Some of You May Die...

...But that's a sacrifice I am willing to make.

The past two Sundays, I've had the privilege of experiencing a very Scottish event. You know, the events that everyone associates with Scotland. And replicates so that they can be like Scotland. The Highland Games. Now, I've never been to a Highland Games event in the United States (of which there are many), but I've been to two here and I feel the need to warn you about something-- They are not safe.

Many cultures have some sort of activity like this that they pretend is all fun and games, but in reality it's dangerous for everyone involved. In the U.S. we're a big fan of fairs which include rides that have been shakily constructed in a day and flip you upside down in metal cages at alarming speeds. In Mexico they blindfold children and give them a bat, encouraging them to beat up a paper mache animal while other children stand uncomfortably close to them. Here in Scotland, they attend the local Highland games.

Danger #1: Unruly cash machines

You may think that the danger doesn't begin until you actually arrive at the games. Unfortunately, that's not true. On my way to the first set of Highland games that I attended in Edinburgh, I made a stop at the cash machine [ATM] in the Stirling Rail Station. Seems simple enough. Little did I know that the view I had of my trusty Charter One debit card going into the machine was the last glimpse of it I'd ever get. The card went in. I looked at the screen. Nothing. Well, not nothing -- there was a very ironic "please insert card" message flashing on the screen. I tried just about everything I could think of to make the machine either give back my card or recognize that it was being held hostage (I even banged my fist on the machine in a very cool, Fonzie-like manner). Shockingly, this did not work.

Eventually I was left with no option but to call the service number on the side of the machine and explain what had happened. The Scottish man on the other end heard me through and then calmly informed me that there was a glitch in the machine and it had to be reset. Apparently these things actually happen "quite often," and it's "rather unfortunate" that it coincided with my attempted use of the machine. "Don't worry, though. When they come by to service the machine, your card will be destroyed." Oh good. I was hoping that the solution to my problem would be the complete destruction of my only means to cash while I'm in a foreign country. Thank you.

Long story short, I've dealt with the annoyance of not having a debit card for the past two weeks by borrowing cash from helpful flat mates and using a credit card. Recognizing that nothing much could be done at this point in the day, we continued on to Edinburgh to brave the rest of the dangers that we had yet to encounter.

Danger #2: Slipping in/falling in/being sucked into massive pits of mud

Upon our arrival in Edinburgh that day, we simply followed the hoards of people walking down the Royal Mile toward Holyrood Park, the location of The Gathering 2009. The Gathering is a part of a promotion called Homecoming Scotland, which is essentially a tourism ploy that has worked quite well. In celebration of the 250th birthday of Robert Burns, people of Scottish decent from all over the world are invited to come home to Scotland and celebrate their heritage. Pretty cool. The Gathering is one of the main events this summer and includes a Scottish festival and the World Championship Highland Games. There were people from all corners of Scotland and the globe, including a decent number of fellow Americans.

This all sounds well and good until you add in the idea of Scottish weather. In particular, the Scottish rain. Now, in all fairness it did not rain much longer than an hour at the beginning of the day. But, that one hour of misty showers, combined with thousands of people patrolling one large patch of ground, created the most extensive mud pit you've ever imagined. This created quite an atmosphere of chaos. Just imagine the whole day's events taking place in the courtyard between Ketler and Crawford in the rain. As we walked gingerly across one of the more open expanses between the tents, we found ourselves clinging to each other to stay vertical. One wrong move and you would be "that idiot" who fell in the mud, wordlessly labeled for the remainder of the day, ridiculed in 5 different languages. To add to the misfortune, a couple of my companions had decided to wear flip flops that day.

Danger #3: Threat of heart attack

What would cause the heart attack, you ask? The food. Although we Americans would like to think that we have the market cornered on unhealthy foods, I beg to differ. The Scots are at a whole other level. Every hundred feet within the grounds was some sort of food stand catering to all of your fried food needs...

Fish and Chips - These are everywhere in Scotland (and most of the UK for that matter). You may think that because it's fish, it's mildly healthy. It's not. It's deep fried and greasy and the chips (steak fries) are coated in salt. This dish also serves as inspiration for most of the other options available.

Other Fried Novelties - The Scots love to deep fry things. I think they take some pride in the wide variety of things that they are able to deep fry. For example: Haggis. Because what's more appealing than sheep innards? Sheep innards that have been coated in batter and deep fried. They are also fond of deep frying sausages, chicken and cheese. But the number one thing that Scots love to brag about deep frying is a Mars Bar. Deep fried Mars Bars are one of those authentic local things that you secretly wish they had just kept to themselves. For those of you who are unaware, Mars Bars are basically the same as Milky Ways. Candy dipped in batter and soaked in oil. Sadly, since I would prefer to live past the age of 21, I have opted out of trying this culinary masterpiece.

