And Then The Scenery Gets Sexier

So. I went to Loch Ness last sunday.

The tour was only JSAs, which was nice, and left from the Union, which was nicer. I meandered down there in the damp and cold and, you know, the 8-in-the-morning, but luckily the bus, bright yellow with "Wild and Sexy" written on one side, and "Haggis Adventures" written on the other, was easy to spot. Normally, I'm a bit leery of tours, and the many kinds of rudeness they seem to service, but the fact that it was only college students probably helped, and our tour guide was excellent: Fergie was a cheerful bald Scottish man, who, whether by design or not, had the Sean Connery accent. On the way to Loch Ness and back, he kept up a running stream of historical facts obviously scripted so as to trick tourists into learning something about Scotland while telling funny stories involving "the incredibly sexy topography of the Highlands." And quite frankly, hilarious and raunchy and bloody is how I like my history. Some highlights:

- All you need to know about the first Jacobite rebellion is that they fought naked.
- The stone of Scone (pronounced Skoon, like a schooner) is actually hidden somewhere on Iona at the burial sites of the Scottish kings, and the stone which every English monarch since Edward I, including the current one, has sat upon to be crowned was actually the covering to a latrine.
- Skye whiskey will turn the drinker of either gender into Chewbacca.
- Loch Ness, which at its average depth is deeper than the Mediterranean Sea, is Scotland's answer to the Grand Canyon.
- It was St. Cuthbert who successfully brought religion to all of Scotland, including Nessie, who hasn't tried to eat anyone since she accepted Christianity.

We only got a few hours at the Loch itself, as it was a full four hours back to St. Andrews, so the tour was more sort of a whistle-stop of the Highlands. We passed through Dundee, Dunkeld, where we stopped to look at the cathedral, Perth and Scone, passing by the Bernam Wood and Dunsinane, Dalwinnie, Pitlochry, where out the window we were able to see both Atholl Palace, built basically because Queen Victoria liked the town, and Blair Castle, home to the rich and single Duke of Atholl and his highlanders, the only private standing army in Europe. Then we hit a long stretch of nothing but beautiful mountains as we passed through Avimore and the Cairngorms, we stopped at the Commando Memorial to take pictures of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Britain which was surprisingly free of fog that day, and then finally to Fort Augustus and the Loch itself.


This is Loch Ness.

I was expecting tourist trap. I was expecting lots of activity and noise and, like, sonar. But Loch Ness was an incredibly quiet, serene place. It was sunny and clear and cool and still. Perhaps it's not this way in July; but I only ran into two French backpackers, a group of Spanish girls eating Jaffa Cakes, and a cute Korean couple. So the corniness of the place, as evidenced by all kinds of Nessies everywhere, didn't seem gimmicky or annoying. I was just struck by the beautiful surrounds. First we stopped for thirty minutes in Fort Augustus, at the southernmost end of the 23 mile long Loch, and passed closed shops and a scenic bridge before heading to the Clansman hotel where the tour boat left from and the gift shop was. Instead of going on the boat tour, I hung around for a while in the gift shop, and took a trail through the Abriachan Wood directly above the Loch. The walk was a gentle incline surrounded by Hazel, just me and my ipod and some hot chocolate from the Ness Cafe. Part of the reason I love love love Scotland is that the outdoors are so much more emphasized and readily accessible than in the places I usually live. The entrance to the trail kinda resembled, and probably would be much more similar if most of the trees had been green, the scene in Fellowship where the hobbits first meet a Nazgul, which pleased me. In the gift shop I debated some truly fantastic purchases - like the kilt towel and the "I've got a monster" boxers - but in the end went with a little stuffed Nessie and decal of the Saltire for me, and as well as items for various other people.

On the ride home, we caught the sunset just as we were passing Pitlochry again. We stopped in the town, and I walked down the main street, full of touristy shops and a Backpackers' hostel, and bought some fish and chips from a very sullen Swedish man. Fergie passed around a company ipod and a bunch of people put together a playlist. Quite something to be driving past misty mountains and wild deer and to hear Michael Jackson and NSYNC (we were an ironic bunch) and The Dixie Chicks - "Does anyone else feel bad for Earl?" Fergie wondered. Overall, it was a wonderful, fun day, and I would recommend Haggis Adventures to anyone who gets the chance. I definitely now have a bunch of places I want to go back to on my own time - starting next weekend hopefully with a trip to Edinburgh and Arthur's Seat.

Picture Post

Today has been a day of cooking and cleaning and homework and housing apps - getting done everything I need to do for Monday because tomorrow is the Loch Ness tour. But, on my way home from the post office (stamps are crazy expensive!) I took some time for a little photo safari around Saint Andrews.


...the South will rise again? In the very, very far north, apparently.


At least I didn't take a picture of Double Dyke Lane. Oh yes, Double Dyke Lane exists.


A view down Butts Wynd.


My question is why is there a fire extinguisher in there.


I live in the best neighborhood.

Abandon all, whatever, you know.

This has absolutely nothing to do with Scotland.





My enfranchisement, and interest, in the world of video gaming has these days been limited to being something of a metic; Still loyally following Penny Arcade, reading IGN and watching X-Play on lazy Sundays, but 100% WoW sober for four years now, I of course had heard about the new Dante's Inferno and read some of the reviews of its beta. And mostly I shared Master Tycho's sentiments that even as molested as the seven centuries old poem has become in the game's, I hesitate to call it a storyline, absolutely whatever shimshams or bamboozles can be used to inch unsuspecting Halo jocks towards classic literature ought to be immediately employed with all possible cunning. Never mind that The Supreme Poet was exiled from Florence for his political ties to the White Gulephs as they flailed to regain power, and not for overseeing the massacre of thousands of Saracens at Arce (during Dante's period of activity before his journey the Ayyubid Sultanate had already retaken the city from the Knights of St. John.) I spent years in a creative writing program. I'm all for things that can't have really happened.


Guess which Dante wrote a scathing indictment of Boniface VIII, and which one sowed a cross onto his own skin?









And it's not that I'm particularly threatened by the genre EA chose for it's direct-to-dvd...cross-promotional, deal mechanics, revenue streams, jargon, synergy. I consider anime that's not Miyazaki to be quite shallow, trafficking in only broad, predictable, uncomfortably pubescent archetypes, and a symptom, along with all their body pillows and vending machines, of Japan's prolonged nervous breakdown.

But I think this trailer provoked me for a couple reasons: 1. It defeats any evangelizing the game might do for its source material, because movies in general, and particularly something as challenging and often dependent on having historical knowledge as The Divine Comedy, are far more accessible than books. 2. The treatment of Beatrice. Dante as a crusader, I get. It's a trope of bad medieval storytelling that your protagonist just has to be a crusader. Whatever. And from a storytelling point of view, I do understand that "Luke needs to rescue the Princess" is way catchier than "Italian man humbles himself on journey of cleansing self-discovery and faints a lot." But in my heart, I can't really let go of the fact that the whole plot happens because Beatrice intercedes for Dante from heaven, not because she gets kidnapped by Satan. People pray for Dante, and those prayers come to Beatrice who asks Mary to help him, and she empowers Beatrice to hook Dante up with Virgil and sign him up for the tour. Even if you've lost your way in the forest, even if the road to the delectable mountain is barred and you've gone as far as you yourself can go, you can still be saved by other people who care about you. Even people who are gone. It's a beautiful, quiet, warm interpretation of Christian ideals.

I didn't care when it was just a bad video game that comically happened to be based on a piece of world literature, and one basically responsible for the formation of the Italian language at that. There are plenty of good video games with sophisticated, compelling plots, to which I can devote my time. Good video games with bad plots, too, come to that. But somehow making it a movie, removing the relevant, and possibly compelling, element of gameplay from the enterprise and leaving only a battered, unstable lattice of a story, bothered me enough to force me to sit down and rant about it, making me late for a pub crawl meeting up with some friends.

