Happy Hogmanay Y'all!

I have never been a big fan of New Years in the past. It has also proved to be a worn out holiday that was like the post-Christmas let down when I was either sick or just plain didn't have anywhere fun to go in the past. But it turns out I am a big fan of Scotland's New Years, or Hogmanay. Tonight was the kick off on the Royal Mile with the torch procession. It was a parade of nearly 20,000 people that started with a group of Shetlanders dressed as vikings. They held up some hefty torches and periodically made loud grunting noises and shouted indecipherables.

Then came the bagpipers....

And after came throngs of people holding their torches. "They are lighting up the streets like a KKK rally." Matt remarked. Here's a picture of them waiting for their moment in front of St. Giles cathedral.



After taking in as many sites (and crowds) as we liked, Matt and I headed toward Calton Hill for the "burning of the viking ship" and fireworks. Indeed we found some shortcuts through town to beat the procession to Calton Hill. Yep. It was a "feel like locals" kinda moment for us.

And burn a viking ship they did! I am not sure why exactly but apparently it happens every year. I won't argue with their tradition either as it was pretty cool to watch those Shetlander vikings yell and and throw their torches to light up that boat.

Again, a bit KKK-looking out of context. But it really was super cool.

On our way back down Calton Hill, I was walking next to a bagpiper from the parade. His bagpipes were all lit up with Christmas lights and I had to ask.

"Is there any way that I could get a picture of you with those fantastically festive bagpipes of yours?" He was super friendly. "Of course!"

Him and his friend stopped at the bottom of the steps and put me in between them. They seemed to know the drill between the two of them and had a real system worked out. He even shoved his pipes over to me and helped me grab onto them for a good grip. "Really?!" I asked. "I get to hold them?" I couldn't believe my luck.

"Sure you do!" The other then promptly took off his cap and put it on top my mine. "You need a proper bagpiping hat too then. But don't be telling anyone I let you. They will all be asking to wear me bagpiping hat." Hopefully he will forgive me for letting you in on his secret...

So it turns out that New Years Eve Eve is pretty awesome in these parts. Can't wait until tomorrow's giant Auld Lang Syne sing-along. A Happy Hogmanay to all!

Christmas "Rave Run"

I have realized that there are very few traditions I honour during the holidays. Indeed I have discovered, this year in particular, that I am not one to celebrate the holidays in any one "traditional" way each year, for the most part. Maybe that is a default because my life always seems to be in a constant transition ever since I got married. Whatever the reason, it turns out that it suits me quite well. Except, there is one consistent, proper "tradition" I have maintained since I was 15 years old and that is a good Christmas morning run. It has changed over the years quite a bit.

It started out as a 6am run from the H.S. with all my nerdy-great cross country pals of yore. 

Over the years and after graduating, it became more of a family affair when my brothers and my ever impressive runner-of-a-mum always were up for the event each year. We even extended the tradition into a Thanksgiving thing as well. Sometimes it meant a race and other times just a good adventure through the snowy Wasatch Front.

Now that I spend as many Christmases away from the original grounds of my tradition, I often find myself keeping the event alive without the help of anyone else. *Which I suppose this is the sign of a good tradition as it shows that it is continuing out of enjoyment rather than obligation, as so many things end up being in the end around this time of year.* That said, I think I found my Christmas "Rave Run" this year. I have been working out the shortcuts, prettiest route, not-too-many-pedestrians-to-dodge loop here in the city. Perhaps it was a "Christmas miracle", as they say, that it got sorted in time for my holiday am run. At any rate, it is truly worthy of a "rave run" if there ever was an urban one of those.

It starts as I cross from Shandwick to Princes Street and take Lothian Road down to Meadows Park. Meadows Park is something truly great. Like all good running spots, it transforms with the change of seasons. It was snowy beautiful yesterday.

Past the Meadows are a few roads and a close that take you to the breathtaking and aptly named "Holy"rood Park. I know I sing its praises often but if there was ever a place that merited such love, I submit it would be this place indeed.