Meat Pies - The next best thing to deep frying something in Scotland is making a pie out of it. In particular, steak pies are very popular. This is essentially pieces of questionable grade beef soaked in gravy and stuck inside dough. There are no vegetables. There is no cheese. It's just meat and dough. But, hey, at least it's not deep fried.

Shortbread - I will admit that I have a soft spot for Scottish shortbread. To be honest, it started way back when I was young and would go to Borders. For some reason, I have vivid memories of getting Walkers shortbread whenever I would go to the Borders Cafe. Since coming here, though, shortbread has made an appearance quite often. It is one of the favorite tourist shop items, as well as a useful thing to be offered alongside coffee and tea at receptions. You almost can't dislike shortbread. After all, it's just flour, butter and sugar. Conveniently, they work as both a dessert and a vegetarian meal option:

Here! Have a meat pie!...What's that? You don't eat meat? Okay, well how about just the crust. And we'll add some sugar as a substitute for the steak.

Danger #4: The Heavyweight Events

Here we go. We're finally to the bit that you think of when you picture a Highland Games in your head. Large men in kilts showing off their strength to hoards of people. It seems rather harmless if standard safety precautions are followed, right? Wrong. The Heavyweight events often many opportunities to kill or maim a large number of people. For your convenience, I have broken up the potential casualties into categories:

Supporters in the Stands: This seems like one of the safest areas to be during the games. As a member of the crowd in the stands, you are sufficiently removed from the physical harm of the heavy weights themselves. The unforeseen danger here, though, is the threat of going deaf. You see, directly in front of the bleachers are the loud speakers. And the speakers are set at such a volume that enables all of Edinburgh to hear the results of each throw. Some people in Stirling may have even heard the announcements. You may have even heard some of them.

Supporters on the Ground: In order to feel even more involved in the games, many people choose to observe the competition from the side of the field. In the case of certain, milder events (such as sac races or dance competitions) this is a good idea. But when it comes to the heavy weights, it's view at your own risk.

From our view in the stands, we could see the men picking up a large hammer on the side of the field. They then proceeded to plant their feet and begin swinging the hammer in wide circles around their heads, eventually slamming it down into the ground. This was just the warm-up. In the event itself, appropriately named "The Hammer Throw," each man stood in a designated area, swung the hammer around and eventually let go, hurling the hammer as far as they possibly could. Hopefully the throw was in the direction intended for the contest. Hopefully.

Just before they began in earnest, the loudspeaker cracked into action, and the announcer informed our throbbing ears that everyone near the field should "be aware" of the event taking place. Rest assured, these men are the best in the world, but accidents happen. I expected him to encourage the field-side bystanders (some who were a mere 20 feet from the competitors) to move back. Instead he merely told them to keep their eyes on the thrower. I'm not sure what this would accomplish. If a 22 pound hammer comes careening toward your head, I don't think it much matters whether it hits the front or back of your head. But these are just the silly thoughts running through my head. What do I know?

The Competitors: Though obviously these men were in danger from each other's hammer throw, I feel like their

sheer size and athletic ability would provide them with some protection and dodging skills. They could probably just snatch the stray hammer out of thin air in front of them and laugh it off over a pint. The most dangerous event for them, in my opinion, was what they call "Tossing Weight for Height."

Essentially, the men were given a 56 lb. weight in the shape of a cow bell, which they had to swing back and forth between their legs and gain enough momentum to hurl it up through their legs, past their face, over their head and over a bar in the air above their head. It is intense. This picture was not taken by me, but I think it clearly illustrates the danger that I'm referring to when I describe this task. The weight is being thrown directly overhead, attempting to pass over a bar. What happens if it doesn't go over the bar, you ask? What happens if it hits the bar and quickly comes rushing down toward the competitor's head? They move. Usually, they can tell the throw didn't go well and they turn or go forward. But I've seen some near misses. And despite the fact that they may be so well trained that they aren't in any real danger, I flinched every time.

However, despite the dangers that threaten to maim all who travel to watch or participate in the Highland Games, they are well worth the risk. The spectacle and excitement generated by this constant intensity is something that's hard to describe. No matter who you're supporting, there's a general comradery and desire for everyone to perform well, to throw far, to throw high, and (most importantly) to stay alive. Plus, there's the added bonus that there are hundreds of men walking around in kilts, which is a pretty awesome sight to behold.

When The Sun Hits This Ridge Just Right, These Hills Sing

You should be glad that it has been so long since my last update. Do you know why? Because it means that I resisted the impulse to write entries instead of writing essays for class. Just yesterday I turned in my two biggest assignments for my classes, and it feels good to be done. With those out of the way, though, it's time to update you on the goings-on of my life here in Scotland lately. Since the second block of classes has started, I've been spending much more time around campus and the Stirling area, mostly in the interest of saving money. As usual, the easiest way to elaborate is by sub-topic...

The Loch

As I'm sure I've mentioned before, there is a large loch in the center of campus. Basically any time you leave a building on campus, you are next to the loch. Not only does the loch provide extra beauty to the scenery (as only large bodies of water can), but it also makes activities such as kayaking and canoeing possible. Last week, they offered a "taster session" of these activities run by University of Stirling students. Two guys named Pete and Grunt (okay, so his name is actually "Grant" but when he said it, it sounded like "Grunt") were our instructors.

We did kayaking first, which was really fun. I'm fairly accustomed to steering myself around and enjoy the control that kayaking provides. Consequently, I was able to make it through the entire hour of kayaking without falling in the water. Canoeing was another story.

My partner, Hannah, and I started off fairly successfully. However, everything went downhill when Pete started instructing us to do all kinds of stunts in our canoe. For example:

-Switch seats

-Stand up

-Hang your feet into the water

-Stand on the edges of the boat

-Stand up in the center of the boat, hold hands and lean backwards

The last one is the one that send us into the loch. Surprisingly, the water wasn't too cold. And though we were the first canoe to go under, we very quickly recovered and went on a rampage of ensuring that we weren't the last ones to get wet. Good times.

The Gym

The University of Stirling is home to the National Tennis Academy, National Swimming Academy, as well as the home of the Scottish Institute of Sport, which prepares Scotland's elite athletes for international competition such as the Olympics. That said, the athletic facilities here are fantastic. And along with my tuition here, I recieved a sports center membership. During the first few weeks I was so intent upon getting off campus and seeing the country that I barely made use of the facilities (aside from my aerobic class fiasco). Recently, I've gone almost every day.

Today I was going to play tennis with a girl I met who's from the Toledo area and goes to OSU. However, when we went to enquire about a court we were informed that they cost 5 pounds per hour. Even just the regular outdoor courts (They have indoor courts, outdoor courts and clay courts). There are some things that Britain does right, but making me pay to play at a place where I'm already a member is not one of them. There aren't really parks around here with sports facilities. People who want to play sports in Europe join a club and use the facilities there. Even through grade school, high school, etc. kids have to join a club to participate in organized sports -- they're not built into the school systems. I think it's sort of strange that this is the case, considering how much more socialized most things are here. Anyway, back to me...

When I go to the sports center every day I spend my time in the fitness center, which is a state of the art version of Grove City's aerobic/weight rooms. They have more cardio equipment than theNatatorium, and it's all brand new. And it's currently the summer, so that no matter when I go,there are very few other people there. Basically, I'm using the same equipment that is used by the elite athletes of Scotland, and I'm being spoiled. But, of course, I feel sort of guilty spending this time inside considering I'm in Scotland, so I always stretch outside by the loch. Possibly my favorite spot on campus is a bench just across the street from the sports center that has a phenominal view of the loch and the Dumyat. That's where I go to stretch every day, rain or shine. One day last week, I ended my exercise just as a large rainstorm was leaving the area. Large, black clouds hung over the Dumyat, blue sky appeared over my head, and arched perfectly across the loch was the most well-defined, vibrant rainbow I've ever seen in my life. I could've sat there all night (but I didn't). And I could kick myself for not having a camera on me at the time (but I won't).

The Dumyat

As I've mentioned before, just behind Stirling lie the Ochil Hills, which provide a transition between the Highlands and Lowlands. One of the tallest (and most accessible) of the Ochils is named Dumyat. But everyone here just calls it "The Dumyat" (pronounced DUM-EYE-IT). Another organized activity that the program provided was a hill climb up the Dumyat led by a University student. This was particularly enjoyable for a couple of reasons.

1. The climb itself is through a heavily wooded path at first, so it's a nice stroll through the forest.

2. The view from the top was the best view of the area possible. To the south, the land is flat and you can see on for miles, and to the north the hills seem to roll on forever.

3. I spent about half of the hike at the front of the group talking to the student leader -- one of the only locals I've really had a chance to have an extended conversation with. She is from the Outer Hebrides (isles to the west of Skye), plays lots of sports (including rugby!) and is working towards a master's degree in Sport Management. As different as I'm sure our lives actually are, we had a good time talking about sports and about the programs at our schools. As it turns out, Grove City's intramural sports are way more extensive than those at "Scotland's University for Sporting Excellence."

I've been meaning to go up again ever since that day, but I've never quite found the time. I'm certain that I'll return before the program is over, though.

The Animals

As I've said before, the campus is home to an abundance of wildlife. I'd like to take a moment to highlight a few specific animals that have caught my attention during my time here:

The Guard Fox: Much like a guard dog, there is a red fox that patrols the entrances to the University campus. I only see it within 100 feet of the main pathways to campus, and it is always pacing back and forth across the road. I've even seen it ask people to show their student IDs.

The Blind Rabbit: For the first four weeks, every time I went to my film class the people in it would be talking about the blind rabbit that lives outside Pathfoot (the building where our class is). I'm not sure how they knew it was blind. Maybe it had a seeing eye dog (wouldn't that be an interesting sight). Actually, now I vaguely remember something about its eyes being glazed over. I never ended up seeing the blind rabbit...with its eyes open. On the last day of class, there was a rabbit that had been moved up onto the sidewalk. It was not looking particularly...alive. In fact, I'm rather certiain it was hit by a vehicle or a bicyclist or something. Quite unfortunate. And gross.

The Stealthy Squirrel: The squirrels on this campus are a little too smart for their own good. Now, the squirrels at Grove City are pretty ambitious. They will let you get just close enough, and then run away. The squirrels here, however, can fly.

I woke up one morning and walking down the hall to get a cup of coffee from the kitchen. On the door was a hastily scribbled note that read: "Squirrel's in the kitchen! -not a joke-" Despite the clarification, I assumed it was some sort of inside joke that I simply wasn't a part of, and I went about my business. After all, we live on the second floor. The sides of the dormitory are brick. There are not trees near any of the kitchen windows. But after talking to the person that wrote the note, I was informed that as she was about to walk into the kitchen that morning, a squirrel walked out of the kitchen, strolled over to the window and lept out. All very casually. I'll admit, a part of me thought that she was making this up. After all, nothing in the kitchen appeared damaged.

Later that week, I went into the kitchen to make myself a Nutella wrap (this is a delicacy; nutella spread on a tortilla which is then rolled up). I walked over to the large middle drawer that houses all of my dry goods. I opened the drawer (which is fairly heavy). And to my great shock, my bag of tortillas had been clawed open, and half of a tortilla had been eaten, leaving tiny, squirrel-sized bite marks and little holes. Not a joke. What I don't undertand is how the squirrel could open such a heavy drawer, but could not figure out how to open a zip lock bag properly. It will forever remain a mystery. To add to the intrigue, a few days later, a large branch appeared in our flat common room overnight. Not a stick, a branch. None of us brough it in (or at least no one will admit to it). I'm convinced that it was the squirrel trying to repay for the damages. No thanks, Mr. Squrrel, I'd prefer cash.

The Maids

On days when nothing much is going on around here, I like to sleep in. Not to some insane hour like I would at home, but at least until 10 or so. Now normally this wouldn't be a problem. Except on Thursdays. On Thurdays the maids come. The first few weeks of the program I was gone on Thursdays on day trips to cities, but the first Thursday I was home I got quite the rude awakening. The maids come at 9:30 a.m. Why they come that early, I'm not sure. But they do. And I hate it. It wouldn't be a big deal if it was one maid coming in to clean the bathrooms and vacuum the common area. But it's not. It is about 5 maids that come all at once. They begin their cleaning by pounding on your flat door which they then open with a key anyway. Once they're inside, they pound on each individual person's door and before you can even get a chance to answer, they open your door with a key as well. It sort of feels like you're under attack.

Like I said, on one particular day, I was there when they arrived. As they began to unlock my door, I sprang from my bed in a dazed stupor and opened it for them. Apparently they were going to change my sheets. Instead of having them come in my room so that I could watch them change my sheets, I took the linens from them to make it myself, securely locking my door behind me. I thought that I would just go back to sleep. I was wrong. I'm sure at some point in their visit the five women cleaned our flat. However, they must have been doing many other things as well, because they did not leave for at least an hour and half. As I tried to fall back asleep, I heard them carry on a party (or something like it) in our common area. They may have sat down for a spot of tea (or maybe a bottle of wine judging by the noise level).

I hope that I don't sound like some spoiled, ungrateful person who just wants them to be silent and do their job. It's not that. I just don't understand why you would hang out in someone's apartment while they're there. It was uncomfortable. I learned my lesson, though. This past Thursday I woke up at 9:00, put on my gym clothes and sat my ipod next to me. As soon as the pounding began, I jumped up and walked out the door, passing by my flatmate Maggie who gave me a sleepy glare as she saw me abandoning her during the invasion. Oh Thursdays...

Speaking of Thursdays, I'm heading into Edinburgh tomorrow for a day trip which will include a tour of Murrayfield (the home of the Scottish rugby team). More on that soon!

Together in Paris

Whenever possible, I've been trying to use movie quotes as the titles for my blog entries. I've chosen this particular quote because almost (key word: almost) every time someone mentions Paris, I immediately think of the animated film Anastasia (Dreamworks not Disney, by the way). In this wonderful movie, the title character essentially spends the whole movie trying to get to Paris so that she can be reunited with her long lost family. [As a side note, if you want to watch the movie, it's on Hulu.com and I also own a DVD which you're welcome to borrow.] Anyway, just for fun, let's compare and contrast Anastasia and myself...

