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!!!