Sammy Who Traveled, Danced and Ate away an Innovative Week

As a note prior to the beginning of this post, my memory card has still not come in the mail so I believe I'm going to cave and buy a more expensive one here. I just can't stand to not take pictures anymore!  
       I have just finished with week 6 of my academic semester in Edinburgh (frighteningly far along). However, this particular week stepped outside the normal academic rigmarole because it was "Innovative Learning Week". This week is structured so that students can attend lectures on subjects outside their majors and meet prominent alumni in their fields. It's a veritable platter of exciting post-graduate delicacies (do note the sarcasm intended in that description). The uni planned a series of events to engage students and the students responded in a most predictable fashion; bus tickets, travel plans and no intention of listening to some stiff, upper lip blabber on about his self-proclaimed success. As a visiting student, I figured that nothing could be more outside the regular learning experience than exploration of nearby Scottish locations and so, without a smidgen of guilt, I booked exciting adventures for the week.
     My first voyage was to St. Andrew's to visit Sydney, a friend from Brunswick, ME that permanently goes to the university there. I've discussed St. Andrew's in my earlier posts as a beautiful, seaside town with formidable gusts and an endearing atmosphere. Sydney was quite surprised to hear that I had already visited the area before she arrived but I assured her that I had gotten all the touristy experiences out of the way so she could show me student life. I stayed with her in a gorgeous flat which boasts wooden floors dating to (I believe) the beginning of the 20th century and spacious, white walls. It's the sort of living arrangement that I hope to achieve when I'm far past my undergraduate days and I must have told her more than a dozen times how impressed I was with it all. I tend to be someone who lays on compliments thick and frequently, but I truly do mean them, no matter how repetitive they seem.
     Missing the experience of home-cooked food and growing quite sick of the jumbled, indifferentiable dishes of Pollock's dining hall, Sydney and I decided to cook our meals. The first night we made a wonderful stir-fry, paired with an apple crisp which had a lifespan far shorter than expected. The night was finished with a couple of glasses of pricey wine on half-price sale (splurging without any of the monetary regrets) and my first ever viewing of The Breakfast Club. Sometimes, regardless of your location, you just need a chick flick night. The second day, we toured St. Andrew's, visiting a wonderful cheese store and sampling till our hearts were content on a medium goat cheese and a soft cow's milk. The afternoon was spent on leisurely productivity as I had an essay due the following Monday but plans for dinner soon sprang into existence. We started cooking at about four o'clock with Sydney doing most of the heavy lifting. The meal consisted of homemade gnocchi (a task that sparked great insecurity in my cooking abilities), a long-simmering and hearty tomato sauce, sauteed asparagus, garlic bread (the type that makes your breath wonderfully repulsive) and a beautifully executed tiramisu. Yes, she and I were the only dinner guests but I was going to be damned if I was to return to dining hall grub without feeling fully satiated with real people food. After dinner, we ventured to the The Criterion, a pub that was holding an open mic night. There I met some of Sydney's friends from uni and enjoyed Johnny Cash sung with a Scottish tongue.

Although the photo is not mine, this is a picture from the Chapel of St. Salvator's that we visited

      Tuesday and Wednesday were a blur of essay writing for my gender and development class. They were particularly torturous as Thursday boasted travels with my friend Molly to her village, Strathdon. We took a long bus ride up into Aberdeen, a monochromatic and sad city that resembles some of the more industrial areas in America. From there, her mother picked us up for an hour-long ride out into the countryside. Now, I love the city but there's something about expansive, wide-open spaces populated with livestock that gets to me like no other. Its rural scenes brought bittersweet images of Maine's coast into my head. Moreover, we were greeted warmly at her house, which used to be converted stables but was renovated into a magnificent abode. Friday night was of particular interest because it was the night of the ceilidh. Molly had informed me that the dances I had been to in Edinburgh, while good practice, were not true ceilidhs. Friday night convinced me of this. It was the sort of dance that stays with you in the form of calf cramps for nights to come, but in the best of ways. We performed endless dances, hard to pick up but fun to attempt. All night we Virginia-wheeled, stripped the willow, and Lord knows what else. I found that as long as one bounced and spun enough, that she seemed to fit in. But perhaps everyone was just being polite...
     During breaks, memorable competitions were held. The best was the "Dance like David" competition. David, a weathered ceilidh dancer, has a distinct style and that night won my heart. He had fuzzy, white hair, a set of spectacles that refused to leave his face no matter what rigorous jig he performed, a faded tee-shirt with an Oscar Wilde quote (probably my favorite part) and, obviously, a kilt. For the competition, David began kicking, stomping and jigging with a unique fervor and soon enough all the young bucks in the room tried to imitate him, glancing occasionally from their own steps to David's sure-footedness. The competition culminated with unanimous agreement on the obvious winner: David, himself.
      After the dance, we parted to a friend of Molly's home to continue the revelry well into the wee hours of the morning. By wee, I mean the really, really wee hours that I have not been awake for in many a moon. In the morning, we took an enjoyable walk through the countryside. The vantages were more energizing than any cup of black coffee, even my dearly missed Wicked Joe's brew.

