Transitions

One of the upsides of visiting so many locations is, obviously, that you get to experience lots of new things and have a kind of constant variety.  One of the downsides is that just as you start to get acclimated to a particular place, it's time to leave.  Case in point: yesterday I went out to breakfast, traveled a fairly long distance on the metro, browsed around a flea market, and managed to successfully conduct about 85% of all the conversations I had with people in French (the other 15% being the moment I accidentally blurted "bon dejeuner!" or "have a good lunch!" to the concierge at my hotel as I was leaving instead of "a bientot!" which is "bye bye!"  I was leaving about lunch time, though, so hopefully it wasn't completely bizarre).

It was raining in Paris when I left, and raining in Edinburgh when I arrived yesterday evening (hardly surprising), and I splurged on a taxi since it had been a very long day and I wasn't ready to get my suitcases on and off yet another bus.  Apparently, all taxi drivers worldwide take great delight in driving like maniacs and making their passengers clutch their seats in order not to be flung about (my suitcase was sliding all over the place).  I also found the journey a bit harrowing because of all the crazy roundabouts, confusing lane markings, and all the twisty-turny streets that don't have an inch to spare.  How on earth am I going to navigate all of that myself driving on the wrong side of the car on the wrong side of the street come Thursday?  My brain was confused enough just being a passenger.  I tried to calm myself with the advice the British man who cuts my hair gave me: "just keep your body in the center of the road." 
 
Anyway, early anticipatory driving panic aside, I managed to get settled in the apartment I'm renting until Thursday and start a load of laundry.  Little did I know that doing one load of laundry would take nearly 4 hours.  Part of it had to do with the fact that a wash cycle on the little machine in the kitchen takes nearly 2 hours for some odd reason.  Another issue was this:

 
I guess the U.S. travel packet of Tide was a bit much for this Scottish machine, so obviously I had to do an extra rinse, which added another 40 minutes to the process.  And that was just the washing part.  The drying (which should really be called "less dampening") took another hour.  So basically, in the time my one load of laundry was getting washed and somewhat dried, a glacier in some part of the world moved about five feet.  I didn't get to bed until after midnight, and then a new issue arose.
 
My apartment is located on this street

 

above this pub (it's the set of windows just above The Last Drop)
 

 
which is all very historical and charming.  This market square dates back to the middle ages, and there's a stone mound in the center commemorating all the folks who were hanged there that I can see from my window.  And my building dates back to the 1600s--my bedroom floor slopes down sharply in the middle attesting to this.  However, despite multiple TripAdvisor reviews saying otherwise, it's quite noisy.  Let's just say that the Scots who congregate here (and all the other pubs on the street) on a Saturday night really like to drink and really like to yell.  And say "fuck" in all its variations as often as possible.  All of that actually isn't so bad as the soundproofing from the windows is pretty good and the bedroom is in the back.  The real problem is that there's either a very heavy door somewhere below that's banging or they're dropping a really heavy load of something on the floor about twenty times an hour, and it's loud enough to set the oven racks rattling and shake my bed, and irregular enough that it startles me just about every time.  So every time I started falling asleep between 12 and 2 last night, one of those rattling thumps would wake me.  (It's actually happening right now and I'm trying not to let it drive me nuts.)
 
Needless to say, I didn't wake this morning in the best of moods and I had a raging headache, but after opening my curtains in the bedroom to see this out my window

 
and a full pot of strong black tea, I felt ready to go to church.  It helped that church started at 11:00.  Greyfriar's Kirk is located just one street over and dates back to 1620 (1620!!). 
 

 

 That gate above was locked, as you might be able to see, but a kind woman in a tweed blazer explained that I had to walk up the hill and around to enter (there are LOTS of hills in this city).
 
The service was really lovely and I managed to sight-sing my way through the hymns even though they were all unfamiliar to me (they were all Scottish).  The best part was sitting next to John and Grace Deas.  They live on the other side of Edinburgh and typically attend a different church, but they were on the bus today to visit some other location (I forget the name) and the bus broke down, so they decided to attend Greyfriar's instead, which is the church of John's childhood.  As Grace told me over coffee and cookies at the back of the church after the service, John's father--a strict Scottish Presbyterian of the Old School--got upset that they were going to carpet the pews years ago and stopped his family attending.  But John still has very fond memories of the church and likes to visit whenever possible. 
 
I should back up a bit, though, and record something else here.  I enjoyed The Xenophobe's Guide to the Danes so much that I read its equivalent for Scotland (not as good, but all right), and one of the things it mentioned is that Scottish people love to talk about the weather.  And sure enough, right after Grace sat next to me and I bid her good morning she said, "It's gotten a bit cooler, hasn't it?  But it's supposed to be a nice day."
 