Similarities:

- She's a girl. I'm a girl.

- She doesn't have much of a sense of fashion. Neither do I.

- She made a trip to Paris that included some train travel. So did I.

- ...I'm out.

Differences:

- She's a princess. I'm not.

- She's an orphan. I have a family.

- She started in Russia. I started in Scotland.

- She was going to Paris to see her Grandmother. I went to Paris to see a friend.

- She named her dog "Pooka." I would never do that.

-...obviously there are hundreds more.

Now why did I take you through this pointless exercise? Glad you asked. Good writing is all about the clever transition. (Yes, I realize that it loses its cleverness when I point it out and that it's a stretch in the first place.) So, that said...

In lieu of writing out a detailed account of my time in Paris with my friend Andrew, I've opted to examine instead the similarities and differences between life here in Stirling and life (as I perceived it) there in Paris. For those of you who read Andrew's blog too, I'm afraid you may have heard some of this. But I'm hoping that it'll give you a taste of my experience there and enlighten you a bit more about my experiences here. We'll start with something simple:

Food: A sheep's innards boiled in its own stomach vs. soft cheese spread over fresh baguette

Scotland - Food in Scotland has not been a disappointment. In order for it to be a disappointment, it would be necessary for me to have had positive expectations in the first place. Let's be honest, the British isles aren't known for their food. Aside from foods that I've already described in detail (pastries and mussels), the best meal I've had here is my own cooking. And that's saying something. I have enjoyed sampling the many Tesco-brand products, though. My current favorite is TESCO Pomegranate and raspberry wheats. Essentially, they are shredded wheat squares with fruit filling. Tasty. but nothing to write home about. (Did you catch the irony there?)

Paris - Food in Paris was also not a disappointment. I expected the food in Paris to be the best sampling of food I've ever had in my life, and I think that it was. From the bread, madeline, chocolate and wine that Andrew greeted me with upon arrival, to the all-you-can-eat fresh baguettes with jam for breakfast every morning, to une crepe au jambon et au fromage at a creperie near Notre Dame, to the elaborate, delicious pastries we managed to fit in between most meals, Paris was a glutton's paradise. I guarantee you that if I had spent the summer in Paris I would have finally gained my "freshman fifteen," if not more. Two days didn't hurt, though.

My favorite meal, and I use the term "favorite" very loosely, was probably the small picnic of baguette, soft cheese and white wine that we enjoyed on my last night in Paris. It's remarkable to me how delicious something so simple can be. But I think true culinary skill is found in doing the simple things well. Fittingly, this is the only meal that I remembered to photograph (...after we'd finished, that is...):

Weather: Northeast Ohio vs. Southern Ohio

Scotland - It's funny to me that Scotland gets such bad publicity when it comes to weather. To be honest, I think that so much of it is just that people like to complain. From what I've experienced, Scotland in the summer is very similar to being back home in the spring. It's cloudy a lot. It rains a lot. One minute it's around 40 degrees and the next you're burning up. Sound about right? We had a little heat wave a couple weeks ago, but at the moment the temperature is hovering right around 60 degrees, which to me is perfect. I couldn't ask for better weather, really.

Paris - Having only spent a couple days in the Parisian climate, my view is a bit off, probably. In general I think that Paris tends to be a bit warmer than Scotland and a bit less rainy. However, I was in Paris during the tail end of a heat wave which brought the temperature to around 80 degrees or so both days. Not my favorite. But, I was in Paris, so no complaints here. It didn't rain at all during my stay, which I was very grateful for.

One bonus of the hot weather was that I got to witness the latest fashion among French men -- something I like to call manpris. Capris for men. Although the native French men don't wear shorts, they do wear strangely tight capri-like pants. I'm not sure why they don't just give up those next couple inches. Maybe they're embarrassed about their chubby knees.

Public Transportation: Cheers, love! vs. doors that cut off hands

Scotland - First, let me note that the large cities -- Glasgow and Edinburgh -- have subway systems. But Stirling doesn't and I never use them, so buses and trains are my usual forms of public transportation. I've become quite accustomed to the bus system in and around Stirling. Some of my favorite parts of riding the bus and trains are...

- When the bus driver yells at pedestrians out his window and they shout back.

- Seeing the bus fit through remarkably tiny spaces that it should not fit through (think Night Bus in Harry Potter)

- Hearing "Cheers" (sometimes "Cheers, love") in response to your "Thank you" as you pass by the driver on your way out.

- When the attendant comes down the car on the train to check your ticket (traveling papers?) So many movie references come to mind each time.

- Train Stations. The hustle, the bustle, the surroundings. Enough said.

Paris - Similarly, there are buses and trains in Paris, but I didn't use them. I only used the RER and Metro. They were a joy to say the least. I almost began to type a description of the systems, but I know it wouldn't compare to Andrew's so if you'd like to understand what I mean by "joy," read this -- La Porte de l'Enfer.

I will share one personal story, though. During one of our trips, Andrew and I were seated (a nice rarity) on one side of the car and a man playing an accordion got on just after us and stood to our left. He was quite good at playing his tunes. However, one key thing to remember while enjoying performers is that when they are done, they will turn into someone who is begging you for money. And that the amount of effort that they put into those requests will directly relate to how much you appear to have enjoyed the performance. So, Andrew and I kept our heads down and slight scowls on our faces, despite the fact that it was very amusing. In this instance, keeping a straight face was particularly difficult because just behind the accordion player were two young boys (around age 7, I'd guess). The boy on the left was quite the dramatist and made faces and hand gestures to go along with the music and to amuse his friend, who wanted nothing to do with him. When the man was done playing the accordion I was tempted to get up and give money to the young boy for the show, but I figured that wouldn't be taken well. Alas...

Buildings: Function vs. finesse

Churches -

Scotland - Church of the Holy Rude

Paris - Notre Dame.

Highest Point in the City -

Scotland - The view from Arthur's Seat, Edinburgh.

Paris - The view from Montmartre.

Museums -

Scotland - Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, Glasgow

Paris - Musée du Louvre

Famous Towers -

Scotland - The William Wallace Monument

Paris - The Eiffel Tower

I could probably spend all night continuing this journey of comparisons and a few more telling you about all of my adventures in Paris. But I think it's important that I leave some things for in-person conversation or else I'll be having a LOT of awkward meals and conversations when I get back:

"So, what was your favorite part of St Andrews?"

"Oh, there was this great pastry pla..."

"...ce called Fisher and Donaldson. I know..."

*silence*

I Want to See Mountains, Gandalf

There's something about going to a place like Scotland that gets built up in your head. You expect the whole thing to be this beautiful, idyllic version of what you've seen on postcards and in coffee table books. On the surface you acknowledge that it's part of the modern world just like any other place, but deep down you don't want to believe it. You want to believe you're going to a land that could just as easily be Tolkien's Middle Earth or Lewis's Narnia. I wanted to believe it.

And though I would never call Scotland a disappointment, it would be a lie to say that every experience I've had here has lived up to that fantasy world potential. Not every experience. But one came very close. The Isle of Skye has some of the most untouched landscapes and vistas in all of Great Britain, and a couple weeks ago, I got to go there. The following is a mediocre account of my experiences that weekend, though the pictures represent the place better and a personal visit would obviously represent it better than that. If you don't want to read any further, just imagine that I went to Middle Earth for the weekend...minus the hobbits.

There and back again

As it turns out, at least a third of my trip to Skye didn't actually take place on Skye. It took place in a 9 person mini-bus that picked us up at Donnelly just a few short hours after my return from the A&E. On the first day, somewhat disoriented, I was fortunate (and unfortunate) enough to have front and center seat to the changing scenery as we drove up through the Highlands.Fortunate because the views really were astounding, and the further we drove, the more magnificent the world around us became. Unfortunate because I was much too exhausted to do anything besides gaze sleepily out the window, but the seat came with another obligation -- making awkward conversation.

Now, on my best day I'm not much of a conversationalist with strangers. If they make an effort, I'll participate, but in general I'm content to sit in a pleasant silence. And usually if someone makes the effort he is a good conversationalist himself. Usually. But Fergus is an exception in many ways.

Fergus was our tour guide and driver through the Scottish Highlands and Skye, though he himself is from England. His job involves him interacting with people all the time while leading them on hikes and mountain climbs, but he's not a people person. And though I gave every indication that I was exhausted and uninterested in conversation, he managed to keep up just enough comments and dead end questions to keep me awake for most of the first day's travel.

Not to brag, but I'm a pretty excellent non-verbal communicator when I choose to be. As I reluctantly climbed into the front seat and said "hello" to Fergus, I intentionally kept my eyes sort of half-closed, held my bandaged finger gingerly, and flashed only a half-smile. Once settled, I crossed my arms, brushed my hands through my hair so that it obscured half of my face, and leaned my head back slightly. I like to think that what I effectively said was "Hello, I'm not a morning person and not in a mood to talk." Apparently he didn't get the message.

At this point, I can't even remember what sorts of things he asked me, but I assure you that none of them required a long answer, or could possibly bring up good anecdotes. And whenever I'd ask him a question back, he would respond in as few words as possible. Furthermore, the job of communicating with him was entirely up to me because the van was engineered in such a way that the people in the back seats couldn't possibly hear what we were saying. Good.

However, there were some perks to being forced awake every 5 minutes by a thrilling fact such as, "There's a loch...I don't remember which one it is." Namely, I was able to see more of the country than if I had passed out. And a wonderful country it is. As we drove north, the shapes on the horizon slowly grew from rolling hills into towering cliffs. And finally, after 5 hours of driving with various stops at scenic lookouts, a castle, and "a spot of tea" we arrived at Broadford, our home on the Isle of Skye.

I ain't been droppin' no eaves, sir. Honest!

Broadford is quite an interesting place to spend a weekend. Highly involved the in the tourism industry, the city is teeming with B&Bs. In fact, I think it may be a law that if you have a

house that overlooks a harbor on Skye, you have to come up with a clever (or not-so-clever) name and call your house a B&B. Two of the girls in our group stayed at one such place dubbed "Green Gables B&B." The house had no green gables, and there was no one named "Anne" living there. Disappointing, I know.

But the most interesting part of Broadford was neither the poorly named residences nor even the view of the harbor, it was the people. Skye is a unique sort of place with unique sort of people living there. A unique sort of people who are great fun to observe. I would like to introduce you to a few of them...

Lullaby Man -

The reason for the name is only explained with a story. I should note that I did not witness any of this, but I assure you that it's an accurate account. Amanda, one of my friends, forgot to get her drink after she ordered it at the bar, so she went back without the rest of us to pick it up. As the bartender was getting it for her, a man (clearly intoxicated, as are most amusing people in pubs) who was sitting at the bar turned to her. "Sing me a lullaby." Now, Amanda wasn't sure what to say, being somewhat caught off guard. I mean, it was only 8:00 at night, after all. Much too early for bedtime. So she responded, "Oh, I don't really know any lullabies, and I don't really sing...so..." Lullaby Man is a very understanding guy, though. He replied, "Oh. Alright, well you have a lovely yellow face." Sensing that this was a fitting end to the conversation, Amanda returned to our table to tell us of her encounter.

Yellow Wellies Guy -

Ah yes, one of the more colorful (pun intended) inhabitants of Broadford. We came upon him during our first night in Broadford at the local pub. Now, before you think I've become an alcoholic or something, most of the decently priced food in Scotland is served in pubs. Especially after 5pm. Anyway, we were in the pub behind The Broadford Hotel, named "The Gabbro" and there he was stumbling around the bar in a rather normal outfit and huge, bright yellow wellington boots.

I personally didn't interact with him much, but he owned a dog who came in and out of the pub greeting everyone he encountered. The dog wasn't so much friendly as crazy. As a result, Wellies seemed to only keep him inside about half the time. However, sitting with him outside would sacrifice valuable time at the bar, so instead Wellies seemed to have developed quite the plan: Get random strangers to become interested in the dog (whose name escapes me), and then trick them into holding his leash for a bit outside. It worked surprisingly well, particularly if used on people who were leaving the pub slightly intoxicated. This brings me to...

Michael Jackson's #1 Fan -

As we were leaving the Gabbro that first night, we passed by a woman who had been conned into dog sitting for Wellies. I know that it was a con because she kept muttering to us that this was not even her dog. But between mutters, she had time to make conversation with my friends and me while we waited for our la

st member to pay her bill. MJ1 asked us if we'd heard about Michael Jackson, and before even giving us the chance to say "yes," she followed with another question: "Do you think it's true?"...awkward pause..."What?" "That he did all of those things they accused him of..." Again, before we could formulate some sort of awkward response, she continued, "I don't think he did it....I love his music...I grew up with it...I don't want to live in a world where it's true..." Assuring her that we also enjoyed Michael's music, we slowly walked away and left her to talk to the unnamed dog.

Grumpy George -

Although all of the aforementioned people were given nicknames by my friends and me, Grumpy George is entirely self-named. Additionally, he is the only one of these characters I've described who was sober. So he's already got those two things going for him...

We met Grumpy George while waiting for our ferry to leave Skye on the last day of our journey. His shop is one of the only two in the immediate area of the ferry port, and we had a few hours to kill. As it turns out, Grumpy George isn't grumpy at all. He is quite jolly. But Jolly George just sort of sets expectations too high...and sounds kind of lame.

As soon as we entered the shop, we were drawn to the back wall where there were huge landscape photographs highlighting some of the amazing scenery we had recently witnessed in person. I would say that the pictures were unreal, except that it was quite the opposite. They showed what our eyes had seen and what our cameras were too amateur to capture. Grumpy George, you see, is a professional photographer and he spent a good chunk of that morning giving us small lessons about photography as we waited for our ferry.

My favorite lesson is this: You don't "edit" photos, you "finish" photos. You see, the word "edit" makes it sound like you changed the picture in some way to make it different from what the subject was actually like. But in reality, a camera can't capture everything a human eye can. In order to make the picture show everything that you would see in person, you need to "finish" it using software, etc.

He also showed us his $10,000 lens and $6,000 camera, which he uses to take the pictures shown here. Amazing.

Do you remember the taste of strawberries?

While I'm in Stirling itself, staying at my flat, I buy groceries and cook boring things like pasta most nights. But when I'm out in new, adventurous lands I try to take the time to sample the local fare. (I also really enjoy using the word "fare.") On this trip to Skye there were plenty of opportunities for this sampling.

I'd like to mention here that while on this excursion, I had tea and crumpets. Yes, that's right, sometimes I drink tea instead of coffee. And by "instead of coffee," I mean "in addition to coffee." But still, it's something. Despite all of his awkwardness and lack of social skills, Fergus is an Englishman and Englishmen know how to make good tea. Every morning he would wake up early and set up our breakfast which always included a pot of tea. Knowing this, I couldn't resist buying a package of crumpets when I saw them in the grocery store. As it turns out, crumpets are sort of like English muffins, but without the nooks and crannies. All-in-all a disappointment. I'm much more partial to scones (also popular over here). But scones here aren't in the shape of triangles like they tend to be back in the states. The ones I've had are much more rounded.

So the tea and crumpets were all well and good, but my favorite food on Skye was the authentic Scottish meal I had the second night we were in town. Now, I should mention that much like St Andrews, many parts of Skye consistently smell of sea water. Even more specifically, port towns like Broadford smell of fish. I'm not a big fan of fish, but I am a big fan of shellfish. A huge fan. And so on the second night I had a huge plate of fresh, local mussels steamed in a white wine butter sauce and a pint of ale from the Isle of Skye Brewery. It doesn't matter that I don't have a picture, because the taste couldn't be captured on film. I'm sure the mussels looked like ordinary mussels, but they tasted like buttery little pieces of heaven. As each mussel entered my mouth, it simultaneously melted and exploded with flavor. (My mouth is watering right now.) The ale was excellent as well, though I think its excellence was overshadowed by the food.

So far, it sounds like all I did on Skye was hang out with drunk people, a bumbling Brit, and Grumpy George while consuming calories. In reality, these were all such minor parts of the journey to Skye. The real Skye, the one that transported me into another world alltogether, that was at the Quiraing.

There's no knowing where you might be swept off to...

I've tried to write about this so many times, but words escape me even now.

The weather (oh great, talking about the weather...original) the day we hiked the Quiraing was perfect in my opinion. In reality, it was probably typical Scottish weather. It ranged from 50-70 at varying points in the day. It was sunny. It was cloudy. It rained. There was a blizzard (no there wasn't). I think that if it had rained the entire time, I almost wouldn't have minded, though. I've got a growing appreciation for clouds since coming here and taking thousands of pictures. There's just something about clouds in a sky that help to throw a landscape into perspective. Sure, blue skies are nice, but they are sort of one dimensional. (Tangent, much?)

Alright. The Quirang. We hiked along the bottom of a set of cliffs, through large rock formations, across rocky meadows, through tangled heather, over stone walls, up a vast, steep hill and back across the top of the cliffs we started under. All of this took place just a few thousand feet from the sea that separates Skye and Scotland. And if you strained your eyes just a little, you could see the shadows of the Highland hills of the mainland towering over the opposite shore. Around every corner a new landscape appeared, even more awe-inspiring than the one before it. The view from the trail was epic. Epic is the only way I can think to sum it up. Our talk as we climbed went back and forth between these three statements:

1. Wow.

2. This is unreal.

3. I think that spot right...there...is where I'm building my castle.

But an even greater variety of commentaries were constantly being carried on in my mind. With each new view, my desire to share the sight with the people I love back home grew. I've made friends on this trip, don't get me wrong. And it was great experiencing such a surreal, breathtaking thing with them. But the more I see of Scotland, and the more I saw that day, the more I wanted to snap my fingers and have you appear there with me. Yes, you. If you're reading this, then I probably thought of you at some point that day.

Needless to say I didn't want the hike to end. Maybe it was tiring. I don't even recall. What I do recall is that each time we had to stop to wait for group members to catch up, I would pick a sturdy looking rock, usually coated in heather, to sit on and just stare at my surroundings in disbelief. The view from the cliff and below the cliff included a small village nestled beneath the Quiraing, by the sea. But just as I was in St Andrews, I was struck with the recognition that these human creations seemed so...insignificant. Pathetic, even, in the wake of the landscape that God has crafted. Essentially, God is amazing.

And on that note, I think I will end this account of my weekend, because that's really what I took from it. And that's what you should take from it, too.