at a local bar.  I got blueberry cider.  It tasted like blue, but I suppose that's what I get for ordering blueberry cider.

After drowning my blues in blueberry cider, I went to the QMU with Sarah, Vu, and couple of Sarah's friends from Dartmouth.  The union was hosting an open mic night, which mostly consisted of pre-pubescent-looking boys performing acoustic versions of songs by The Killers.  Sarah noticed a guy who kept looking over at me from across the room.  I didn't pay him any mind until the guy came over, sat down, and asked me my name.  He was from Quebec, and we briefly spoke in French for a minute before he launched into a series of questions, asking me where I was from, what I was studying, what I was writing, etc.  He seemed pretty nice, but boy was he taking liberties with the whole "stupid American" stereotype.  The first question he asked me when I told him I went to school in Wisconsin was if I was inbred.  Cute?  I thought he was just making a really bad joke, but later when he introduced me to his friends, the tactlessness persisted.  He kept telling them that I was from Wisconsin, and by the third time I corrected him, telling him I was from D.C., I actually wondered if he was making up facts about me on purpose just so I could meet a stereotype.  He told me D.C. wasn't a real city because it has "so many rich people," obviously basing his vision of the average D.C. residential neighborhood on Pennsylvania Avenue.  I asked him if he had actually ever been to D.C. and of course he hadn't.  He also mentioned that "I was better than he expected," and when I asked him to extrapolate, he said, "You're a smart American."  I said, "For someone who has rarely visited America, you seem to have a lot of opinions of what we are like."  He sort of laughed, but I knew at that point that I was dunzo with him.  If the dude actually liked me, wouldn't he be flattering me, rather than criticizing my nationality?  And praising me for being a "smart American" does not count.  I could tell that I was disappointing him because I wasn't living up to his baseless generalizations of American culture.  He and his friends wanted me to be a ditzy American, easily persuaded into the arms of an ill-intentioned Francophone.  Everything I said was met with a smirk or an eye roll.  I told the Quebequois's  German friend that I've always wanted to see Berlin, and the whole table just sort of snickered, as if I had no idea what I was talking about.  When I mentioned in passing that I was also a Sociology major, all of them seemed very interested, but I could tell it wasn't interest in my views so much as interest in telling me what their views were.  They wanted to tell me about my country, they wanted to tell me what my government was like.  Obviously, the election came up in conversation and Quebequois man's Indian friend asked me, "Some people think Obama will move the country in a more socialist direction," (novel idea), "what do you think?"  I could barely get a word out before he started telling me what he thought of Obama's policies.  I could have just sat there, filing my nails and talking to myself, and it would have been the same as having a conversation with these people.  I guess karma reared its ugly head because I accidentally (?) knocked my glass of beer into the Indian's lap.  For once, the regrettable inhertance of my father's motor skills (or lack thereof) has come in handy.

Anyway, this probably counts as yet another disappointment I've had trying to live in this country, but at least I got out last night.  My cold feels worse today (oh, did I not mention that?  Yeah, I got sick this week), and something tells me it's going to get even worse before it gets better.

Please send me positive thoughts.  I could use them.  Counting down the days is losing its savor and I'm not sure it's making anything go by faster.

The Fun Never Ends

Gotta love getting your debit card declined at a grocery store in front of everybody.

Gotta love having a debit card at the age of 20.

Gotta love having about three different store clerks fussing with the cash register and your card to realize that it was rejected for lack of sufficient funds even though your parents replenished your account a mere seven days ago with about $200.  

Shoulda asked my parents to add more money before I left, but how are they supposed to keep up with the ludicrous exchange rate?  Shoulda put the peanut butter back, but that's valuable protein.  I returned the onions, spaghetti, and a quiche instead and apologized to everyone in the line.  They were all nice about it.  Must be my lucky day.

Walked back in the pouring rain (quelle surprise), through puddles, through trash that someone was too lazy to discard, through annoying couples who insisted on walking next to each other on the sidewalk despite the dimensions of my umbrella.  Broke umbrella trying to maneuver around them.

OH, and did I mention that yesterday I exhausted my third iPod in a year after an entire water bottle spilled in my handbag due to poor nozzle design?

Not to be dramatic or anything, but I'm ready to be whisked back home while this hateful city burns behind me.

;)

They're baaaack...

Welcome to the 2008 edition of getting to know your Friends. 'press FORWARD' then change all the answers so they apply to you, and then send this to your friends including the person who sent it to you.
> The theory is that you will learn a lot of little things about your friends that you might not have known!

1.  What time did you get up this morning?

11:47...heh.

2.  Diamonds or pearls?
 Pearls.

 3.  What was the last film you saw at the cinema?

 "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" with Dadoo.

 4.  What is your favorite TV show?

Six Feet Under will always be the best, along with Sex and the City and The Simpsons.

 5.  What do you usually have for breakfast?

 Something involving Grapenuts.  And coffee.

6.   What is your middle name?

 Murray

 7.  What food do you dislike?

 I pretty much like everything actually, except for red meat.  And the smell of lamb sometimes makes me want to puke.

 8.  What is your favorite CD at moment?

 Broken Social Scene or the new Kevin Drew Album, "Spirit If"

  9.  What kind of car do you drive?

 My parents', but I opt for the 2002 Camry when possible because it's manual.

 10.  Favorite sandwich?
  I will tell you exactly what I would put on my dream sandwich:
It will be all vegetarian on multigrain bread.  It will have garlic
mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato, meunster cheese, a thin layer of hummus,
a thick layer of avocado, red onions, and rippling layers of fake
bacon.  Guuuuhhhlllhlhlhlgggglll.

 11.  What characteristics do you despise?
ignorance, egotism

12.  Favorite item of clothing?

  Leggings.  Still not over them.

 13.  If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go?

 Scotland?  Oh wait...JUST KIDDING!  Probably Amsterdam or Italy, definitely South America (Peru or Argentina would be sweet)

14.  Favorite brand of clothing

 Probably Urban Outfitters, the right wing man's powerhouse.

 15.  Where would you retire to?

 Near an ocean, probably on the east or west coast.  If I end up in Florida, someone please kill me.

 16.  What was your most memorable birthday?

 My sixteenth when my idiot boyfriend bought me a s'mores maker to compensate for the fact that he never called.  It worked.

 17.  Favorite sport to watch?

 Soccer/fütbol

 18.  Furthest place you are sending this?

 Norwich!

 19.  Person you expect to send it back first?

 Maybe Melindé.

 20.  When is your birthday?

 February 11th.

 21.  Are you a morning person or a night person?

  Probably night, but I've gotten better at the whole morning thing with the exception of this one.

 22. What is your shoe size?

   US women's size 10.  Made it juuust under the cut.

 23.  Pets?
Bulldozer.  God bless that cat.

 24.  Any new and exciting news you'd like to share with us?

  Obama made history!!  And I only have 43 more days in this god forsaken city.

 25.  What did you want to be when you were little?

 I wanted to be a SUPERSTAR!!  No really.  Or a cartoonist.

 26.  How are you today?

 Angry, weak, insecure.

 27.  What is your favorite candy?

  Starburst, Jelly Bellies.

 28.  What is your favorite flower?

 Daisies or black-eyed susans.  Snap dragons are fun.

 29.  What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to?

Take a wild guess.

 30.  What is your full name?

  I bet you know this one.

 31.  What are you listening to right now?

  "I'll Come Running Back to You" by Sam Cooke.

 32.  What was the last thing you ate?

 Green tea.

 33.  Do you wish on stars?

  When I'm in Vermont.

 34.  If you were a crayon, what color would you be?

 Probably a coral pink.

 35.  How is the weather right now?

 Cloudy and rainy--really, really unusual weather for this godforsaken city.

 36. Who was the first person you spoke to on the phone today?

 Haven't done that yet.  Call me?

 37.  Favorite soft drink?
 Diet Coke AKA Poison.  Please someone sue the Coca Cola company after I die of throat cancer.

 38.  Favorite restaurant?
 Spices/Sushi Sushi.

 39.  Real hair color?
 Blonde.

 40.  What was your favorite toy as a child?

 Molly.

 41.  Summer or winter?
 I will never be able to answer this question!

 42.  Hugs or kisses?
 A good hug can make my day.

 43.  Chocolate or Vanilla?
  Chocolate DUHHH.

 44.  Coffee or tea?
  Coffee.

 45.  Do you want your friends to email you back?

 Please.

 46.  When was the last time you cried?

  Watching Obama's speech thousands of miles away at the crack of dawn.

Truthfully, though?  Watching Whoopi Goldberg talk about the election the next day on "The View".

47.  What is under your bed?

 A suitcase, waiting.

 48.  What did you do last night?

Went to a prentious kid's stupid art school party, let him commit social suicide with all his guests while on shrooms, headed over to the student union around 1 and made friends with a nice Polish boy named Bart who walked my roommate and me home.

 49.  What are you afraid of?

  Rape, murder, travel (though recently I've been able to place it outside of the rape/murder category).

 50.  Salty or sweet?
 Sweet is wonderful.  Sweet and salty?  Lethal.

 51.  How many keys on your key ring?

  Three.  I don't live here.

 52.  How many years at your current job?

   Hahaha.  Employment.

 53.   Favorite day of the week?

 Thursday ever since "Friends" was on prime-time.

 54.   How many towns have you lived in?

 Three.

 55.   Do you make friends easily?

 Yes, especially if they're not pretentious assholes from the art school.

 56.   How many people will you send this to?

  I'm about to figure that out.

 57.   How many will respond?

  Probably no one, but you should.  Viva Sixth Grade.

Happy Obama Day

Today is Guy Fawkes Day and people have been setting off fireworks all night, but every time I hear them go off from my apartment window, I think that they are secretly for Barack Obama.

I really wish I were back at home, enjoying the sweet taste of victory with everyone, but there was something unique about staying up until the wee hours of the morning, obsessively checking cnn.com every two minutes and setting my alarm for 5AM to check the results while everyone back in Wisconsin started popping out the Franzia.  Sarah and I woke up to the alarm and saw that big fat check next to Obama's name, and we just started screaming and jumping up and down, probably waking everybody up in our apartment in the process.  We went to nytimes.com just in time for his victory speech.  It gave me chills as though I were right there with everybody else in Grant Park, euphoric and misty-eyed.  I have never been so elated in all my life.  I feel so connected with my country right now, amazed at the incredible movement we were able to pull off in such a short amount of time.  Indeed, victory like this is the stuff dreams are made of, and last night we finally made the dream come true.

When Obama took Pennsylvania, I text messaged my dad, who was canvassing there, telling him how proud I was of him and his home state.  He sent me an email today, and apparently he had tried to send me a picture of all the canvassers and him via picture text message.  I don't know what made me prouder, the fact that he was canvassing or the fact that he has become so tech savvy seemingly overnight.  He told me he is always struck by how connected we are.  It was only 5 minutes after news of Pennsylvania came through that he got my message.  I think it's easy to connect with people from home with modern technology, but what amazes me is the emotional connection I feel right now to every American.  I am so far away from home, and yet I know I'm feeling the same electric current running through my bloodstream as everybody else.  I am ecstatic, I am relieved, I am proud.  We done good, America.  We done real good.

Halloween Let Downs

I knew I would go on Facebook today and be assaulted by pictures of girls in slutty costumes.  I know I said this before, but Halloween is a perfect example of everything that is wrong with our culture.  I am disgusted by all the pictures of young women wearing little else than their bras and underwear, posing in lewd positions with their flesh hanging all over the place and their boobs looking like they could pop like balloons.  Whose parents told them that whoring themselves like this is okay?  Where are these women's mothers?  More importantly, where are their fathers??

But I digress...I guess.

It really was amazing, though, how many people couldn't tell whether I was a man or a woman last night, simply because I wasn't bearing any cleavage.  I realized that if I had decided to dress in what is deemed as "gender appropriate" attire, I would have had to choose between Slutty Cop, Slutty Cat, or Pirate Hooker.  I did not see anything that deviated from these three categories.