All that being said, I'm totally gonna get drunk and watch it when it comes out. Will write about Scottish things another time.

At Silflay, Two Rabbits

I wasn't able to get the other one in the picture, but there's a warren living in and around Albany. I've seen at least six all at once, darting in and out of the tall grass or the piles of cut brambles, and they've made visible burrows into the little mounds near The Wall and the play structures on the beach walk. I read Watership Down freshman year of college, and I have a very soft spot for it among the many books that jostle for my affections; so being in the presence of, you know, British Rabbits is kind of awesome. Adams is a more accessible, gentler version of Tolkien, in a way - they both developed their own languages - with the same knowing English prose, with a world that doesn't beckon so much as envelops you in its undeniable, deep, riveting realness. It was one of the three books I brought for my campers, but they wanted nothing in the way of reading aloud.

As for my first weekdaysend of term in St. Andrews, all Scots are drunkards. The British also. That is all.

Who Dat Say Dey Gonna...Go To Class

Scotland is five hours ahead of the East Coast. Five. A sporting event that starts at 6:25 eastern standard starts at 11:25 here. So, in consequence of watching the super bowl, if I watched the whole thing, I would get maybe four hours of sleep the night before my first day of classes at St. Andrews.


Totally worth it.

Living in Albany, which is way off at the end of the East Sands, meant that I sure as hell wasn't going to go looking for a pub that was showing the game at midnight in the rain. I watched it in a completely not illegal, totally legitimate way via livestream on my computer. Digestives and Guinness-in-a-can next to all my course books and orientation guides. Party central, let me tell you what. Football and car crashes are really the only two instances in my life when I curse like a sailor, and I was a bit worried about that, but none of my housemates have complained to me yet about hearing, "HIT the BASTARD! Hit him in the FUCKING MOUTH! FUCK!" repeatedly, at 2am, so I assume it's all good. In the second quarter, the NFL started shutting down the streams, and so I started cursing for an entirely different reason. I missed the onside kick, was able to catch one possession from a spanish-language channel, another from a British one, and it was kind of an experience to finally secure a reasonable quality source, that was in French no less, and on the next play, see Porter's pick six. I stayed up for a while after, watching coverage of the French quarter, not a little teary-eyed. I am very sad to be missing Lombardi Gras. Even if when we win it again, it won't be special like this win is special.


Of course, in four hours I had plenty to distract me. School III is in a square, along with other suitably palatial buildings, next to the back of St. Sal's. In contrast to its remarkable exterior, however, is a lecture theater with quite cheap, and quite fuchsia, seats. There were maybe 70 kids inside. The Professor, or rather lecturer I should say as there is going to be multiple professors in addition to the tutors, came in about ten minutes late, and my other classes seem to confirm the trend of lectures starting even more on Wesleyan Time than Wesleyan. Monday was just enrollment, however, and the lecturer, a pleasing man named Angus with a pleasing English accent, just went over assessments and the lecture program and generally what to expect; which was great for me, personally, but was probably pretty boring for everyone else. There were certainly plenty of "yas," posh kids that take English before taking over daddy's company, who made their boredom known. Everyone in general seems to dress up for class way more than at home, and feel free to rustle and pack up before class is over, although I do understand that Wes is far more casual than the norm.

My other classes followed this trend of Monday not being a teaching day. I went up to the arts building for Latin and then the arts lecture theater, which is actually kind of a cheap convention room, for classics. The seminar room is on the third floor, with a absolutely beautiful view of the West Sands. Latin is taught alternately between two women, with a third one apparently coming in after the fourth week, and luckily enough for me, who remembers nothing, they're starting a little bit behind where I stopped last semester. The lecturer on Monday was a kind-faced American, who explained to me the differences in British way of teaching latin afterwards, and the lecturer on Tuesday, a lovely, very pregnant Englishwoman, explained participles in such a way that they finally became clear to me, so I'm optimistic about it overall, although I know it's going to eat up a lot of my study time. I'm pleased with the classics class, although it's looking much more grounded in secondary lit and favors archaeology over straight history, as I think it's going to complement my medieval history course - they're both about the Mediterranean, and the lecture on Tuesday, which I was nervous about because it dealt with pre-history and the geographical facts of the region and eww, science, was actually really interesting. I learned that archaeologically, sheeps and goats are very hard to tell apart. So, scholars actually use the term sheepgoats when they can't be sure, and I think that's hilarious.

Sea Gulls Are Huge

Orientation has been made up of a lot of little observations. I still don't quite get how the pence works, but other than that there's no cultural difference that's been a complete barrier to me yet. I've discovered Digestives: tasty, chocolate-covered, graham-cracker-esque "biscuits" full of fibre, which seem paradoxically healthy and therefore wondrous."Immense" and "epic" seem to be the "awesome" and "great" of Scotland. Plastic coke bottles are a different shape, but aluminum cans are the same. The @ button is where the " is on a American keyboard and it's very annoying.



I've been getting up pretty regularly at 7, though, which is a good thing, as my commute into town is about 30 minutes on foot, so the earlier I wake up the better. My housemates are on college break schedules, so in the morning it's just me. I have the distinct feeling that my walk along the beach road into town will quickly change from a half-hour of breathtaking zen with my ipod to a mad, breathtaking sprint (with my ipod) to class. Ideally, Albany's distance from everything will keep me organized. We shall see how I do, as I've already discovered that life as St. Andrews student requires a lot of legwork.

All the orientation seminars were very useful. I learned how the grading system works (marks on a scale of 1-20, but not based on percents. 7 is passing), that course books, which outline everything in the module - all the reading, deadlines, what the lectures are about, questions you should be having, seriously everything and it's a little intimidating, are now the second most valuable possession I have after my passport, that the most common offense St. Andrews students are charged with by the police is public urination/defecation, and that Ceilidh is pronounced Kay-lee.

Over the course of all the knowledge being dropped I met the other two guys from Wesleyan, Dan and Marshall. It was funny, right away I recognized one and the other recognized me. Both seem really nice, but I'm not sure I'll see that much of them, or really any of the other JSAs. There's a big contingent from Colgate who are sticking together, all the Butler kids already know each other, and most of the rest have been placed in New Hall, so that they're close. I hung out with two girls, Diana and Victoria, from South Carolina and Kentucky respectively, all throughout the proceedings, walked around town with them, explored the Scores, which is sort of like a University Row with a lot of classroom buildings on it, and we all signed up for a Loch Ness tour in a couple weeks, which I am excited about because it's leaving and getting dropped back at the Union car park instead of, like, Edinburgh; and while there will be monster-watching involved, we're also heading to a bunch of other places along the way in the highlands. I'll report back on that. And you know what? Those two American girls were perfectly lovely people. But we weren't quite on the same wavelength, and it wasn't as much fun. I know I'll probably see them again, and the other Americans I met, but I'm gonna try as much as I can to stick with the Scots and English while I'm here.

At the wine reception, memorable for the two jolly, grandfatherly Scots from the Principal's office (I'm not sure if they were deans or rectors or what. They were wearing the Imperial purple which leads me to believe they were high-ups), who I immediately wanted to adopt me the second they opened their mouths and started making jokes, I met an American, Zoe, who's a regular undergraduate here and had one of those instantly honest conversations that covers a lot of ground. It's a rare thing, but when it does happen, it's really kinda nice. On Friday, I went to the library, which I have to explore in more depth later - I think the stacks start on the second level, but I have no idea if that's true - in order to matriculate. The process was all very streamlined. As an underclassman, I met with the Pro Dean for the Arts instead of the dean for my particular department, and he approved my schedule and sent me on my way to pick up my ID and drop off my medical forms.

Information seems to be less centralized here. It was the pro-dean who told me that I'd have to go to go to my various departments in order to find out when my classes are, and where they are, and how to get the oh-so-important coursebooks, and what books are mandatory, etc. That's all very well. The classics department I found to be a Victorian building called Swallowgate and I nearly died of charm. They were very helpful and gave me my course books no problem, but the medieval history department is on South street, and after I walked down there they said I had to buy my course books online and that that information would be given out in the first class, which is in School III, which I had never heard of. So I went looking for it, and I am going to have to take a picture of it because while I suspect there is no heating in the building, it is awesome. I also found the Arts Buildings where my classics classes are. Tutorials and lectures aren't in the same place, or even at the same times, and aren't taught by the same people. Some departments (classics) make everything that they do mandatory and only allow 3 absences per term before you lose the ability to pass, some (history) don't. I've never experienced a more compelling argument for centralization, and I heart Wesmaps now even more than I did.

But, I stole a mug from the Arts Lecture hall (which has a vaguely NOCCA-ish aesthetic but isn't quite so Studio Apartment Art Loft-y), so now I have two, and I walked back along the Scores, which actually turns into the beach path to Albany, and I bought some ice-cream at the Wall; and so I counted it to be a fine morning altogether, even though it was cold, damp and drizzling enough to feel it in your lugs the whole time, and I forgot to wear my wellies.

La Cebolla Engorda La Poya

After I found the beach, I went exploring along it. There's a path that's not built along a levee precisely. It's more that there's beach and then cliffs. Luckily enough, I found a shop called The Wall that sells ice cream, sandwiches, even soup not two minutes from the gate to Albany Park. A very bored looking woman cooked me a BLT, which I briefly noted was kinda smaller than an American sandwich and looked like it had ham on it - my first encounter with the differences in food, British bacon being nothing at all like American - before I wolfed it down.

Walking along the path which was leading upward towards the ruin of the cathedral, I began to realize how much of a sea town St. Andrews is. I mean, not just because the sea is right there - it's funny that I've spent most of my life below sea level but I've never lived closer to water than I'm living now - but in it's construction. Lots of whitewashed buildings with colorful doors, gulls, and little fishing boats. Also? Houses here have names. It's kind of adorable. St. Andrews is also a very medieval town: three very narrow streets with what looked to be on first glance a wall and moat surrounding it. Still very jet-lagged, I don't think I was really processing much of it. I was just vaguely impressed and giddy at everything. Crossing a bridge over the tiny harbor, passing another Wall which looked closed, I started up the hill to the cathedral.

I sort of snuck in. There was a sign saying where the office was and various rates for students and adults and children and such. My lasting impression of it was being amazing at how wrinkled and weathered the stonework was, faded embellishments and crosses and arrow slits in the sides, and how tall it was. My only other impression was one of pleasure that the lamps in the area all looked Narnian. I made it through the cathedral and down North Street to a fading red telephone booth, walked into a Christian bookstore without realizing what it was, and then I turned back towards my room for a nap. Luckily, the UPS guy arrived before I dropped because I had to pay customs on my package. So by the time I had gotten everything unpacked and was ready to sleep, it was one.

I woke at eight to the sound of voices. One thing about Albany Park is that the walls are kinda thin. I can hear people downstairs. So I went down to meet my housemates, two of which were home. Mairi and Rebecca were their names, both first-years from Aberdeen and Glasgow respectively. Very quickly, it became apparent that I was in the right house. Mairi's a film studies/english gal, Rebecca's a medic but a fan of Simon Pegg. They're both dead devious pranksters, were planning a Lord of the Rings viewing marathon (that is the moment I decided I was sold), and used the word geekdom in conversation. I noticed a motivational picture of Van Helsing bashing Twilight on the fridge , and it was really kind of serendipitous: Van Helsing is one of my favorite bad monster movies that no one remembers. Rebecca's brother Ben was also there visiting, and their friend Stuart who is from the north of England and sounds kinda like a Beatle also came by, and somehow we all managed to stay up talking until three in the morning.

Much of the time they spent describing Alyssa, another member of the house who, among other things, cannot see the color yellow. This, as one might imagine, leads to all kinds of interesting inside jokes and pranks, which I had explained to me. They seemed largely impressed that I knew what Wales, Blackadder, and Gavin and Stacy were, and for my part I couldn't have been more pleased to have been placed with people who were so committed to practical jokes, and psyched themselves up before exams by listening to Aragorn's speech in front of the Black Gate and/or Shania Twain.

Falling Faintly, Faintly Falling

Customs was scary because I was nervous. All the long, winding corridors and industrial orange lights dying the snow outside had a vaguely Soviet vibe. All the little old ladies in blue British Border Dept. vests, however, were very obliging and pointed me exactly in the direction that I should go; and there were a bunch of other students ahead of me, and so I sort of watched what they did. Turns out all I needed in the way of documentation was my letter from St. Andrews and my passport. No one went through my luggage (in front of me, anyway. I dunno if it was searched before it came out), and when I walked into International Arrivals, the guy from St. Andrews Direct was right there waiting. It was all very easy.

I traveled with two other kids, Alex from Sweet Brier in Virginia who's also in classics and Carter from Denver who was, I think, doing sciences, as well as a mother of a regular student, neither of who's name I caught. Both the kids were going to New Hall, on the other side of town from me, close to the golf course. Walking out of the warm airport and into the snow, I couldn't quite place my thoughts or emotions. I was tired and very much awake, covered in snow but not cold. Everything seemed weirdly off. Not in bad way, just strange. I kind of maybe almost got hit by a car because I was looking in the wrong direction when I was crossing into the parking lot. The driver's accent was very thick. It was like watching a telenovella. I caught words, phrases, sentences, but it took longer to piece them together and sometime I couldn't make sense of them.

We passed through fields and fields blanketed in white, the snow blowing fiercely and giving a kind of grainy texture to the air. It was hard to see much of anything. The driver talked the whole time, about farms and sheep and flowers and bridges and you know right now I have a hard time remembering what all he said. The villages we past through were tiny, and very much in line with that scene from Half Blood Prince with Bellatrix and Narcissa going to Snape - is it sad that the Harry Potter movies are my only point of reference? I remember thinking that I had never seen that much stone construction in my life, everything's built out of huge grey blocks, and not in any sort of American brick style. It as if some of the stone housing in Old Metairie crossbred with the little one-stories in Lakeview. The layout of the towns and the roads reminded me of New Jersey, in that you just keep going and sort of cross into a new place without any warning.

Eventually the snow gave way to rolling green hills, and the sun came out, and we drive through Culpar, a former market town, and before I could absorb my impressions of it, we were at New Hall. A lot of circles, the lack of food, and an upset stomach had all made me fairly nauseous, and now I was beginning to feel it. I felt the cold air as the door opened, and the other kids out out, and soon enough we were passing golf shops on North Street, heading towards Albany Park. The street was narrow, and again I was overwhelmed by the amount of stone. I tried to mark where restaurants were, we passed a medieval-looking church, later I would learn that it's St. Sal's Chapel which is associated with the University, and then the ruins of the Cathedral, and then we were still going, further and further out of town. This driving on the wrong side business had begun to get to me now, and nerves too, I suppose. We were winding along a high stone wall, medieval by the looks of it, over a bridge, and then into a more residential area. I kept looking out for the sea.

Albany Park is a collection of houses that feel like they're scaled to slightly smaller than person-size. It's got a beach motel after Spring Break vibe. For anyone who might get the point of reference, Westco is nicer.



The room was smaller than any dorm I've ever been in, the heater looked like it belonged in a period piece, the bed was really just a box of springs, the bathrooms were larger than I expected but really only as spacious, comfortable and well-built as, for anyone who might get the reference, the bathrooms on Junior line. The whole thing was bad news bears. But, dizzy and tired as I was, I got unpacked, and then went outside to explore and find something to eat. No one else seemed to be around save the Park cat, a pretty nonchalant, friendly, huge tabby who I am going to call Crookshanks until someone tells me not to. I explored the computer room, which was dusty but nice enough and the laundry rooms, which were about on college par. Got lost a couple times until I was able to find my way around the complex, and somehow found myself cold and hungry and walking up a path towards a wooden gate. And then I came here.



And suddenly everything was great.