No doubt you can appreciate the transformation of this place in just the two pics above. It was the snowy version yesterday, of course. And although I usually tell myself there are still miles to go before I sleep and thus I must not exert too much energy around these urban highlands, I nearly always exhaust myself before I get back to finish the loop. There is too much to explore and love about this place, I can hardly help myself. Yesterday, I followed one of the trails up to one of the many crags. It is a steep steep climb and with the slippery snow a speed walker probably could have put me to shame. No matter to me. There were great views along the way. I passed a father nonchalantly dragging his wee son in a plastic sled over some of the hills, as if it was a more efficient means of getting from place to place than a buggy or a pram. A few Springer Spaniels played about chasing snowballs their owners threw and then biting into them when they got the chance. It was the most picturesque thing you could imagine for a Christmas run.

Then would you believe that when I got panting, burning up to that precipice and looked out over this remarkable city that Cat Steven's began to sing Morning Has Broken? It was some very impressive timing on that IPod shuffle of mine - this happens sometimes on the best of runs. Still, this may go in the hall of fame for my running shuffle mixes. After catching the ol' breath and taking in the aerials of an Edinburgh Christmas, I descended down that dear Holyrood,

headed past Holyrood Palace,

then up the Royal mile,

carefully walked down The Mound (it was slippery with snow and grit yesterday),

through Princes Street Gardens and back to William Street.

Nothing kicks off an very Edinburgh holiday a good Christmas run through the city. Indeed it was about the best I remember here but I believe I think that every year when I finish. I can't imagine what that may mean for next year...

"Feeling Like a Local" - 2 more ways

11. Knowing which bum sells a copy of the "Big Issue" on which street corner.
12. Feeling a bit like an episode from Cheers when I get in my lane at the Dalry Swim Centre. The Welshman next to me saves his questions about the Mormon church for me when we both finish our swims. Things like "so those well-mannered young me with those tags on their smart looking suits are Mormon boys?" He is also sure to teach me a bit of Welsh and Gaelic when he can. Indeed he makes me feel like I have a place in this city.

Oh Christmas Snow! Oh Christmas Snow!

I think this makes for about the 3rd big snow storm here in Edinburgh of the season. It makes Matt and I feel like God fearing Mormons everytime we walk in it church. I would like to claim that it takes more faith to trod the one mile to church in the snow. Truly though, I think that Matt and I enjoy it more in the snow than in the rain or even when it is clear (so whenever people pull the sad sob story of walking "uphill in the snow" bit on you - realize that the snow part probably made their walk even more pleasant). Afterall, if these people are talking about walking through the streets of Foutainbridge littered with rubbish and other unpleasant things, snow brings a nice clean look to everything.

Here's me modeling that crazy warm parka I wrote of before. It never fails to get at least one comment from a ward member each time I wear it. Today I think it was a genuine compliment - afterall these Scots appreciate something warm when they see it.

Snowed in boat on the canal near Polwarth.

Gates along the canal.

I thought I would document the footware that gets the job done if you don't have wellies. To be sure, I pack one of my two pair of Sunday shoes in my backpack in order to not look like a bag lady during church.

I suppose the only real problem we encounter in weather like this is that we end up being a wee bit late to church from too much picture taking...

Local?

Things that have made me feel like a "local" here in Edinburgh during the last couple of weeks:

1. Knowing which way to look when I cross the street.
2. Being the first pedestrian gutsy enough to cross that crazy intersection between Shandwick and Princes Street, before the green light comes on. There is so much satisfaction in being able to call it before anyone else.
3. Putting my debit card in the right direction at the grocery shop. 
4. Using a debit card that is officially a "Royal Bank of Scotland" card and having the clerk ask me each time if I want cash back. They don't do that for foreign/tourist plastic, mind you.
5. Seeing prices at the Scotmid or Somerfield grocery shop and thinking "hey I could get the for more than 50P cheaper at Sainsbury or Asda". 
6. Knowing which stop to get off of the bus on without pestering the bus driver when I pay my fare.
7. Finding shortcuts to different places.
8. Running and not getting lost or thinking "woops! this is way further than I thought!"
9. Getting annoyed with tourists taking pictures when I am walking on George IV Bridge, Royal Mile, Princes Street Gardens, etc as I am walking to campus/library/etc.
10. Having a couple of Italians ask me directions to the Dean Gallery on the Queensferry Bridge during my walk home from work on Monday, and knowing where to tell them to go.

Useful hints/tricks to use when getting adjusted to local life here:

1. When you aren't sure when to cross a busy street but can't be bothered to wait for the green light, watch for someone bold to bolt across and stay in stride with them. Business men are usually pretty good at it. Careful to follow one of the many NEDS into the traffic though - they usually end up getting honked at. If you are the cautious type, look for a parent/child minder pushing a wee babe in a pram or buggy. They are always a safe bet to tag along with, for obvious reasons. 
2. Buy a city map and loose the self-conscious attitude about using it, even if you clearly look like you are lost.
3. If the bus driver is brusque with you about pointing out the right stop (you can never tell if they will oblige you or be super annoyed), there is almost always a local who will proudly keep you oriented. As long as you respected the bus queue at the bus stop, fellow riders can't bring themselves to hold anything against you.
4. Develop a thick skin (this has been particularly important for the sensitive likes of me). These Scots will not mince words with you. If you annoy them or do something wrong, they will let you know outright. Still, they will rarely hold something against you after the fact. It can be quite refreshing at times.

Ode to Loch Lomond

This is a belated ode but a sincere one all the same to the bonnie, lovely Loch Lomond my mum, Matt and me visited over Thanksgiving weekend. I am not sure if there is anything that has given me that true Scotland lovin' feeling quite like visiting the lochs on the borders of the Highlands. It was just a taste of I am sure is to come when this lands thaws enough for some more hospitable traveling in future months. Still, it was a pretty impressive experience that will serve as that happy, serene place I go in my head on the rough, dark days.

 

Do you know the song associated with this place? I have to confess that I didn't until our guide cued me in a bit with some background info on the lyrics. Of course, the chorus has these famously bittersweet lines:

"O ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I'll tak' the low road

And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye

For me and my true love will ne-er meet again

On the bonnie, bonnie banks o’ Loch Lomon'. "

No doubt there are many stories you can get to explain the lines from this 19th century poem, but I liked the story that we got that day. As far as I can remember it, the story refers to the a Scottish highlander and his friend who were captured rebels in England. One of them needed to face an execution for wrongs that had been committed and the highlander said he would "take the low road" or face death so his friend could be freed. According to folklore in these parts, the spirit of one who dies for his country will return to their homeland. The highlander knew that his friend's journey back to Scotland would ultimately be longer than his own but his own death would still prevent him from spending time with his love on the bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.

It is truly a satisfyingly romantic and tragic story to live up to the sound of the song. The Finnish lady behind me on the bus got very much caught up in the moment when the guide played some different renditions of it and was really belting it out when the chorus came around each time. I couldn't blame her. It really is a beautiful song and I can't help but get that choked up nostalgic feeling when I listen to a good version of it. Would you forgive me if I said that even the Voice Male version on Grooveshark.com tugged at my heartstrings a bit? Here's a more traditional (and better) rendition for you to enjoy by John McDermott. See if you can't find some place beautiful to mourn and celebrate over in your life while you listen to it.

I Love the Winter Weather/Apocolypse

From Halloween weekend (when daylight savings started) until about a couple of weeks ago, I was really struggling with the whole dark and rainy thing here in Edinburgh. I knew this far north would make for some too dark too quick days but no kind of preparation can make up for sunsets at 3:30pm and rain and drizzle day after day. My disposition isn't tolerant of such routines. I did find some useful ways to cope though including staring into our super bright and nearly painfully hot space heater from The Pound Stretcher. Some days I like to turn it on to its highest setting, light a stick of incense and practice a few asanas while fantasizing that our cold basement flat is really a Bikram Yoga studio. It works pretty effectively on some down days, I have to say.

Matt has contributed some helpful ideas as well to keep my spirits warm. You may think this is silly but when your boiler breaks and there is little to keep you warm besides a cup of tea and a comforter until the plumber shows up, then I recommended playing this youtube video on replay.

Sure it is pretty ridiculous but it can make things seem comforting and cozy when things get desperate. One of those "don't knock it until you've tried it" (in the right conditions of course) things I guess.

That said, it was a bleak season for me until the snow dumped down on us Thanksgiving weekend. It started out mildly with just a few festive flurries one evening and then loads came down like a good and proper snowfall. All of the sudden the muddy earth of Holyrood Park became sledding conditions and everything seemed clean and cheery on the streets. Hoorah! Finally some nice winter weather to enjoy. "Why this is not bad at all." I thought. "This is just what this town needed and in time for Christmas! What luck!"

KG's Cafe's snowman across the street from our flat.

Matt tries on his new wellies. He is known to enjoy jumping in puddles these days just to prove the point that wellies make his feet invincible.

