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.