Sammy Who Froze with Fire Demons.

     The final weeks of study abroad will slowly turn into a couple lingering days and then, soon enough, Edinburgh will be no more than a fond memory. Shall we mourn this passing in melancholic angst? God no, dear reader! What do you take me for? Let's go out with a bang... or perhaps a fire festival! Yes, this past week I had the joy of attending the Beltane Fire Festival, an overwhelming celebration of summer's coming. It is the closest I will ever come to seeing a fertility festival, pushing the comfort levels of ever Puritanical tourist in the most hedonistic of fashions. It took place on April 30th and was typical-typical is used in a flexible sense here-of May Day festivities. Yet, in Edinburgh I suppose the conception of summer is more flexible than my usage of typical because, although the night was solid pagan fun, we all were frozen to the core by the end of it. Be forewarned that there is a bit a nudity in the following pictures but we're not talking anything worse than National Geographic. Think of it as cultural nudity... covered in red body paint

The festival took place on top of Calton Hill where the National Monument is. What was once a pleasant vantage point now becomes something entirely more sinister. Of course, most things do when you photograph them at dusk and place a devil in the foreground.

The beginning of the opening ceremony was marked by Winter, symbolized as a buck, walking out and awaiting the May Queen's arrival.

We kept asking when the May Queen was going to arrive, wrongly mistaking her on several accounts until someone informed us, "Oh, you'll know". And yes, the enormous display of flaming symbols and ritualistic and synchronized bowing did make it rather obvious. 

As I said, synchronized bowing was very well executed. 

One of the burning symbols which I believe represented the four seasons, but honestly that one's a shot in the dark.... Get it? Shot in the dark? The photo... Alright, alright.

After a time of very complimentary groveling, the May Queen descended into the crowd to lead Winter to his death. The entire night she kept silent as the grave and the only time she moved her lips was to whisper something to winter during their meeting. No one except Winter knows. Come on, if that doesn't rival your Celtic curiosity, what will? I was so floored at how elaborately fantastic the show was, that I was a giddy mess the whole night. I guess I'm not May Queen material.    

The May Queen's hoard of floral femme fatales.  

The was one of the Fire Demons, or "reds" as they called themselves. As I'm sure you can predict from the image above, they were quite the group of characters!

Alright, so this one's a bit pervy but I just couldn't resist capturing the effort he put into constructing a pair of homemade chaps. It obviously took skill. 

And what would a May Day be without fire dances complete with green nymphs and blazing fans? A poor excuse for a pagan festival, that's what!

This was an awesome display of Bhangra-like dancing. More people to add to the list of "cooler than I will ever be capable of becoming". Edinburgh has lengthened it a considerable amount.

This was what they termed "elemental puppetry" because, of course, at a fire festival, you can't just have regular puppetry. 

As said, she wore this expression and headdress all night. I do hope one of her hoard gave her a neck message after three hours of stiff regality. 

Now, I was freezing but I was also layered in multiple coats and woolly comforts. I cannot say the same for these very dedicated performers. This went on for hours and not once did I see any of them give a hint of frigidness. On the other hand, there I was slurping as much warmth as I could from an over-priced but deeply appreciated hot cocoa. Apparently, anyone could volunteer to be involved but something tells me I'm not fire demon material.    

And yes, there is the question of modesty. I wouldn't label myself as a prude but I'm not too keen on the idea of running about in nothing but my skivvies. Call me old fashioned but red paint just doesn't give me the same feeling of privacy as, oh I don't know... clothing? 

     Icy blasts from the top of Calton Hill aside, the night was something I shan't soon forget, not that I think I could. It was an "only in Edinburgh" moment, yet not one that I'd readily slap on a postcard home to mom and dad. The Beltane Fire Festival needs a large amount of explanation but the only way one could understand the manner in which body paint, fire dances and outrageous costuming come together in perfect revelry is to experience it. Something is lost in trying to bring a surreal moment into reality. 

    Well, moving into something a bit more demure and, minimally, tangible, I also went to high tea with my friends at Tigerlily. And yes, it was a veritable bouquet of too cute for its own good, complete with cake stands piled with passion fruit pavlova, mandarin tarts, lemon cupcakes, and finger sandwiches. Even the Mad Hatter would have found himself in speechless bliss. 

   

Can something be too cute? No, not at high tea. 

There was a predictable sugar crash after the meal but it was well worth it.

We are six talented and articulate young women, hailing from acclaimed institutes. And yet, when surrounded by soft pink lighting, squeal-inducing confections and the rattle of conversation and teacups, we found ourselves living out the most elaborate fantasies of a young girl's tea party. I find this a perfect way to spend my time--adulthood should simply be the freedom to indulge one's childhood cravings. 