St Mary's Cathedral, on the street over from us, in its winter splendor loveliness.

Well, like many things here, what at first begins charming and picturesque can actually turn out to be a major inconvenience. I noticed things were amiss when there didn't seem to be any machines plowing the roads and leaving a trail of salt behind. In lieu of plows came men in bright yellow reflector coats and wellies throwing red "grit" out on the sidewalks. They knew what was coming as it didn't take long for the billowy, perfect for snowball making flakes to pack into the sidewalk, car parks and roads to become uneven ice rinks bringing the city to a standstill.

Work at the hotel proved to be one crisis after another last week and into this week. The laundry truck is stuck - no fresh linens. The head housekeeper's bus won't go out to South Queensferry - you are on your own today with the other non-English speaking Polish room attendant. None of the guests can leave on their train/plane/bus because the station/airport/etc is closed - that means more rooms to clean than expected. And on and on and on.

The crisis continued when I got home. The wee fridge started to look bare so Matt and I headed to the grocery shop across the street for some vittels. It looked like the apocolypse inside with nothing but half a messed up looking onion and a mushy apple in the produce section, no bread, little milk and only a few strands of pasta and the like on the dry foods isle. It got a bit scarey when they brought out a meager supply of fresh rolls right when Matt and I were about to leave. There was a shameless rush of people to the poor clerk. Somehow we made out with 50P worth of bread to make grilled cheese and tomato (bought before the storm) sandwiches. At work the next day, some employees commented on the how the store clerks rationed all customers to only 1 pint of milk and 1 loaf of bread at the checkout counter when they went to their store.

We are still in the aftermath of it all. It is indeed the icey stage of things here and I am in desperate need of some good wellies. Problem is, everyone is sold out of course on the street and who knows when a parcel would be delivered from Royal Mail in these conditions. That said, I can't help but enjoy taking in the mild absurdity of it all as I walk to and from work and watch child minders leaving behind the buggys and dragging 3 year old kids along Dean Bridge's walkway in a plastic sled. Or seeing pensioners walking along the street with a ski pole to prevent mishaps. Or observing all the elaborate footware contraptions for helping pedestrains cope with the conditions like chains on their wellies (indeed like the ones people put on their car when driving up to the ski slopes). There are many moments where I can't help but think of this Scandinavian flick Matt and I watched last year in the heat of an Austin, Texas winter.

Final verdict? I Love the Winter Weather here in Edinburgh. It is mighty inconvenient but hey - so is trying to live in a different country!

PS A warm, hearty thanks to my mum who brought me her mondo-80s Patagonia parka when she came out for a visit. I get some head turns in that purple/flourescent hooded wonder but I feel like a machine in that thing. Nothing gets through that coat, not even the wet Edinburgh chill. Indeed, in order to love the winter weather here in Scotland, you really do need a coat that means business.

Ward Ceilidh

Pronounced "Kay-lee", Gaelic can be unforgiving with phonetics at times. If you can overlook that and find yourself invited to a church or community Ceilidh, may I suggest that you attend? Matt and I had a lovely time at the Edinburgh Stake Ceilidh last weekend. It was quite the party with an mosaic of swinging kilts along with some lively tunes from a live band which included a drummer and two enthusiastic accordion players, one of which gave cheeky explanations of each dance before they started. 

I first entered in on the fun in the cultural hall (later Matt pointed out this is about the first time that our Mormon terminology was actually more suitable than simply "gym") at the beginning of a traditional Scottish trio dance. Dear Brother Burns didn't give me a moment to get self-conscious about how American I looked and put me in between him and another kilted ward member. And that was that. There I was spinning on the arms of veteran Ceilidh dancers. 

Later on, would you believe that I got Matt to dance? I think his courage came when he saw me dancing the Virginia Reel with a Chinese student in the ward and us having a heck of a time trying to keep up with our group. No one seemed to be bothered though by our antics. So Matt jumped in with me during the Flying Scotsman (aptly named but still not as dizzying as Strip the Willow , which came next). By the end of it all, I think that I was beginning to get what these locals fondly call "Ceilidh arms" as the inside of my elbow was getting rubbed a bit raw and on the verge of bruising. Small price to pay to be a part of such excitement though I would say.

Here's a dimly lit picture of us "Stripping the Willow" and then getting told by our group that we were doing something wrong and screwing everyone up. These Scots are loving in a way but they are definitely a straightforward bunch.