The sluttiness was not the only thing that bothered me about last night.  In fact, it was the least of my problems.  I spent the majority of the night in queues for various clubs and cabs, freezing my ass off in my silver suit.  I never made it inside anywhere--there were just too many people, too many cover charges, too many stipulations.  Everyone was being rather ornery towards me, perhaps because they thought I was a man.  I always get really spontaneous on Halloween, so in the line for the QMU, I ran over to some people that were huddling to stay warm and asked a man dressed as a banana if I could join them.  They obliged, but shortly thereafter, a short blonde girl in the center asked, "And what the f*** are you supposed to be?"  I gave her a dumbfounded look through my helmet and said, "Uhhh...an astronaut?"  She smirked and said, "I thought they were supposed to be white."  I felt like I was in a 90's movie about popular girls.

Someone else on the street called me a condom, and when I tried to wave at a man wearing a space suit and eating fish and chips behind a glass window in a restaurant, all he did was look at my American flag printed across my left breast and shake his head.  It was as if that flag was all he saw.  I can't even parody American sentiment here without offending someone.  I just wanted to be proud of my country, not be a whore, and make friends last night.  Was that so bold a venture?

One slightly redeeming event happened when I was desperately trying to hail a cab in my spacesuit (it works a lot better when I'm wearing a tank top).  An older man came out of a restaurant and asked me if I was American.  I said yes, and when he asked me whom I was voting for and I told him Obama, he cupped my freezing fingers in his warm hands and said, "Bless you."  He then insisted upon bringing me into the restaurant to meet his friends, who were all pleased to hear of my political persuasion.  They were all just so friendly and wonderful.  We talked for a minute about US politics and before I left, I thanked them for their kindness and told the man who brought me inside that he had warm hands.  He kissed me on the cheek.

Again, I was confronted with the extremism of Glasgow.  People are either super friendly and welcoming, or cold-hearted and nasty, pushing past you in the line for a taxi or calling you a condom.  I am so sick of the inconsistency--it's disorienting.

Came home last night upset, but not emotional, that my refreshing new perspective on living in Scotland changed so swiftly in one evening.  Got a haircut with Sarah this morning and felt a little worse, only because hair dressers have a tendency to tell you how dry and awful your hair looks so they can squeeze more money out of you for treatments and whatnot.  I just didn't need another man either obviously or subliminally telling me I wasn't good enough or pretty enough.  Not today.

Hope your Halloween and its hangovers, physical or otherwise, were not as unpleasant as mine.

"Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it's getting!"

In the past week, my morale has changed dramatically.  Hallie visited this weekend, which was great because Sarah was in Paris and I probably would have gone crazy without someone in the apartment.  We went to see Noah and The Whale in concert at Arches, drank lots of mochas and long island iced teas, and ate some deeee-licious curry at The Wee Curry Shop on Ashton Lane.

I left for London on Monday afternoon feeling slightly depressed.  Being abroad can feel a lot like a Beckett play.  What am I doing here?  Where am I going?  What am I seeing?  Is there a point to it all?  You feel bereft of any structure that would otherwise ground you in a new place, and therefore everything you're doing feels alien and aimless.  I just sat there in the lobby of the airport, waiting for my check-in time to arrive at Ryanair like it was flippin' Godot.  Even the plane ride felt weirdly existential.  Between the bright yellow seats, seedy flight attendants and techno music playing in the cabin, I felt like I was dreaming.

Seemed like I took 100 planes, trains, and automobiles from Glasgow Central to London Liverpool Street, but I finally made in at about 9:00.  Navigated the Underground by myself (APPLAUSE) to meet up with Genny, an old homefry, and nearly collapsed into a bowl of pasta from fatigue while catching up in her gorgeous apartment.  The next morning, we left for the tube together and she showed me how to get to Westminster to see Big Ben and all that before she went to work.  I felt so stressed about visiting all the hotspots in London in so little time, but I think I did pretty well for a foreigner who had only six hours to get to know the city.  Went on the London Eye, got some sweet pictures of Buckingham Palace, Parliament, Big Ben, and that bridge that Renee Zellweger walks across in "Bridget Jones's Diary".  I was so at peace just riding up in the sky on this ridiculous ferris wheel, looking at all the funny tourists with their loud families and feeling so proud that I wasn't one of them.  I think the best traveling is often done alone when you have no one to listen to but your own thoughts.  Also you're not so much of an easy target when you're traveling alone.  Now, if I had brought my fanny pack and visor...

Next stop was the Tower of London, which, although pretty to look at, was extremely crowded and ultimately not as great as I thought it would be.  Apparently I was traveling at a peak tourism time, as the last week of October is when everyone has their fall break.  I must have waited in line for a ticket for at least forty-five minutes, if not more.  I couldn't tell if I was moving towards the booth or if the booth was moving towards me.  It felt like I hadn't moved an inch.  Tour guide was funny, made some pretty good Anne Boelyn jokes.  I only walked through about half of the tour because we didn't seem to be going into any of the towers, which I had thought was the point of the Tower of London.  I broke away to go into the House of Jewels, saw the Queen's bling, but it wasn't that exciting.  Again, I was stuck in a huge line, shuffling through a maze of velvet ropes and feeling frustrated.  Even the towers themselves weren't that cool because the crowds just made it so hard just to read the captions next to the artifacts, and captions are what I live for.

After a somewhat disappointing visit to Tower Hill, I went back to Liverpool Street where I caught my train to Norwich to visit Sarah, a dear family friend.  Sarah was best friends with our German au pair back in the day when I was four-years old, so naturally we had a lot of catching up to do, especially because she had had a baby within the past year.  Seeing her was the best part of the trip, definitely.  She arranged to have the whole family meet for dinner at her mom's house out in the country, which couldn't have been more perfect since I haven't been in someone's house since early September.  I found myself surrounded by people I love and who love me, dimpled children, and cats!  Oh how I've missed cats!

Sarah hasn't changed a bit.  She is still the giggly, effervescent nineteen-year old I remember her being, and it's strange to think that she was younger than me when she started babysitting us.  We celebrated an early Guy Fawke's Day with fireworks in the back yard after dinner, and while all the kids were ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the rockets shrieking into the night sky, Sarah linked arms with me and said, "Isn't it strange to think of these kids as the next generation?"  She and I seemed to both harbor the same amusement in how quickly the years seem to pass.  Twenty is a strange age.  Tuesday night, I didn't know whether to prance around the lawn with the kiddies or sit back in the corner, shivering in my winter coat.  I'm in this generation limbo, and it was particularly difficult to sit around the fire afterwards with a glass of wine while Sarah and her sister talked about child labor, knowing just how close I am to possibly having a child of my own.  I'm sure when Sarah was nineteen and sunbathing on our lawn and doing collages with my sister and me she wasn't thinking of having a baby in twelve-years time, and I certainly wasn't thinking of a timeline like that when I babysat this summer, either.  But even twelve years passed within the blink of an eye.  Scary stuff...

It was hard to leave Sarah the next morning, but I just know I'm going to remember visiting her for the rest of my life.  I hope it won't be so long until we meet up again.

So despite the brevity of my trip, I think I made the most of it.  It's amazing how easy it is to navigate a new city if you just think two-dimensionally, as if you're just a little dot on a map.  I felt like as long as I had a map of the underground, I could do anything--it was so empowering.  Coming back to Scotland was also interesting, because for the first time, I thought of it as my home.  When you travel during your time abroad, you inevitably end up calling the place you're studying home, as it's the place you always return to.  Today Sarah (roommate Sarah) and I made hair cut appointments together and walked down Byres Road afterwards to get crêpes.  It felt so natural to me.  After feeling so lost for so long, I finally feel like I belong here, like there's structure, such as streets, and institutions, such as school, that I can mold my life around.  I'm drawing my own map of my life around what's already here, and I feel so much stronger for it.  I can't believe there's only a little more than 50 days until I leave!  I remember Michelle Obama sending out a mass email what seemed like three weeks ago, reminding us that the election was in fifty days, and here is it only five days away.  We'll see how I feel in six days: I'll either be drowning my sorrows or toasting my country.

Where The Sun Refuse To Shine

This is pretty accurately describes how my week is going.

It started out pretty well.  Bailey, my friend from Beloit who's studying in Dublin, came to visit me on Tuesday with two friends.  The stay was short but sweet, and Sarah and I proved that it is indeed possible to fit three other people on the floor of our room.  It was a little tight, but I think generally we worked it out.

Yesterday, I found out from ResLife that based on the numbers they had for the amount of current RAs that were going to remain on campus in the spring, they would not have any spaces for me as an RA next semester.  I dunno, man.  I knew I would be going abroad a year before it actually happened, as in, I had actually been accepted by Beloit to study abroad and was planning to go to Scotland a year before it actually happened, so I find it hard to believe that it took ResLife this long to get a solid estimate of who would be working in spring 2009, unless they thought all the current RAs would flunk out or take a vacation term at the last minute.

This news came as a huge disappointment, mostly because I have been looking forward to working as an RA since I was accepted last spring.  It seems impossible to get your foot in the door with these people unless you're accepted your sophomore year.  I smell corruption.

Today was really just the cherry on top of my shitcake of a week.  I had a presentation on Confessions of a Justified Sinner by James Hogg, which is probably one of my favorite books, so I really wasn't too worried about it, at least, not until I realized that my professor wanted my handout printed and ready for him to copy at the beginning of class as opposed to printing it out himself from the email I sent him with the handout attached.  Ran to the library in the apocalyptic wind and rain, where I found out that I had not, in fact, sent myself a copy, and of course my school email here doesn't have a "Sent" folder to retrieve the email I "sent" my professor.  Once again, sweaty and frustrated, I dashed out the door and then ran to my apartment to send it again.  And you know when you're in a rush to get something done that usually involves a lot of sending and printing and internet mumbo jumbo, you usually run into little bumps along the way that probably amalgamate into a stress tumor in your brain?  Each time I tried to leave the library, I had to walk behind the people who like to stop and smell the roses, and when I tried to exit the building, the metal detectors went off, clearly from the guy in front of me with the plastic bag probably full of knives, but, of course, I had to stop, turn around, and get screened again.  Eventually got to my apartment, wheezing up four flights of stairs, emailed the handout to myself, ran back to the library, printed the handout with minimal difficulty, and ran out of the building into the wind, which was picking up speed at this point, and while I was running down the asphalt hill towards my class, my paper soaked and plastered against my chest, I just laughed to myself, thinking "Wow, I hate it here."  It's like the day couldn't have been more of an exaggeration at that point, between my hair, soaked with sweat and rain, my paper flapping about in the wind, and me feeling like a total failure.

I suppose all's well that ends well because I think my presentation went better than I thought it would.  I was a little worried, just because my handout was really just a bunch of typed up notes that I thought were relevant.  I didn't do extra research or anything like the rest of the people presenting did, I guess because I trusted my own analysis of the book.  Generally, I like talking to people about books as if we're just sitting on couches in a warm library and feeling particularly cerebral, so I guess my "presentation" was more a talk or something without a whole lot of structure.  I hope my professor saw it as an attempt to connect with the class and get people pumped for Hogg's cynical commentary on Calvinism as opposed to something I threw together at the last minute (or during the twenty minutes in which I was having a heart attack trying to print it out).  Being in small classes has taught me to be so blase about oral presentations.  I don't think of them as lectures, but rather, a chance to get real with students. Not that I'm riding the "straighttalk express" or whatever absurd vernacular we're using these days.  I just try to avoid using the very high diction that professors sometimes throw at you and that overwhelming literary scrutiny: I just sort of talk about the things that strike me while I'm reading and the probing questions that led me to certain criticisms and conclusions.  If Beloit excels at anything, it's teaching its students how to connect.  I've noticed I haven't been able to practice this fundamental lesson until today.  

I miss my English classes at Beloit.  I miss John Rosenwald, randomly.  He was my first English professor at Beloit and really pushed me that first semester.  In retrospect, I was such a hubristic freshman full of amorphous musings that I always thought were worth sharing, but John never treated me as such.  I would always stop by his office after Voodoo Barbie rehearsal and we would just sit there and talk about books and China and his wife and kids for almost an hour.  I doubt I could ever connect like that with a professor here.

Well, hopefully things will start getting better, starting with Hallie's visit on Saturday.  Hallie is a friend from high school with one of the most buoyant personalities I know, so I'm thinking she will be able to lift my spirits.  Then on Tuesday I'm headed out to London.  I'm going to ride the ferris wheel and take pictures.  Wish me luck.

Petite Patriots

Tonight I went to a Jenny Lewis concert, alone.  I didn't mind going solo; in fact I think it was more enjoyable because I could dig the whole scene by myself and meditate with my own thoughts for an hour and a half.  The opening act was fantastic.  I don't know who the lead singer was, but he was some big guy with long gray hair, a bushy beard and dark sunglasses, and he sang real deep and blues-like, à la Jason Molina from Songs: Ohia.  He also had some funny commentary, and at one point said, "I mean, it's cool if the dudes here are getting down to these songs, but really, this show is for the ladies because ladies make the world go round."  Word.

Jenny Lewis was exactly as I pictured her: calculated and cute, a little bit theatrical, and a hell of a performer.  When she sang "Acid Tongue", it just about melted my heart.  The whole band put their instruments down except for Jenny, and they just stood there in a semi-circle around her, harmonizing next to her guitar.  Their sound reminded me so much of America that it was almost unbearable.  In fact, the whole time I was hearing, smelling, and feeling America all at once.  There was something about the booze and perfume that wafted through the air, the folksy guitar, and flannel uniforms of the band members that had me almost convinced that I was actually in a bar in Wisconsin.

Last night, a group of friends and I went out to dinner, and on the way back on the subway, some guy next to me gave us a hard time for sitting in the "handicapped seats."  For the record, these seats situated next to the train doors, although labeled as handicapped, are almost always occupied by the average commuter.  The man next to me was drunk, and clearly picking on us because we were American.  It made me so angry.  I looked up and down the aisles, looked at him directly in the eyes and said, "Well, when I see someone handicapped, I'll be sure to lend them my seat."  The rest of the ride back was uncomfortable.  We just sat there in silence, looking at the floor and holding our breath until we arrived at our stop.  The guy tried to make small talk, asking us whereabouts in America we were from.  Maybe he felt bad.

My professor said the other day that Glasgow was two-faced all over.  They're known for their camaraderie and their stabbings, beautiful autumn leaves and endless rainy days, the grungey East End and the posh West End.  It's like Jekyll-Hyde all over the place.  Some days I'm surrounded by friendly faces and sunshine, other days I'm confronted with rude subway commuters and taxi drivers who want to tell me what America is like for 10 minutes in front of my apartment while I anxiously rub coins between my fingers.

Someone said yesterday that we only have 5 more weeks left of class.  I couldn't believe it.  I barely feel like I've moved in, and before I know it, I'll be packing again.  I think, altogether, I have about 9 more weeks left here, which means that I have about sixty-odd days to write twenty-five to thirty pages of work, visit four countries, and be that "changed person" people keep saying you turn into while abroad.

I also have roughly £180 of spending money to last me for the rest of the semester.  Oops.

I was so sure at the beginning of the semester that by the time I got around to the Jenny Lewis concert, I would feel all settled in, social, and buoyant.  I pictured myself in the front row, enjoying a pint and rocking out to some American music, but tonight I found myself in the back with all the middle-aged couples, awkwardly holding on to my coat and scarf and wishing I could reach out to the band and say, "ISN'T AMERICA AWESOME??"  and have them agree and whisk me away on their tour for the rest of the year.  That'll be the day.

It's not that I don't like it here; in fact, I think it suits me pretty well and I'm very pleased with how much it inspires me to create and be the writer I've always wanted to be.  Sometimes, though, the pang of loneliness and homesickness can be a little much.  They don't tell you about that when you study abroad.  And if you go to a small liberal arts college, they don't warn you about the scary world of bureaucracy, and the rampant red tape that entangles all European universities.  This week, I was informed that I had signed a year-long contract for university accommodation instead of a semester-long contract, and therefore I was responsible for paying accommodation fees until they could find a replacement for me in my apartment.  Nevermind the fact that I was only given a year-long contract while all the other students from Beloit received semester-long contracts.  Nevermind the fact that it says I am a semester-long student all over my application.  Had this situation cropped up at Beloit, I would have sent an email to someone explaining my situation, and the rest would be taken care of.

After I was told that I could be paying up to £2,000, i.e. $4,000 in accommodation fees, I didn't know what to do.  I had never been confronted with this kind of obstinacy.  I immediately contacted my parents, and, feeling like a little kid who just scraped her knee on the playground, explained what was going on.  My mom got in contact with the head of the international office at Beloit, and made sure that everything would get taken care of.  My mom isn't usually one of those helicopter moms who gets in your face if you're inconveniencing her child, but on the occasion that she sees me being mistreated or used, she can be a real wolverine mama, bearing her teeth at any predator threatening her pack.  This summer, an employee at the Apple Store sexually harrassed me and when I came home confused and scared, I could barely get the first sentence of my story out to my mom before she was pulling me out the door to complain to the manager.

It's the fighters of America that I miss, the rebels that embody true American spirit, like my mom, who I wanted so badly to be next to me when I was on the subway yesterday, or reasoning with the Accommodations Office this week.  The best I can do right now is remember the people that inspire the brave, rebellious American inside me.  My mantra for this semester started when I was in the security line at the airport in August, waving goodbye to my parents.  Be brave, I told myself.  If I'm not brave while I'm abroad, well then I might as well crawl into a hole and never come out.  So when I'm traveling by myself to London, Spain, Dublin, and France, when I'm bankrupt and alone, and when I'm telling it like it is to some ignorant native, I'll think of you, and you think of me.  That way I'll come back being the bolder Caitlin that I want to be.

 

Attempts to Feel Good Lost

Now when I said that Scotland was really into fire safety, I wasn't kidding.  We had a fire drill at 8:30 this morning.  

Eight.  Thirty.  

Granted, we were warned about this drill in advance, but I had forgotten about it until I went to bed last night, which made it considerably harder for me to sleep, as it usually is when I have an imminent wake-up call.