   Although James McAvoy was a fox, I had the joy of seeing another celebrity. Yet this one was a different sort. The Guinness Book of World Records sort, in fact. Ever heard of the world's most pierced woman? Well, below she is pictured walking down the streets of Edinburgh, her home city. Odd right? Yet, this capital has inspired the spookiest imaginations so perhaps it fits perfectly. And spooky certainly describes this bold dame: 

Keep in mind not all of the piercings are facial. I'll say no more. 

   I could only get a picture from the back as I was too intimidated to ask for one with her. Curse my hesitation because think of how great a photo that would have been to show relatives what Scotland was like. I might linger around the area I saw her and see if fate will allow our paths to cross again. 

    For you Harry Potter fans, I was able to get myself to Elephant House, the cafe where Rowling clacked out much of the first couple novels. Now, it's a bit touristy but so enveloped in Harry Potter fandom that you quickly forget the eyebrow-raising cost of a bagel. All over the bathroom walls are thank you notes to JK Rowling and classic quotes from the series. You better believe I sneaked a pen in and paid my respects. If there's one thing I love about Harry Potter (one thing-yeah right) culture, it's the ability to bring the whimsy into the everyday. For example, at Elephant House one of the bathrooms was out of order and someone had cleverly slipped a sticky note that said "ministry entrance" below the sign. You've got to love it. Only a Harry Potter reader could make a broken bathroom stall whimsical. 

    For the next couple weeks I plan on trying to investigate the off-beat aspects of Edinburgh such as magic shops (the types with owners that refer to it as "the craft"), odd antique stores and the like. If I don't get a curse, I'll be sure to keep you updated but as reverence is not my specialty, I may be a toad before my time here is out. 

     

   
   

Sammy de las Cueavas y Piñas Coladas

    Palma, Palma, Palma. How does one even begin to describe the four magnificent days that I've experienced in Palma? Well, we'll begin by first admitting that no matter what attempt at Palma-inspired prose I produce, it will not, nor could, capture the breath of fresh Mediterranean air that this island was to my study abroad experience. However, I'd be a complete pendeja to not give it a whirl (I'm not sure about you but when I learn a language, I prefer to learn the profanity before the pronouns as they are often just as useful in my dialogue).
    I suppose chronological progression might be the easiest route but I warn you, the beginning was certainly the roughest part... Of course, anything is rough when compared with a piña colada on the beachfront. To begin, we had a 6:40 am flight out of Glasgow Prestwick and as foolish Americans, we assumed there was only one airport in Glasgow. To be safe, we took a 12 am bus out of Edinburgh, planning to spend the night in the terminal. Unfortunately, the discovery that there were in fact two airports "in" Glasgow was realized at 1 am in the morning in the sketchiest bus station I've had the pleasure of being stranded in.  I say "in" because Prestwick is a little less than an hour away in a 60 quid taxi ride- something I've learned from lived experience. To say we slept would be faulty- in reality, we tossed and turned the night away in a freezing airport awaiting the opening of check in. However, all this soon fell by the wayside as we breezed into Palma. 

   Our hostel was a fantastic deal, costing a total of 40 euros for four nights including breakfast- don't know how we got so fortunate but luck seemed to follow us around after landing. The first day was really about getting familiar with our surroundings. Indeed, it was a tasking effort: 

This photo belongs to my friend Jessie who only had to walk a mere 

20 seconds from our room to take it.

    The second day we boldly headed where every tourist had gone before us, into the city center. However, I'm not one to scoff at clearly marked multi-lingual signs, especially when my Spanish was as rickety as the brakes on my 1997 Pontiac Grand Am--mind you, it failed inspection with flying colors. Now, before we delve into photography that will transform you, personally speaking as one, into a green-eyed monster, we'll do a bit of a history lesson on Majorca. The island has been under Roman, Byzantine, Islamic as well as Moorish rule and then squabbled over by a series of prominent figures in Spanish history. What can I say? You do want the abridged version correct? Honestly, I'm sure Wikipedia would be a more fruitful investigation than my tedious jabbering. However, what's more interesting is the reality that each of these cultures left a mark on the island. It's visible in the eclectic architecture, woven together through a series of conquerors fixed on making themselves immortal. Ah, but enough history and back to scrapbook blogging. 

This is La Seu Cathedral and arguably the most impressive building in Majorca. 

Hell, I'd go to bat for its architectural prominence any day of the week. 