It is hard to saw what the best part of the whole evening was but I think Matt would lean towards watching our fearless 1st counsellor in the Stake Presidency take it upon himself to serenade us as the band took a break and we rested our feet while sipping black current juice from Dixie cups. Here's him finishing up the tail end of "A Bonny Wee Lass". Now tell me, could you see your stake presidency doing karaoke in a kilt like this? What a party!

And a very Merry Thanksgiving to us three...mum, Matt and me...

It's been nearly 3 months here and Matt and I took our first official "tour" through some of Scotland's sites last week. Thanks to my mom for sponsoring such an effortless and picturesque adventure up through the Kingdom of Fife. Our Rabbie "Trail Burners" tour (gold star to anyone who can catch the play on words there) departed the Royal Mile early Thanksgiving morning. On our way out, the guide was sure to retell the story Matt and I have heard countless times about the stink Edinburgh put out 700 years ago when they threw their waste out the windows at 10:00 each night. "Garde de l'eau!" they would shout or "Look out for the water". It is funny, for obvious reasons, that this is the one detail that makes it into any historical discussion about Edinburgh. How is it that so much pride comes in having the most fouly odored city of the middle ages?

There were several stops and scenes to behold on the way north. First, we stopped and snapped some photos of the Forth Bridge, a site I have been keen on seeing for a while now. The bridge spans from East Lothian lowlands of Scotland to the Kingdom of Fife over the Firth* of Forth. It was a thrill to see it and I think I just may need some more exploring time than we got. It is indeed's Scotland's Brooklyn Bridge and has quite a history of the lives that were sacrificed during its construction.

Then on we went across the Firth of Forth and up along the Eastern coast while our guide chatted away like a one man show driving all 16 of us. According to her experience, different cultures have different needs on a trip that she tries to accomodate. Japanese need the longest time for picture breaks on a tour while Americans are content taking pictures of anything old and Italians content with pictures of anything that includes them in it. Stereotyping? Probably. True statements? Definately.

It was a brilliantly lovely Thanksgiving day across the Forth! And oh how I need the bit of sun that came through. A highlight of the trip was stopping in an old fishing village along the way. We got to see all kinds of cool things there. Like:

some neat vistas

and a real Stevenson lighthouse (kin to the one and only Robert Louis Stevenson - of which I am widdling away at his Kidnapped at the moment).

Of course the big event of the day was our time in St. Andrews, home of all the wealthy (most often over-privileged) UK uni students and the birthplace of golf. That town has a lot going for it, I have to say. It was a timely visit with Prince William's engagement as he met his lady while going to school there. According to our guide Sarah, women applications went up 200% after he started his studies there. That may seem like an absurd statistic but is it any crazier than the notion that golf's name came from the acronym "gentlemen only ladies forbidden"? Any verification on either of these points would be welcome at any time. Enough trivia for now. Onward to the pictures!

Here are some pics of our time exploring the ever mesmerizing cathedral ruins.

Here are some views from atop that massive tower. Matt and I got tokens to go up there from a claustrophobic tourist who took one look at the narrow stairs up and decided to cut her losses from the 4 pounds she spent to take a look from above. It was pretty tight in there and the walk up was like stairmaster+. Very much worth it once we got to the top though.

Finally, here is one of me taking in the Chariots of Fire beach to pay homage to Mr. Eric Liddell. I wanted to go barefoot, as they did in the movie, but my sensible Matt made sure I didn't. "Please don't Cate! I won't take a picture if you do. You're going to cut up your feet on all those shells." He is the voice of reason but it still seemed like it would take some of the romantic whimsy out of the moment. Afterall, those inspiring sand running scenes didn't include any issues with shards of shells in their feet. In the end, I listened. Afterall, feet are a valuable thing indeed when there is no car nor bus pass to get you where you need to go for the next year.

True to American form, the three of us made sure to have a fine, cultural feast for our Thanksgiving meal. What seemed most fitting for the day, however, turned out to be fish and chips with mushy peas and a bit of malt vinegar. It was grand! I missed the pecan pie but there is always sweet mince pie when you need it in these parts and that has done just fine for the time being. A very happy St. Andrews merry Thanksgiving day to us in Edinburgh. There was much to be grateful for this year indeed.

*Gaelic word for River