A photo Molly took During the Morning Ambling

     The last night, Molly's incredibly kind mother (who even woke me with a cup of fresh coffee one morning--something that made me dearly miss my father) cooked a Sunday feast that will linger in my memory for ages to come. There was a roast, a bounty of vegetables, haggis, roasted potatoes, Yorkshire pudding, homemade gravy, an apple pie and a sherry trifle. Haggis, by the way, is nothing to wince at. It is absolutely delicious and in Mr. T tradition, I pity the fool that doesn't try it. If you ever get the opportunity, don't be a ninny-pants. The pluck is savory and oatey, complicated with flavors of clove and nutmeg. Overall, the feast was the sort of meal I imagine the Norsemen dreamt of when they wrote of the rewards in Valhalla. Returning to dining hall food will be a challenge, indeed. 

     Sunday was filled with a dreary ride back to Edinburgh and the realization that I had an essay to finalize for Monday. However, this week I will be meeting up with my other international friends and swapping stories from our various "Innovative" weeks over a meal that I have volunteered to prepare. You would think that after all that cooking, I would shy away from yet another kitchen endeavor but nothing can replace the comfort of a table teeming with good eats and even better company. Plus, I have an hankering to take a shot at handmade pesto. Also, I do promise to start taking some pictures of my own!!!

 

Sammy Who Blunders in Front of Attractive Male Celebrities

I know, I know. The word celebrity always sparks a good deal of interests in us all but unfortunately friend, before I discuss this week's moniker, I'm going to make you listen to my blabbing on more mundane topics. Cruel, it's true. But you know what they say: my silly blog means my silly rules. This week actually had a rather stressful beginning. But let's go about a month and a half back so you understand the full context.

A conversation with my bank:
Me: Hi TD Bank, I'm going abroad! So excited! Here are the specific dates that you needed and everything else so that I can still spend money overseas. I'm literally doing everything just as you requested!
TD Bank: Wow, cool Sammy! No worries, everything is all set so you go spend moolah and keep pretending that your bank account isn't the most pathetic thing we've every seen. Honestly, who wastes that much money at Starbucks?
Me: Perfect!

Well, let's just say that TD Bank was being a little untrue about their feelings. Apparently, they were not happy when I was spending money abroad and on a random Sunday, I had the joy of discovering that my once wonderful debit card was a canceled piece of useless plastic. The worst part was how I discovered this. I was in a adorable clothing store and I had found something amazing. It was a 3/4 sleeve leopard dress:

And yes, it was on sale with a additional student discount making it an unheard of 5 pounds. Life is cruel sometimes. I was at the cash register thinking of the adorable turquoise/leopard pairings that I would be making when I heard those fateful words: "Your card doesn't seem to be working". I don't want to seem materialistic and say that I was crushed but for those of you that would judge me, skip the next sentence. I was crushed. 