The inside was a fantastic mix-and-match between traditional Gothic themes and 

contemporary additions. However, this is only fitting for a building that Gaudí had a 

hand in- the same of the whimsical park in Barcelona. 

Guessing game time: how long do you think it took to build this cathedral 

given construction started in the 13th century?

Answer: over 350 years. Can you imagine beginning something with the 

knowledge that you wouldn't be present for its completion, building in complete faith? 

Me neither...

This is central Palma and there are horse carriages everywhere. However, 

despite a strong equine representation, the city smells completely floral. Go figure!

Posing with some swans right below the entrance to the palace and cathedral, 

conveniently located across from one another. 

Now, nothing soothes a sangria-induced haze quite like chanting within convent walls 

which was exactly what we experienced here. I'm sure had they known my love for

 Spanish profanity, they wouldn't have readily let me in their doors. 

This is a picture from the Arab Baths or Banys Àrabs that we visited, dating to 

Moorish occupation with some Byzantine construction as well. I think I could

 settle for this if I was in a pinch, don't you?

This is the famed Parc de la Mar that sits right under the cathedral.

 Also, if ever you need an intellectual ego boost, just write in italics.

 It's my personal recipe for instant sophistication.  

A street performer from whom I was able to purchase a CD of Spanish guitar music to 

accompany the first night I have back in Brunswick, Maine. 

Do note the green backpack, which, between my family members,

 has traveled nearly all over the world now .

Trying my best to balance for a photo shoot. 

Fortunately, vanity did not lead to being soaked.

Just another typical Palma fountain. Alright, maybe typical isn't the word.

    So, while the first day exploring in the city center amazed me, it was, and don't take this in a catty fashion, nothing compared to the second. However, this is because the second day was literally a dream brought to life. No, not dream in a fluffy, air-headed sense. Dreamlike in the "this is so bizarre, I can't fathom that it's reality" sense. This day was the 21st birthday of my friend Jessie so we all hunkered down in the lobby of our hostel deciding what fantastic plan to attempt. 

   Las Cuevas del Drach (don't ask be about the strange language mashing) holds one of the largest underground lakes, Lago Martel, which stretches 177 meters long and can only be reached after an a 25 meter descent. However, on the way down you are accompanied by the most fantastical stalactite and stalagmite formations. Of course, due to pressures to suckle every last euro from a tourist's wallet, pictures are not to be taken, "remedied" by their purchasable availability at the end. Yet, I am an American and the severity of the phrase "prohibited" holds great situational flexibility. While mine do have a sort of contraband charm, the ones from the cave's website give more of a wow factor and what can I say? I'm all for sensationalism.

This hangs over your head and on different occasions, we all made the mistake of

 pointing out the truncated ends that lost the battle with gravity, imagining them 

landing on some poor visor-capped vacationer's dome. 

It truly looked like the most intricate of modern art designs but crafted with a patience 

no human could ever muster. I mean, I get upset when my internet loads too slowly so

 I think thousands of years of formation is far out of my league. 

This is part of the underground lake, but do you notice something out of place? 

Perhaps the gondolas laced with sparkling lights? Why, yes! Now we get to the most sensational part of this experience. Yes, it was a dash of surrealism that really made this splendid.

    After a lengthy descent, you've come to a clearing, best described as some cavernous amphitheater. You think to yourself, dear God, this has got to be some sort of twisted cult practice I've stumbled across. In a sheep-like mentality, you funnel into the crowd and wait. As you wait, the lights, your only source of vision for all 25 meters down, begin to dim. Suddenly, remembering that "Drach" translates to dragon, you begin conjuring images of things that go bump in the night. However, as quickly as your nerves ignite, they are calmed by the soothing and characteristic echo of a violin. Then, bending round a giant stone formation, come three gondolas like the ones pictured above. Two are captained by a rower alone but the third boasts a string ensemble complete with other indiscernible wind instruments. They proceed to play a series of classical movements on the lake's surface in the dimness. Surreal, no? I have a hard time admitting that I preface this story with "In Porto Cristo" instead of "I had this weird dream where....". And, of course, your concert-viewing experience comes complimentary with a gondola ride across the lake to the exit, where you stumble out wide-eyed and stunned by the reality you've just seen and heard. Talk about a bucket list item that, until scratched off, I would have never imagined.

    The rest of the day, obviously soaked in post-cuevas euphoria, was spent on the magnificent beachfront of Porto Cristo: 

    

Some ships docked outside of what I can only guess are the apartments of these lucky, lucky sons of guns.

Obviously, we played the "which yacht, which house is mine" game.

I thought images like this existed only in the land of postcards and romantic movie scenes. 

I was very happy to find that this was incorrect cynicism. 