Maybe my American schooling has numbed me to the concept of fire drills.  I've been through so many "drills" in my life that the alarm never seems to phase me, and I think Sarah must have had a similar upbringing because both of us treated the drill this morning as a joke.  My brain clock woke me up a little before 8:45 and I just lay there in bed for a few minutes with the light streaming through my putrid yellow curtains, waiting for the shrill yodel of the alarm, covering my ears in anticipation.  Sure enough, the alarm rang at 8:45, and while everyone fled the building like a bat out of hell, Sarah and I took our time.  I sat up in bed, stretched, pulled on warmer pajama bottoms without a care in the world, and slipped my sneakers on while Sarah actually changed her clothes.  We both wandered listlessly down the stairs and out of the building where we were greeted by the fire marshal and everyone else in the building who obviously took the drill more seriously.  Since when do people actually rush out of the building when they hear a fire alarm?  What is this, some kind of drill?

The fire marshal, obviously surprised to see us emerge so long after sounding the alarm, asked, "Could you hear the alarm from your room?  Was it clear?"

"Crystal," I said, with eyes half open, giving him the thumbs up.

No more drills, he warned us, next time you hear an alarm, it will be the real thing.

A real fire?  How exciting!

Watched "Half Nelson" last night, and loved it.  Ryan Gosling was curiously talented at playing a crack-addled teacher, but I thought the girl who played his student was the best, and it baffles me that she never received any recognition for it during the Oscar season.  After the movie, I listened to "You Forgot It in People" for about an hour, as most of that album provided the soundtrack for the film.  It seems to me that when we are at our most depressed or homesick, we cling to these fantasies and daydreams that help us escape.  I am under the impression, especially after watching that movie, that everything in this world is a drug, and getting addicted to something is easy, no matter what it is.  I could listen to Broken Social Scene, or think about Ryan Gosling's baby blue eyes forever.  I could look through photo albums on Facebook and pretend I am in Beloit, or watch iconic cult-web phenomena from my freshman year but it's not like I'm actually living in the present while doing so.  Better options, at this point, would be to explore Glasgow, write stories, read novels--anything that doesn't involve a screen.

In fact, I wrote a short story the other day about a neglected wife sitting in her living room who eventually thrusts her hands into the fireplace in a desperate phoenix-like attempt to feel alive.  Not sure what that says about my state of mind, but I guess I might find out when the story gets work-shopped on Saturday in class.

I don't know how to aptly describe what it is like being in another country; it's hard to think of Glasgow as just another city to live in and call home.  I think one can call any place home given some time, but I don't think I've hit that marker just yet.  The only moments when I feel like I actually live here are when I go out at night, but then, after a few visits to the rustic pubs that remind me of the good ol' boys from home or the warm bars on cold Wisconsin nights, I return to my apartment, besot with my memories of a previous life.

I suppose I'll eventually emerge from this funk like some sort of phoenix, though hopefully it won't require any kind of literal fire, like in my apartment building.  If I decide to listen to Broken Social Scene all day and dream about hunky movie stars until then, so be it.

Whore-o-ween

I've been on a quest to find an awesome Halloween costume.  I found a pretty sweet space suit in Edinburgh for £25, but resisted buying it because, as Sarah reminded me, that actually means I'd be spending $50 on a costume.  I love shopping, but am forced to temper my consumerist urges when I shop with Sarah, as she usually is quick to remind me what the 

actual price is in dollars.  Our conversations might sound something like this: I'll say, "Look at this gold lamé space suit!  It's only twenty-five pounds!"

"Fifty bucks?"

"No, twenty-five pounds.  I mean, sh*t."

In retrospect, I probably should have bought the costume because I ended up obsessing over it for days afterwards.  I looked for it online, but to no avail.  I did, however, come across some of the most sexist, misogynistic costumes I've ever seen, deemed "sexy" (read: "for women only"). Here are the winners, in order of grotesqueness:

1.  http://www.frightcatalog.com/Halloween-Costumes/Sexy+Straight+Jacket+Costume-1109128/

Does this come with a gag too?  Can't have a slave to man without something to shut dem bitches up, am I RIGHT? And while you're at it, give McCain a ring.  Something tells me he'd be into it.

2.http://www.buycostumes.com/Doll-Box-Adult-Costume/31701/ProductDetail.aspx

Oh, I'm sorry: is that a person?  Not that it matters, but you might want to punch some holes in the box, just in case the thing inside happens to be a living and breathing human.  You never know!

3.  http://www.brandsonsale.com/ca-012616.html

$39.99 for a hot wife??  WHAT A BARGAIN!  Hope she comes with wheels!

4.  http://www.yandy.com/Tina-Taxi-Cab-Driver.php

This one may be bumped up to the top, simply because it is so hideous.

I'm not even blaming American culture, as it no longer seems relevant; the war against women is universal.  I go to the gym every day and am forced to watch half-naked, nearly gaseous models groping men in suits on television--women literally stripping on screen.  Women all over the world are being dehumanized, and it gets worse every day.  In the past year, I've become increasingly interested in igniting what I perceive as the second Women's Liberation Movement.  No more "It's Okay to Be Slutty Days" like Halloween, no more scantily clad women in the media that encourage men to see us as merely hollow fleshpots, and finally, no more random hookups and one-night stands that make men think it's okay to abuse the most sacred of our anatomy.

I'm going to be an astronaut for Halloween--Sally Ride, to be specific.  Sarah is dressing as Amelia Earheart.  Women in flight, y'all: we takin' over.

This semi-political message approved by Sally Ride.

Edinburgh: Yes, Here's A Spot

Yesterday, Sarah and I took our trip to Edinburgh to see Macbeth at the Royal Lyceum Theatre.  Funnery alumnae will be happy to know that I remembered almost the entire play from my days at Shakespeare camp.  The theatre was gorgeous, with ornate red and gold detailing on all the walls, plush seats, and a brilliant chandelier hanging from the ceiling.  Somehow, Sarah and I scored seats in one of the boxes on the balcony.  I only wish I had a monocle to fit the part.

We also paid a visit to Armstrongs, a well known vintage shop that seemed to mostly have costumey-type things, perhaps because of the time of year.  Sarah put on a black wig there and, while I was distractedly looking at some scarves, came up to me and pretended that she was a costumer, hastily trying to push her way past me.  I didn't notice it was her until I realized that she kept moving in my direction every time I tried to get out of her way, saying "Excuse me, excuse me, you're in my way."

We were going to eat at The Elephant Room, where J.K. Rowling in her starving artist days wrote Harry Potter, but instead opted for a horrible "American" diner that only served about 4 dishes, all of which had ham and/or mayonnaise in them.  Imagine my surprise when I ordered a chicken caesar salad and instead received a mayonnaise and ham salad with iceberg lettuce.  Guhhh.  Luckily, Sarah was kind enough to let me mooch off of her fish and chips.

Dinner was decidedly more successful.  We went to an Italian restaurant with plenty of ambiance, as well as one of the most delicious pizzas I've ever had.  The killer gelato sealed the deal.

In general, I was more impressed with Edinburgh on my first visit than I was with Glasgow.  Edinburgh seems like a more amplified version of where I am now: taller, older buildings, more cobblestone streets and generally more neighborhoods that seem frozen in time.  Even though it was horribly rainy, windy, and cold, I was completely charmed.

But now I'm back in the West End of Glasgow, back to the surly men in newspaper boy hats arguing outside of pubs, back to the smell of yeast in the streets, back to a dialect that I can barely understand.  I can't believe it has been a month since I arrived here.  I don't think I've gone through any sort of transformation, per se, although maybe I'm a little wiser as is anyone who moves to a new place, and perhaps a little better at mastering the whole traveling thing.  In a way, I feel like I can do anything here.  For instance, I found out about the Lyceum Theatre about a month ago, bought tickets to Macbeth, organized my trip to Edinburgh, and there I was yesterday, mouth agape at the choice seat I was in, enjoying one of my favorite Shakespeare plays.  Next stop is London later this month, and I hope I have just as much luck.

The past couple of weeks have been sort of difficult for me: my dog died about two weeks ago, which was pretty rough, and I've been paining for family dinners and the flat plains of Wisconsin, but taking that trip to Edinburgh was probably the best thing I could have done for myself.  On my bus ride home yesterday evening, I thought about how silly it was to long for Beloit, a place that I would inevitably return to and probably tire of in about a month (trust me, the novelty of "flat plains" doesn't last very long), whereas now I'm in a place where my return within the next few years is uncertain at best.  I have to absorb all the sights there are to see before I find myself flying home in December with nothing but a heart full of regrets.  That's not to say I have to get out all the time.  In fact, I hope I am able to balance my travels in Europe with the simple pleasures in Scotland: people-watching in the underground, cooking spinach in my dingy kitchen, and listening to Chet Baker with a cup of coffee in hand, enjoying the view from the tippy top of my apartment.

I hope everything is going well for everyone back home.  Love you all!

Caitlin

Soup Nazi Meets Bouncer

Yesterday afternoon I had my first, and perhaps my only, worthwhile class at the University of Glasgow.  It's a creative writing class, consisting of middle-aged persons in the 30+ age bracket, plus me.  I think I get along well with the group, and having been in a small creative writing class before at Beloit, I didn't have much trouble participating in the group discussion.  It's been frustrating getting used to the impersonal lecture-based classes, so being in a seminar was like a breath of fresh air.  Had a cup of coffee during our break with a woman who had plans of being a doctor before her epilepsy worsened when she was in her twenties.  She is significantly shorter than me with wild gray hair and when she talks sometimes it sounds like she's crying.  We had a good conversation.

After class, I went out in the rain to get some groceries with my roommate, forgot hummus, kicked self.

Before I knew it, it was night time and I was watching the presidential debate online over a cup of tea.  Had to leave the computer after about an hour because McCain, with his hollow laughter and transparent, "simpleton" talk made me want to punch in the screen.

Megan came over and she and Sarah and I set out to go clubbing at ABC.  We left early so we could arrive before 11:30 in time for free entry.  We waited patiently in line for about 20 minutes before making it to the burly bouncers at the front.  "Not tonight, guys," they said, and directed us out of the line.  We were confused.  We asked why we had been so swiftly rejected.  "My colleague has the right to refuse anyone requesting entry into the club."  Okay...

"It is because we're American?"

"No."

"Is it because we're ugly?"

"Not at all."

"Is it because we're not ugly enough?"

Silence.

So, for apparently no reason at all, we were denied access to the same club Sarah and I were able to enter Thursday night.  Of course, that was the same night all the manorexic hipsters threw up in every corner of the club and the club owners had to sprinkle the floors with kitty litter, but that wasn't our fault.  Hipsters just can't hold their liquor.

We decided to try again.  We got in line and waited in the cold only to be given the same treatment.  It was Grade A BS, and I could smell it.  "Yo, in America we call that DISCRIMINATION," I retorted, giving the building the bird as I walked away.  I've never had a more patriotic moment in my life.

We eventually made it to a bar called Nice 'N Sleazy.  More hipsters.  Mean hipsters with dark-stained lips, painted eyebrows and malnourished buttcheeks hanging out of skinny jeans.  It got old, fast, and all our cocktails tasted like jolly ranchers.  We left the place after about an hour.  I had a mission to get a picture with the burly security guard who rejected us, and succeeded.  Picture below.

Oh Neil.  Neither the bluest eyes nor the dewiest cheeks can hide the tyrant within you.

Now Sarah and I are getting ready to make fools of ourselves at Mono again and participate in some sort of French farmers market in the City Centre.  The plan is to stock up on good brie.

Much Love,

Caitlin 

"Study" Abroad. Right.

This week I don't have any class.  I'm serious.  Whoever told me that I would be "studying" abroad was obviously joking.  I have, tops, about two hours of class a day, maybe three.  I'm taking Scottish Literature, An Exploration into Scottish Culture, and a creative writing course, yet today I found myself migrating from the computer to my bed with zero obligation to be anywhere at any time.  I wrote a lot, started Waverly for my Scotlit class, and that was about it.  At around 7, Sarah and I went to a "beginners" ultimate frisbee practice.  Since frisbee is such a big part of the culture at Beloit, I thought I might as well learn the ropes, and by "learn the ropes" I mean run around an indoor playing field like a headless chicken while people who might as well be speaking gibberish tell me to do things.  Sarah was telling me that at Dartmouth, the learning process for a beginner to become acclimated to the game is a lot slower, whereas here they just sort of throw you into the game and see what happens.  Also, let it be known that men in the UK do not believe in deodorant.  In fact, they seem vehemently opposed to it.  I have encountered offensive body odor (the offender almost always being male) on more occasions than I would like to admit.  I may have been a headless chicken tonight, but boy was my sense of smell kickin'.

Tomorrow, I have only an hour of class, and then I have to figure out what to do with the rest of my day again.  Never thought I would be eager for the structure of a rigorous schedule until now.  I could go out and about, I suppose, but I've been to all the museums in my area, seen the botanical gardens, the library, etc, which leaves me only with places to spend money and I can't, I WON'T do that.  

Today I watched a few episodes of season 9 of "The Simpsons," but I have to say that watching my cherished television series only made me feel homesick.  It was sort of a bittersweet viewing, because on the one hand I was missing home, wishing my sister was there to enjoy the jokes with me, but on the other hand I was beside myself with giggles.  I forgot how good that episode is when Bart sells his soul, or when the Flanders become the Simpson children's foster parents.  Then I watched Treehouse of Horror, the one where Groundskeeper Willie plays the Freddy Krueger-type in a Nightmare on Elm Street parody, and that hit a little too close to home, especially since I've been having strange dreams as of late, not of evil Scotsman necessarily, but dreams that wake me up in the middle of the night and don't even have the decency to stay in my mind long enough for me to decipher their meaning.  I never seem to fall asleep completely these days.  I get up a lot during the night feeling like I wasn't sleeping at all.

Sorry this post was rather boring.  My life today was rather boring.  Did I mention I made a really good omelet tonight?  Well, I made a really good omelet tonight.

Love,

Caitlin

P.S. Digestive biscuits are dope.

Silly American

The biggest pain in my tuchas by far is the walk up the hill on Great George St. to my apartment.  I take that route as few times as possible, but sometimes, the Hill of Death is inevitable in my weekly routine.  For instance, one must collect groceries if one plans on cooking for oneself.  Today I went to the grocery store to get some essentials: fruits, vegetables, garlic, peanut butter, soy sauce.  I have all these ambitious culinary plans this week and I'm not about to let some stupid hill ruin it for me.  Trekking up the HOD on the way back, however, was the sweatiest, angriest, most grueling experience of my life.  I'm also currently on a mission to ascertain exactly which side of the sidewalk people in Scotland walk on, since they obviously drive on the left side.  My "research" up the HOD today, as you can imagine, yielded no conclusions.  Every time I would walk on the right side of the sidewalk, some young lovebirds, staring adoringly and into each other's eyes, would heedlessly veer in my direction.  If I walked on the left side of the sidewalk, I would inevitably run into an old lady and her 100 Scottie dogs, or some angry punk with scars and anarchy written all over his face.

I haven't even told you the best part: once I reach the hill's summit, I have 4 flights of stairs to stumble up to get to my floor because apparently the Scots don't believe in elevators, or lifts, if you will.

But then, after I burst into my room and collapse, with groceries in hand, on to my bed, I realize just how lucky I am to be schvitzing in such a gorgeous apartment that's also close to a grocery store.

Today is the first mildly sunny day we have had in a while.  Yesterday, Sarah and I went to the Glasgow Necropolis next to the cathedral and walked among some real old-skool graves.  I can't get over how green everything is here.  We ran into a woman walking a couple bulldogs, including one that was named "Obo," which is the best name for a bulldog that I can think of.

Afterwards we searched for a well-known vegan restaurant/record store called Mono, and stopped at a vintage clothing shop along the way.  I've been trying to find a faux-fur vest for some time now, and even though my search for faux fur yesterday proved fruitless, I found the most delicious faux-meat at Mono.  Sarah and I had a good time messing around with the waiter.  She dared me to hit on him, but all I could do was awkwardly tell him that I liked his Garfield shirt before burying my face into my sandwich.  

It's so funny sometimes how American my tendencies are.  Sometimes I don't even realize it until I'm somewhere like a restaurant and I end up waiting for a half an hour for my check to come as opposed to just asking for it, long enough for the manager to come up to our table and quietly ask, "Um...did you guys want something else?"

Also, they call coffee with milk here "white coffee," which seems consistent with calling coffee without milk "black," except I could not reason this in my head fast enough when the waiter asked me if I wanted white coffee, so I just said "Uhh...I'll have coffee...with milk."  Oh well, I'm sure that part of my education abroad is learning how to laugh at myself and how to be laughed at.

Much Love,

Caitlin

P.S. I don't know how to fix the pictures in his post, so until I do you all will just have to deal with it.

EDIT: Fixed it!  You can stop complaining now!

Buaidh No Bas

Hello All,

Here is my attempt to update friends and family without pestering Facebook messages or an email list, both of which I am far, far too busy and important to organize.

I'm taking a semester abroad in Glasgow, if you were not informed already.  In case you were not a part of my Facebook group, "I Wanna Know What's Up With Caitlin," here's what you missed:

-Rain

-Showers

-Showers

-Rain

-Showers

-Rain

I also unintentionally tried haggis, was deafened by club music, and almost set fire to the University because of poorly organized class registration.

Despite the gloomy weather, I still think it's beautiful here.  My apartment has gargantuan windows that let in all the light (which isn't saying much, come to think of it), and I'm about a 2-minute walk from the main lecture hall and Byres Road, which has every store and establishment a visitor could need.  My roommate is absurdly hilarious and fun, and we have already found a coffee shop nearby that we patronize regularly.

Which brings me to my next point: you better get your sh*t together America, if you want me to continue to fund my trip on UK currency.  Stop being a bunch of whiners.

Much Love!

Caitlin MacDougall

P.S. Picked up a dinky pocket-sized book at Stirling Castle about the history of the MacDougall clan.  Apparently my last name means "dark stranger," perhaps to distinguish the darker Danes from the "fair-haired" Norwegians.  So much for that theory.