This is where we move from my pampered complaining to a more important life lesson. Here I was abroad with no source of money so I did what any adult does. I called my parents. My poor father had to listen to my blubbering, intermixed with profuse swearing, while we worked things out with the bank. There was no apparent reason why my card was cancelled and additionally, my parents had to pay for overnight shipping to have my new card reach me. Oh the pleasures of finance. As you can imagine, I was quite the wretch to deal with. But moments like this teach us important lessons about ourselves. I had been holding myself in such high esteem, praising myself with how adult I was becoming. This event reminded me that I still have quite a lot of growing up to do. Fortunately, I was able to escape my pit of self-loathing in no time but it was a good check for me. Even if I don't have money, I am still in a fantastic city and quite frankly, being troubled about something like this is ridiculous. Who needs plastic when you have castles? Who needs a leopard print dress when you have Edinburgh (okay, this one was a little harder to write)? Sometimes the little bumps we face help us remember how fortunate we really are. I like to view them as little chances to see yourself more objectively. I did eventually get my card but I refuse to forget the lesson I learned from its absence. 

Alright, alright. I know what you're thinking. You want me to stop getting all Dear Diary on you and start talking about my title for this week. Fair enough. So, you may have heard of James McAvoy. He played Mr. Tumnus in Narnia, Charles Xavier in X-Men First Class and Robbie in Atonement. He's adorable and has been a heartthrob of mine ever since I saw him in his scarfed satyr form in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Some pictures to remind you: 

Oh he's a fox alright and he comes compete with a thick, Scottish accent. Well, he's filming a new thriller entitled Filth here at Grassmarket in Edinburgh. Grassmarket is a cluster of delicious restaurants, pubs and shops that tends to be the site of  August musical festivals. My friends and I heard he was filming through the wonders of social media and decided to try our luck and see if he was there. Lady Luck, after being malicious, changed her tune. There he was in all his Scottish glory and we were actually able to watch scenes from the film being made. After standing like creepy fans for at least half an hour, James took a break and we awkwardly approached him. I had a notebook prepared for him to sign (thank God he didn't see the cover as it's comprised of cat pictures) and I began to do what I thought was talking. In reality, it was social blundering. You know, the type that you don't want to look away but part of you wants to see how bad the crash will be? I'm pretty sure I referred to myself as creepy to apologize for us standing around for so long but I've tried to forget most of the idiotic things that came out of my mouth. However, he was very pleasant, telling me it was fine and even took a picture with us. Thank you James McAvoy for understanding what your good looks do to my cognitive capabilities.  

Here's the proof and yes, he really is that short but he was wearing a fantastic pea coat. After meeting him Emma, Jessie and I all went to a late lunch which consisted of baffled discussion and euphoric amazement. At one point, I'm pretty sure all three of us were just smiling off into space. I'm not one to get wrapped up in celebrity life, but when they happen to be handsome, Scottish men with successful film careers, I find myself more easily swooned. By swooned, I mean babbling in fan-girl excitement like a thirteen year old at a backstreet boys concert in the 90's. At least my taste in men has improved since those days. 

As exciting as this was, March is going to be a very fun month indeed. This upcoming week, I am visiting my wonderful friend Sydney at St. Andrew's and then going with my other fabulous friend, Molly, to Aberdeen. In March, I have two friends visiting me and I'll get to spend St. Patrick's Day in the mecca of it all. Yes, that's right. I'm going to be in Dublin on the 17th, adorned in green worthy of the revelry. More to come and hopefully my memory card for my camera will get shipped in at some point so I can actually take some photos! 

Sammy the Smitten

       Apologies for the lack of blogging lately but that's how it always goes with these sorts of things, isn't it? However, there's much to update on so hopefully this one's substance will make up for the gap. This week, I went to my first two ceilidhs which were fantastic. But what's a ceilidh you ask? Imagine a traditional Scottish band filling a dance hall with folksy tunes. The women present are wearing adorable cocktail dresses, heels thrown to the side of the room for increased dancing opportunities. However, the men really steal the show. They are wearing traditional kilts, adorned with all the right accessories and if you're an admirer of strong, male calves like myself then a ceilidh is the place you want to be. The dancing style is similar to square or contra dancing but the halls are packed with only college-aged individuals. You can't imagine the fun of a stubbled Scottish man swirling you on his arm as the fiddler begins to liven her pace. You'll sweat like mad but by the end of it, everyone's wiping their brows so you're in good, disheveled company. I have always thought of myself as an okay dancer, at least passable, but here I was far out of my league, competing with individuals who have these moves in their blood. I was hoping to tap into my own Scottish heritage but the years spent in puritanical America seemed to have dampened my abilities. Nowhere else could men spin so vigorously, kilts lifting dangerously high. I will certainly be attending more of these dances and brushing up on my skills so that next time I am a participant instead of an obstacle on the dance floor.This is an example of what the dancing looks like:

      I also got to watch my first rugby match, however, it was in a pub and not at the actual Murrayfield stadium. It was the initial game in the 6 Nations Tournament, which includes Scotland, England, Ireland, Wales, France and Italy. This game was particularly important because not only was it the kick-off, but it was between Scotland and England. The two have a historical rivalry steeped in sore feelings. The pub was silent as the game began, only broken by cheering on Scotland's successful plays or the occasional "Bastard!", screamed at the English players. Unfortunately,  although Scotland had some impressive plays, England beat them with a final score of 13 to 6. So the two teams I was rooting for, the Patriots and Scotland, failed to deliver. You can only imagine what Edinburgh looks like on a Saturday night after a crushing loss to their biggest rivals, not pretty but incredibly fun for those who are less emotionally attached. 
     This weekend I visited the Dewar's whiskey distillery in Aberfeldy with the International Students Center. Aberfeldy is an adorable town, complete with charming brooks and the Aberfeldy Watermill. My day started with a traditional Scottish breakfast, a meal that shames any "well-balanced" alternatives. It often times has more varieties of meats on the plate than anything else. My favorite version so far included a fried egg, sausage, haggis, bacon, a roasted tomato and just in case you were still peckish, a gargantuan breakfast roll. Keep in mind, this is smaller option and only costs about three pounds. It's larger version probably wipes out half a farm just to produce. 
     After breakfast, or rather brunch as it was creeping towards noon, we headed towards the distillery and learned all about its history and production process. The business was built by two very entrepreneurial brothers. Tommy, the younger sibling, was particularly charming and became famous for his witty remarks, deemed "Dewarisms". My favorite two were "A philosopher is a man who can look at an empty glass with a smile" and "A teetotaller is one who suffers from thirst instead of enjoying it". We got to sample a 12 year old single malt whiskey that took its flavors from the heather and honey grown in Aberfeldy and it was a personal favorite of the specialist at the bar. However, I don't believe the pallets of my friends and I were quite prepared for the fiery flavors of straight whiskey. We sipped, trying to be polite and cultured, but the occasional cough or twisting face was inevitable. The Aberfeldy whiskey did have strong notes of honey but I think it would suit me better in a hot toddy than on its own. Here are some pictures from the day.

My friends and I trying our complimentary drams 

Pictures with a statue in the old storage building

Original mixing bottles while Dewars tried to find the perfect blend

     Continuing with the historical theme, Edinburgh is a city that is famous for thinking, boasting such reputable figures as David Hume, Adam Smith and even the man who invented the decimal system. However, there's a wonderful twist to this seemingly scholastic environment. Edinburgh is indeed scholarly, however, it is not dusty with the residue of old books and regimented study habits. The story goes that the best ideas invented in this city were not the result of hours in a library. Instead, these ideas were cultivated in public houses, or pubs, with a mulled-over stout in hand.  Can't you just see it? Imagine, powdered academics debating ideas, sloshing their drinks and coming to the climax of their heated arguments while night turns into early morning? It's fantastic! Consequently, my friends and I decided that we would follow suit and see if anything substantial came up in our own tavern-dwelling discussions. Indeed, we talked about politics, social constructs and a milieu of other wonderful, pretentious topics. We completed the night by ordering a chicken tikka pizza, which is the wonderful creation of late-night Indian cafes. Quickly enough, the dark became threatened with the chirp of early morning birds and we all returned to our dorms, satiated with only the best sorts of conversations. Being a philosopher in Edinburgh isn't the same pretentious title that it is elsewhere in the world. Here, the best books are created in bustling coffee shops, discussion outside of the classroom is as rewarding as discussion in the classroom and academics don't waste their time in fruitless solitude. They manage to combine the cultivation of new ideas with the enjoyment of friendship and spirits. I believe I may be falling in love with the marvelous city and I haven't even been here a month. Thus, my moniker this week, Sammy the Smitten, is the result of these blossoming feelings.