And, if I could travel the world with anyone is my decked-out- I recently discovered my blog has been sadly deprived of puns-sailboat, it would certainly be with these three stubby-legged mates. In Palma, I guess it's a dog-sunbathing-with-dog type world. 

My friends and I, baffled at our good fortune but enjoying the sun on our

 characteristically Scottish, alabaster skin. 

    Our last day was spent on the beach, burning ourselves in full recognition that travel and sunburns have a long-lasting animosity. However, it was fully worth the trouble:

As another fun guessing game taken from our last round of tropical cocktails, 

can you guess which one was mine?

If you guessed the one with the sophisticated sprig of mint, paired with a 

delicate slice of lemon, you were terribly wrong. As I have a worsening Napoleon complex, 

I have to compensate for it by having overly decorative drinks.

    And so we come to the final stretch of study abroad. This is perhaps the only reality more surreal than my bizarre cave concert. What's ahead in these last 28 days? Well, tomorrow night I am going to the Beltane Fire Festival that celebrates the coming of May in a very Celtic fashion which should be a fantastic time. I've even created a list of a couple things I must do before I leave which was a strange experience. However, as much fun as I've had, I look forward to that moment when I crawl from Logan to 45 Mckeen Street. I can't wait to walk through the door and become swarmed by emotionally needy cats, open a fine red to let it breath and recount my adventures to my parents while the kitchen fills with the aroma of my celebratory return dinner. Take note: Italian with a tongue-bitingly spicy sauce would suit this weary traveler just perfectly.  

Sammy the Highlander

    Alright, alright. I know. I'm not a highlander but let's be transparent. You know, or have probably discovered through this blog, that I happen to be the proud owner of an enormous ego. I mean someone who writes about herself this much isn't exactly what I would categorize as humble. And to be honest, as soon as I found out that humility had nothing to do with humor, I was done with it. We both know it was only a matter of time before I quickly began associating myself with Scotland's cultural symbol of awesome, the highlander. If I were in Spain it would be Sammy the Conquistador and Japan? Sammy the Samurai (actually that's been a family nickname for ages so that one would be fair).
     You're right. The shoe doesn't fit but that doesn't mean I'm not going to wedge it on my foot and hobble around after giving myself the moniker. Not to mention, my Sean Connery impression is fairly decent so let's just let me win this one alright? Good, Sammy the Highlander it is. Now that we're past that, we can discuss the context surrounding this ballsy moniker... that I've been pining to give myself since blog one. Of course, when you hear the touristy context, I know you're going to start fighting me on the name thing again but let's remember, I don't force you to submit yourself to this conceited, self-constructed effigy I call a blog.
    To tell the truth, I gave in and caved- but hey, it didn't end well for the Jacobites either. I told myself I wasn't going to go on one of those sardine cans that they call tour buses to Loch Ness. Well, with the weeks flying by, my brain began ticking. Reflect with me: During discussions of my time in Scotland, how many times do you think some plucky individual would ask, "So, did you see Loch Ness?" A seemingly innocent question but God, if I hadn't. Oh, they would smile and ask me about my other adventures but inside, pure judgement. As we discovered, I have an ego to coddle so this just wouldn't do. So yes, I caved but I damn happy I did. It was beautiful.
    Our trip started with an 8 am departure from High Street which is about a 30 minute walk from my dorm. Katie, my friend who accompanied me on the Dales adventure, and I had played it safe the night before so although not bright-eyed and bushy tailed, we were well rested. In fact, we arrived at the bus early, which was not a sardine can. However, I would have preferred cramped conditions to the horrible jokes from our bus driver. I tried to laugh. I really did. On the highway, fine. Go ahead and make another terrible joke but dear God man, when viewing Glen Coe, the last thing I want to hear is another pushy attempt of humor fall on annoyed ears. But enough of pettiness.

On our way to the Highlands

Although this is not my picture (because my camera occasionally goes on the fritz when asked to do what it was designed for), this is an image of Doune Castle. Look familiar? That's because it was the castle in which an irreverent Frenchmen insulted Monty Python's knights of the round table- a favorite scene of my father's which is quoted with frequency. Most of the filming of Monty Python and the Holy Grail was filmed around this castle or Glen Coe. Doune Castle is also in my new favorite tv series, Game of Thrones, where it is the set of the Kingdom of Winterfell. 

    Where the Yorkshire Dales are warm and inviting, the Highlands are glorious but all the same, nothing about the landscape begs you to linger. Instead, every imposing mountain or falling glen takes your breath. You can't help but be conscious of the reality that these formations were here long before you and will be here long after. I'm currently taking a course entitled, "Visualizing Scotland". My professor kept introducing the notion of the sublime in the landscape genre, a concept first developed by the philosopher and statesmen, Edmund Burke. Where beauty calms and pleases us, the sublime produces more exaggerated emotions of awe, reverence and even fear. For all the reasons we love an adventure, we love the sublime- it promises no safety but also no boundaries. Now, previous to my visit to the Highlands, I thought this theoretical squabble was a fabrication of powdered men with nothing better to do than drunkenly discuss emotive art. Yet, even the great Samantha, can admit when she was wrong, albeit in a covert manner. Although no one utterance can encompass the vantages of the Highlands, the concept of the sublime at least brings one to the threshold of the matter.

Now, I've set up the photos in chronological progression, transitioning from the Lowlands and heading towards the barren north. And, of course, at the end are some more touristy photos. As we began to ride through, the scenery was fantastic but not quite producing the sense of mortality for which the Highlands are famed. 

We'll break our exercise in the sublime for a fun fact. Did you know that The Last of the Mohicans  was actually filmed in the Scottish Highlands as well as Monty Python? Yeah, all those time that you were in awe of the American majesty... Not the American majesty. 

And now we see it start to shift.

Now, I'm not much of a mountain girl as I've always preferred the ocean, but the Highland mountains did have a certain alluring, siren song about them. In fact, they hummed this tune until our driver informed me that this particular mountain, Buachaille Etive Mòr or the Great Herdsman of Etive, annually takes the most climber lives per year of all the mountains in Scotland. I use the word "takes" because so many of these deaths are unpredictable avalanches or rock falls instead of over-ambition. I'll stick to my beach in Palma, thanks. 

Forgive my smiling in this photo. One as socially awkward as myself really doesn't know how to take a photo at the site of a massacre. This is where the Glencoe Massacre of 1692 took place in which the MacDonald Clan, failing to pledge allegiance to William and Mary after the Glorious Revolution, were brutally defeated. However, the death toll encompassed more than warriors. Many women and children of the clan were also sentenced to death after the defeat.  

In the hazy background is the image of Ben Nevis. Ben means mountain in Scottish Gaelic which is pronounced "gahlik", much in the same way a Long Islander says garlic. Ben Nevis stands 4,409 feet. Now, this number would normally impress me if I didn't have two very proud Coloradans as friends. In fact, I was about to brag about this mountain to them until I double checked my facts and found the highest peaks in Colorado to be over 14,000 above sea level. I even looked at the prominence, which is the relative height instead of sea level and it still didn't make a difference. You win this time Melanie and Pru!

    Onto Loch Ness! Now, let's keep the discussions of Nessie brief. Not because I don't enjoy a good mythos but because things that dwell in the water, especially monster-like creatures, tend to terrify me. Honestly, when someone says Nessie, those horrid shrieking eels from Princess Bride that haunted my bathtub experiences for years come to mind. Here's a refresher just in case you wanted another phobia: 

 

   Nessie/horrible sea monster aside, Loch Ness and Urquhart Castle which rests on its shore are beautiful. By the time we got there, it was getting a bit nippy but thankfully the skies stayed clear for the most part. 

Urquhart Castle, a Jacobite fortress that was abandoned as a lost cause

I was, as Mainers always do, pretending it was far warmer than it was.

Obligatory photo with Loch Ness in the background.  

All the rubble is an outline for the castle that used to stand. One can only imagine what it would look like in completion. 

This structure actually used to be shaped like a beehive and was used to farm pigeons for their meat and eggs. I personally never understood the stigma against pigeons.

The view of Urquhart Castle from our boat. Yes, we got to go on a boat and I was ecstatic. Anytime I get to go on boat ride, I become a dog with its head out the car window. However, momentarily, I did get flashbacks to that eel, ship scene in Princess Bride and last I checked, I don't think the Highlands has Westleys readily available to save damsels in distress. 

Loch Ness contains more water than all the lakes of England and Wales... combined. It's 755 feet deep meaning that you could submerge Big Ben in Loch Ness and it wouldn't even reach halfway to the surface. 

     So what's to come? Well I have some smaller, fun plans for April when I'm not laboriously clacking out another essay but for the last week in April, I'll be going to Palma with Jessie, Courtney and Emma- three wonderful women (I use the word "women" because we have constant feminist debates) I've met here who are also studying abroad. Unfortunately, Scotland's lack of sun and "the full Scottish breakfast" (which at first seemed a blessing and now, a curse) do not bode well for bikini wear but to hell with it! Who could view pictures like the following and even give a thought to such frivolities? Not this highlander. That's for sure!