She worked at the Bank of Scotland for years before retiring, and John was a fellow English teacher at a secondary school here in Edinburgh (also retired).  They just married twelve years ago after being neighbors for a while.  When Grace heard about the purpose of my visit here in Scotland, her eyes lit up and she told me I ought to talk to the minister and his wife as the wife is the granddaughter of a laird (Grace said the full name out three times to me in the course of five minutes with the same excitement and reverence that someone talks about a celebrity in California--the laird was a great hunter and used to bring her the odd pheasant when she worked in the bank) and they have property in Dunsinane.  So she hustled me over to the minister (his wife was talking to someone else) and introduced me, and he said that his grandfather-in-law had written a book about Macbeth and, since another service was starting and we had to vacate the premises, invited me to e-mail him. 
 
Grace, John, and I then went to lunch, which they generously treated me to.  Scottish thriftiness doesn't preclude kindness and hospitality with these lovely people.  I parted from them with a hug and a kiss, and for a moment it was like being with my grandparents again.  Considering how much we enjoyed our time together and how much joy they brought me, I can't help but believe our meeting was providential.  Especially as the sermon was on keeping your heart open to the still, small voice of God and the unexpected ways he might want to speak to us through the people we encounter.

 
I headed to High Street from there to go on a walking tour, but after standing about with a crowd for 10 minutes, I discovered that in spite of it being a free tour and there being no signs (or instructions on their website) about this, you had to have a ticket to go on the tour.  By the time I and several other confused tourists made our way to the tiny, irritated woman who was the keeper of the tickets, the groups were all full.  So, change of plans.  I wandered around for a bit taking in cool scenes like this:

 

then headed up a very long and steep set of stairs (this is actually just the second batch) around the corner from my apartment to the Castle.

 

The food here is pretty heavy and rich, so I suppose it's a good thing there's all this climbing to do. 

 

 

The castle is situated on top of a volcano, the entire entity appropriately named "Castle Rock" as the castle truly does seem to 'grow' straight up out of the volcanic strata it rests upon as this section aptly demonstrates:

 

 

Entrance:

 

Scottish Hero Robert the Bruce:

 

 

Inside the walls:

 

 

 
Amazing views from the ramparts:
 

 

 

As with the churches in Paris, this castle and fortress has been destroyed and rebuilt many times since its first incarnation in the 1200s, and there are only a few remaining bits of that original structure.  Namely, Saint Margaret's Chapel:

 

And these garrison tunnels beneath the current ramparts:

 

 





 
Oh yes, and the outer wall to this dog's cemetery, which houses (among others) the military's mascots:

 
 Below is the Royal Residence, which royals would typically inhabit only if there was some kind of threat.  Perhaps one of its most famous residents was Mary Queen of Scots, who gave birth to her son James in the tiny wood-paneled "closet" below (the King James who would unite England and Scotland after Queen Elizabeth's death, and the King for whom Shakespeare wrote Macbeth).
 

 

 

 There was also an impressive display of the Scottish honors (a scepter, sword, and crown), which date back to the middle ages, as well as the Stone of Destiny, which was a block of stone used for centuries in the coronation of Scottish kings.  No photos were allowed, unfortunately, but each of those items has a very colorful history and capture the long history of conflict between Scotland and England as they wrestled for sovereignty. 

 

 On the way down the hill from the castle (a different route than the stairs), I saw a sign for The Whisky Experience.  From what I'd heard, I knew it involved going on a little barrel ride to learn how whisky is made, ending in a whisky tasting.  Sitting and whisky sounded good to me after all the castle walking/climbing.  The tour culminated in this impressive hall of whisky, which contains more than 3,000 bottles collected by some guy in South America (sorry, have already forgotten those details too) who then sold them to one of the largest distillery owners in Scotland.  It's a beautiful and impressive collection, but it also made me a little sad to think of all these amazing whiskies just sitting there on display, untasted by anyone. 

 Funny little fact: while the whisky is aging in the wood barrels, some of it always evaporates, and they call this bit the "angels' share."  Must be some happy angels in Scotland.

After my small slug of a Highlands single malt, I headed back to the center of town to St. Giles church, where they have a free music concert every Sunday at 6:00pm:

 

 

This evening, it was a pianist who played Schumann, Chopin, and Brahms--all in all, a lovely concert. They'd run out of programs, but thankfully I was able to recognize the composers/works.  I guess all those piano lessons still come in handy now and then, which is lucky, otherwise wondering about it would have driven me crazy for the rest of the night, which I can't handle on top of the random, loud thumps that are still happening (oh, my nerves!!).

 

In spite of the pub operating as a kind of instrument of torture last night and currently, I have to admit that their haggis with tatties (potatoes) and neeps (turnips) is pretty darn good: