"It seems like a logical progression of titles to me."
Unfortunately, dear readers, that was as far as I got in the wee hours this morning (See: About 4am) before I decided that my eyes felt like they were going to combust due to being so tired and dried out and I thought it would probably be better to go to bed. So go to bed I did! And I got up at 12pm this morning.
TWELVE PEE-EM!
I'm really digging this whole sleeping in thing.
Anyway, I went absolutely mad with my camera yesterday, but unfortunately there are some disagreements between Blogger's software and Safari's web browsing techniques. Upshot of all that being that I can't embed any of them here. This makes me weep. However, I can link you good people to an already-assembled album over heah: http://hs.facebook.com/album.php?aid=249&l=3a66c&id=1068660002
So go forth and enjoy.
I'm off to explore some exciting countryside.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Deep In The Night
It's been a wierd day. I spent a lot of it reading Yes Man in Waterstone's, looking up periodically to see how the clientele of the cafe had been replaced with newer folk. The pleasant weather left with the Fringe and now all is grey and rainy. The streets are comparatively deserted. I came out of Waterstone's and walked the short distance down Princes Street to Henderson's for a late lunch. I'd brought the Free Hugs sign. I cracked it open.
And then something strange happened.
People avoided my gaze. They walked around me. Nobody smiled. They stode past staring at the pavement. The only people who opened their arms or acknowledged my existence at all were a couple of clipboard-holding volunteers from CARE who were out trying to recruit people for their organization. I guess they know what it's like, being ignored by pedestrians all day because you're carrying a dangerous-looking piece of office equipment.
Could the difference really be that great between Old and New Town? It appeared to be so. This couldn't just be put down to the end of the Festival. The occasional person who accidentally caught my eye invariably got a big smile from me and, in same cases, I could see them wanting to smile back, mouth twisted in a small, stifled expression of amusement or approval or longing, but none of them seemed able to open up. I was a stranger. I was dangerous. "Those hugs could be an excuse to take my wallet," they think, "Or squirt acid in my face or cover me in anthrax or turn me into a newt!"
And so where I'd been welcomed with open arms on the High Street, I was shut out and ignored on the other side of the Mound -- not half a mile away. Walking down Queen Street I got a few honks and some waves from people in cars, perhaps emboldened by their metal encasings, but that was it. I ended up catching a bus home around 6 and sitting morosely on the sofa writing letters. That cheered me up a bit, but the whole day had a really surreal tone to it.
Now I've been plopped down in a cosy armchair scanning the internet for remnants of my life in Ojai. Everyone I know has scattered themselves on the four winds to college. Everyone has left. Myself included -- but I wrote no farewell messages, had no goodbye parties, exchanged no class schedules. I left for different countries, not different educational systems. By the time I pack my room away for that journey all my friends and classmates will be world-weary Sophomores. My Freshman compatriots will be a full year younger than I, and considering how much diffilculty I already have enjoying the company of the majority of my contemporaries, this doesn't bode well.
Will I survive the return to academia? Especially in a world as intense as Reed's? Freedom has engulfed me here. I am educating myself in life, in survival and adventure, not Classics and essay-writing. Even after I'm home I'll be back on tall ships for the summer, and that only means more love of freedom and life on the open sea to miss when I return to the reality of the hard with a distinct thud.
Kicking my head back against the sagging couch cushions, ear bus replaying songs from my early days. Songs I last heard out of scratchy record players and on cassette tapes. While watching a kid who had taught himself to swordfight with a broom write poetry. While eating pomegranites and slices of cold watermelon with gusto on the stairs. While watching my backyard burn. Faces of friends from the first grade run past my mind's eye. Sun-drenched sailing ship playgrounds. Leprechauns. Teachers. The swoop of my first costume on the hot blacktop. Waterfights during summer school. Dead pets. People I passed in the street today. Stewards at aquariums. Fish at aquariums. Sailors. Walking at midnight across the Saddle in barefeet. Sunsets. The view from Arthur's Seat. The smell of waking up in the Sierras on a morning full of snow. Mud baths in the Ojai summer. Old pajamas. Silk pillowcases. Christmas in my living room. Being proposed to on the edge of an icy mountain lake. Playing soccer with an orange in the rain on a street now devoid of the people I knew living on it. Best friends turned into strangers on foreign continents. My first show in the Zalk Theater. Immediate soul to soul connections struggling across the misunderstanding of great distance.
Where does all this go? I feel like I have this terrible responsibility to remember everything sometimes. I'll sit for an hour just thinking about all my memories. And even as I grasp the ones I've got, new ones swim up. Completely forgotten things. Memories that used to be standards. Favorites. Which I have forgotten for what? A week? A month? A year? And I'm only 18. Jesus.
Tomorrow I've got a quest, a purpose. Things will be better with a night's sleep. And, truth be told, I enjoy the time to think. Even if it's during late-night internet binges induced by too much tea before bed. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, really.
At least I'm not a moon tickler.
And for the explanation behind that enigmatic last remark I suggest you all go out and a) Hug a stranger, then b) Read Yes Man. Because it's bloody good.
And then something strange happened.
People avoided my gaze. They walked around me. Nobody smiled. They stode past staring at the pavement. The only people who opened their arms or acknowledged my existence at all were a couple of clipboard-holding volunteers from CARE who were out trying to recruit people for their organization. I guess they know what it's like, being ignored by pedestrians all day because you're carrying a dangerous-looking piece of office equipment.
Could the difference really be that great between Old and New Town? It appeared to be so. This couldn't just be put down to the end of the Festival. The occasional person who accidentally caught my eye invariably got a big smile from me and, in same cases, I could see them wanting to smile back, mouth twisted in a small, stifled expression of amusement or approval or longing, but none of them seemed able to open up. I was a stranger. I was dangerous. "Those hugs could be an excuse to take my wallet," they think, "Or squirt acid in my face or cover me in anthrax or turn me into a newt!"
And so where I'd been welcomed with open arms on the High Street, I was shut out and ignored on the other side of the Mound -- not half a mile away. Walking down Queen Street I got a few honks and some waves from people in cars, perhaps emboldened by their metal encasings, but that was it. I ended up catching a bus home around 6 and sitting morosely on the sofa writing letters. That cheered me up a bit, but the whole day had a really surreal tone to it.
Now I've been plopped down in a cosy armchair scanning the internet for remnants of my life in Ojai. Everyone I know has scattered themselves on the four winds to college. Everyone has left. Myself included -- but I wrote no farewell messages, had no goodbye parties, exchanged no class schedules. I left for different countries, not different educational systems. By the time I pack my room away for that journey all my friends and classmates will be world-weary Sophomores. My Freshman compatriots will be a full year younger than I, and considering how much diffilculty I already have enjoying the company of the majority of my contemporaries, this doesn't bode well.
Will I survive the return to academia? Especially in a world as intense as Reed's? Freedom has engulfed me here. I am educating myself in life, in survival and adventure, not Classics and essay-writing. Even after I'm home I'll be back on tall ships for the summer, and that only means more love of freedom and life on the open sea to miss when I return to the reality of the hard with a distinct thud.
Kicking my head back against the sagging couch cushions, ear bus replaying songs from my early days. Songs I last heard out of scratchy record players and on cassette tapes. While watching a kid who had taught himself to swordfight with a broom write poetry. While eating pomegranites and slices of cold watermelon with gusto on the stairs. While watching my backyard burn. Faces of friends from the first grade run past my mind's eye. Sun-drenched sailing ship playgrounds. Leprechauns. Teachers. The swoop of my first costume on the hot blacktop. Waterfights during summer school. Dead pets. People I passed in the street today. Stewards at aquariums. Fish at aquariums. Sailors. Walking at midnight across the Saddle in barefeet. Sunsets. The view from Arthur's Seat. The smell of waking up in the Sierras on a morning full of snow. Mud baths in the Ojai summer. Old pajamas. Silk pillowcases. Christmas in my living room. Being proposed to on the edge of an icy mountain lake. Playing soccer with an orange in the rain on a street now devoid of the people I knew living on it. Best friends turned into strangers on foreign continents. My first show in the Zalk Theater. Immediate soul to soul connections struggling across the misunderstanding of great distance.
Where does all this go? I feel like I have this terrible responsibility to remember everything sometimes. I'll sit for an hour just thinking about all my memories. And even as I grasp the ones I've got, new ones swim up. Completely forgotten things. Memories that used to be standards. Favorites. Which I have forgotten for what? A week? A month? A year? And I'm only 18. Jesus.
Tomorrow I've got a quest, a purpose. Things will be better with a night's sleep. And, truth be told, I enjoy the time to think. Even if it's during late-night internet binges induced by too much tea before bed. Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, really.
At least I'm not a moon tickler.
And for the explanation behind that enigmatic last remark I suggest you all go out and a) Hug a stranger, then b) Read Yes Man. Because it's bloody good.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
All Things Must End
Today is Tuesday, the 28th of August. It's raining. So ends the Edinburgh Festival Fringe.
Since some time has elapsed since my last update, I should catch you up on the highlights of recent activity. Meeting up with Josh Cornwell for tasty caramel chocolate shortbread and caffine, seeing Play On Words -- an excellent production reminiscent of Tom Stoppard -- in a toasty, cramped theatre on a cold night, climbing Arthur's Seat the hard way to be met with intense wind and spectacular views in every direction, seeing Johnson and Boswell: Late But Live at the Traverse, walking along the beach near St. Andrews, watching the sun set over rollling Scottish countryside, devouring ice cream sundaes, meeting 30 odd other couchsurfers for an evening of film and fun in the back room of the Brass Monkey, partying down at the Forest to full throated, slightly drunk singer songwriter women jamming away on guitars, and finally, yesterday.
Yesterday was the last day of the Fringe. Monday. Bank Holiday. It was also Free Hugs day for a handful of couchsurfers who I entierly failed to meet up with. However, that didn't stop me. At 2:15 I was on my way solo to the Royal Mile, sign in hand ready for action. It took courage to open that huge white expanse of posterboard with FREE HUGS written on it in bold black pen, because I knew people would start looking at me. I would become a focal point in the crowd. Still, I grew bold and snapped it open high above my head. I started to walk up the High Street. The results were instantaneous.
I was hugged by young people, old people, tourists, locals, people in cars, toothless old men, busking ukelele players, Fringe Festival Stewards (en masse -- they tackled me from behind), people from India, Spain, France, Itlay, China, America, England, and Ireland, married couples, silly people, women dressed as bondage pigs (?!), other free huggers, students from the University, people waiting in lines, people in wheelchairs, Japanese women holding babies, holiday-making pipe players from Canada, sisters, schoolkids, the entire clientel of an old person's bar which looked really sketchy until I was dragged in by a 70 year old woman with white hair and persuaded to give hugs to everyone therein who turned out to be perfectly sweet if slightly drunk, flyer distributors, businessmen, venue staff, people on the other side of panes of glass, magazine salesmen, people willing to run through traffic for a free hug, beggars, women with megaphones, travellers, transients, hippies, acrobats, people on drugs, children with smiles, people with lovely souls.
I was also given, for free, in return: a shot of whiskey, a kiss, a ticket to a show at the Pleasance Dome, a chance to teach someone Blue Moon on their brand new ukelele, and a ride in a bicycle taxi all the way from The Royal Mile to the Rocket Venues. Not to mention oodles of joy and happiness.
I was picked up and swung around until I couldn't see straight, hugged by the same person three times, tackled by groups of people, blessed by Christians, waved at by people in buses, winked at by traffic wardens, and applauded by passers-by. I've experienced the feeling of wanting to just smile at everyone I pass on the sidewalk before, but sometimes this can be difficult. Not so when one is holding a Free Hugs sign. Practically everyone I passed read the sign and broke into grins and smiles and laughs and giggles. Many of these people didn't approach me for a hug, but did say things like "That's fantastic, amazing, wonderful, excellent, tops, the best, brilliant, etc." to their family and friends. Old women grinned at me, parents read the sign to their children, couples stopped and pointed, everyone had a reaction. Even if I wasn't hugging people, they were feeling happier because they'd seen the sign and laughed.
It all felt amazing. Every hug I got left me grinning from ear to ear, laughing, smiling, happy. It was addictive. I hugged non-stop from 2:15 to 6pm. Striding around downtown until I had to sit down and take a break. I felt wonderful. Just having the sign at my side got me pulled into groups of people who asked for my life story, why I was doing it, where I came from, whether or not I wanted to join them for dinner, etc. What a day.
I saw Andrew Maxwell, an Irish comedian, perform his stand up routine at the Pleasance Courtyard, which was brilliant. It was great to see some really good comedy and laugh until it became physically painful and I was struggling to draw breath. I moved on to a late-night tea house under George IV Bridge called Chai, which was full of lovely eastern lamps and low-set tables. I had some delicious Turkish Delight and then moved on to The Vault, where I was treated to Sh*tty Deal Puppet Theatre Company's Complete History of Oppressed People Everywhere! The most bizarrely hilarious show thus far seen on the Fringe. The company was amazing and the puppets were absurd and it was all a great end to the evening and, indeed, the Festival.
On the way home, even at 11:30 at night on the almost deserted sidewalks of Princes Street, I got six more hugs before boarding a bus for morningside and staggering home to bed. I must've hugged over 100 people. Seen three shows. Eaten tasty food. And finished off the Festival in style.
So today I'm recovering, as is the rest of the city I'm sure. I almost don't want to stay here and watch the Half-Price Hut and the venue markers disappear, the giant upsidedown purple cow deflate, and the crowds thin to normal proportions. Edinburgh remains lovely, but it does seem that the gloomy weather is reflecting the mood of the city as things return to normal after such a fantastic three weeks of madness and creation. And of course, my camera came. The very day the proceedings came to an end. So now I can take boring pictures of trees and cows and other things. Isn't that the way it goes?
You should go hug some strangers now. Really. I reccommend it.
Since some time has elapsed since my last update, I should catch you up on the highlights of recent activity. Meeting up with Josh Cornwell for tasty caramel chocolate shortbread and caffine, seeing Play On Words -- an excellent production reminiscent of Tom Stoppard -- in a toasty, cramped theatre on a cold night, climbing Arthur's Seat the hard way to be met with intense wind and spectacular views in every direction, seeing Johnson and Boswell: Late But Live at the Traverse, walking along the beach near St. Andrews, watching the sun set over rollling Scottish countryside, devouring ice cream sundaes, meeting 30 odd other couchsurfers for an evening of film and fun in the back room of the Brass Monkey, partying down at the Forest to full throated, slightly drunk singer songwriter women jamming away on guitars, and finally, yesterday.
Yesterday was the last day of the Fringe. Monday. Bank Holiday. It was also Free Hugs day for a handful of couchsurfers who I entierly failed to meet up with. However, that didn't stop me. At 2:15 I was on my way solo to the Royal Mile, sign in hand ready for action. It took courage to open that huge white expanse of posterboard with FREE HUGS written on it in bold black pen, because I knew people would start looking at me. I would become a focal point in the crowd. Still, I grew bold and snapped it open high above my head. I started to walk up the High Street. The results were instantaneous.
I was hugged by young people, old people, tourists, locals, people in cars, toothless old men, busking ukelele players, Fringe Festival Stewards (en masse -- they tackled me from behind), people from India, Spain, France, Itlay, China, America, England, and Ireland, married couples, silly people, women dressed as bondage pigs (?!), other free huggers, students from the University, people waiting in lines, people in wheelchairs, Japanese women holding babies, holiday-making pipe players from Canada, sisters, schoolkids, the entire clientel of an old person's bar which looked really sketchy until I was dragged in by a 70 year old woman with white hair and persuaded to give hugs to everyone therein who turned out to be perfectly sweet if slightly drunk, flyer distributors, businessmen, venue staff, people on the other side of panes of glass, magazine salesmen, people willing to run through traffic for a free hug, beggars, women with megaphones, travellers, transients, hippies, acrobats, people on drugs, children with smiles, people with lovely souls.
I was also given, for free, in return: a shot of whiskey, a kiss, a ticket to a show at the Pleasance Dome, a chance to teach someone Blue Moon on their brand new ukelele, and a ride in a bicycle taxi all the way from The Royal Mile to the Rocket Venues. Not to mention oodles of joy and happiness.
I was picked up and swung around until I couldn't see straight, hugged by the same person three times, tackled by groups of people, blessed by Christians, waved at by people in buses, winked at by traffic wardens, and applauded by passers-by. I've experienced the feeling of wanting to just smile at everyone I pass on the sidewalk before, but sometimes this can be difficult. Not so when one is holding a Free Hugs sign. Practically everyone I passed read the sign and broke into grins and smiles and laughs and giggles. Many of these people didn't approach me for a hug, but did say things like "That's fantastic, amazing, wonderful, excellent, tops, the best, brilliant, etc." to their family and friends. Old women grinned at me, parents read the sign to their children, couples stopped and pointed, everyone had a reaction. Even if I wasn't hugging people, they were feeling happier because they'd seen the sign and laughed.
It all felt amazing. Every hug I got left me grinning from ear to ear, laughing, smiling, happy. It was addictive. I hugged non-stop from 2:15 to 6pm. Striding around downtown until I had to sit down and take a break. I felt wonderful. Just having the sign at my side got me pulled into groups of people who asked for my life story, why I was doing it, where I came from, whether or not I wanted to join them for dinner, etc. What a day.
I saw Andrew Maxwell, an Irish comedian, perform his stand up routine at the Pleasance Courtyard, which was brilliant. It was great to see some really good comedy and laugh until it became physically painful and I was struggling to draw breath. I moved on to a late-night tea house under George IV Bridge called Chai, which was full of lovely eastern lamps and low-set tables. I had some delicious Turkish Delight and then moved on to The Vault, where I was treated to Sh*tty Deal Puppet Theatre Company's Complete History of Oppressed People Everywhere! The most bizarrely hilarious show thus far seen on the Fringe. The company was amazing and the puppets were absurd and it was all a great end to the evening and, indeed, the Festival.
On the way home, even at 11:30 at night on the almost deserted sidewalks of Princes Street, I got six more hugs before boarding a bus for morningside and staggering home to bed. I must've hugged over 100 people. Seen three shows. Eaten tasty food. And finished off the Festival in style.
So today I'm recovering, as is the rest of the city I'm sure. I almost don't want to stay here and watch the Half-Price Hut and the venue markers disappear, the giant upsidedown purple cow deflate, and the crowds thin to normal proportions. Edinburgh remains lovely, but it does seem that the gloomy weather is reflecting the mood of the city as things return to normal after such a fantastic three weeks of madness and creation. And of course, my camera came. The very day the proceedings came to an end. So now I can take boring pictures of trees and cows and other things. Isn't that the way it goes?
You should go hug some strangers now. Really. I reccommend it.
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thank God For Laundry Detergent
I washed my clothes today and my goodness do they smell nice.
Our dinner last night was fabulous. Company from all throughout the UK, as well as Spain, Hungary, America, and Canada. Fajitas were tasty, Polish plum cake doubly so. And Ivani's beautiful voice serenaded us all late into the the evening. I slept deeply and arose this morning to wash clothing (ooh yeah) and relax. Lots of a journal writing and watching the sun dart in and out of the clouds.
Eduard left us and Kate went off to do some errands. I ended up leaving the flat around 3pm after saying my thank you's and goodbye's to Kate to meet Josh Cornwell and his girlfriend on Princes Street. I found Josh leaning out the top of Scott Monument, but I was damned if I was going to climb that many flights of stairs with a full backpack, so I called him and told him to come down. We went for coffee and I introduced Josh to the wonders of chocolate, caramel, and shortbread. Yum.
Then onto a bus and over to Fountainbridge to meet Ben. Ladies and Gentlemen: I now have my own room. For a whole weekend. It's got a bed and a clothes drying rack and a dresser and EVERYTHING. I'm so excited.
Lots of couchsurfing action this weekend with a meet Sunday evening at the Brass Monkey for a free film festival, then Monday at 2pm we're bringing free hugs to St. Andrew's Square. Look out UK, here we come! For anyone not familiar with the Free Hugs Movement, do take the time to google it (As it's late and I can't be arsed to link the webpage) and join in on the fun. I'll let you all know how it goes.
Tonight Ben and I caught Play On Words, a fantastic show in the tradition of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead written by a three man theatre company who have all been friends for years. I met one of their number at the Fringe Box Office and was exceedingly pleased to see what talented young men they are. The show was fantastic. Clever, moving, witty, unusual. Everything I enjoy in theatre. I wanted to stay and chat with them at the bar, but Ben and I headed home instead, stopping at The Last Drop (A pub which used to be the site of all the hangings in Edinburgh - har har very funny) and a (much quieter) pub near his house for a few drinks. All in all a very successful day.
Tomorrow will be a slow start and so, as that great 18th century jounralist would say, to bed.
Sleep tight,
Lucy
Our dinner last night was fabulous. Company from all throughout the UK, as well as Spain, Hungary, America, and Canada. Fajitas were tasty, Polish plum cake doubly so. And Ivani's beautiful voice serenaded us all late into the the evening. I slept deeply and arose this morning to wash clothing (ooh yeah) and relax. Lots of a journal writing and watching the sun dart in and out of the clouds.
Eduard left us and Kate went off to do some errands. I ended up leaving the flat around 3pm after saying my thank you's and goodbye's to Kate to meet Josh Cornwell and his girlfriend on Princes Street. I found Josh leaning out the top of Scott Monument, but I was damned if I was going to climb that many flights of stairs with a full backpack, so I called him and told him to come down. We went for coffee and I introduced Josh to the wonders of chocolate, caramel, and shortbread. Yum.
Then onto a bus and over to Fountainbridge to meet Ben. Ladies and Gentlemen: I now have my own room. For a whole weekend. It's got a bed and a clothes drying rack and a dresser and EVERYTHING. I'm so excited.
Lots of couchsurfing action this weekend with a meet Sunday evening at the Brass Monkey for a free film festival, then Monday at 2pm we're bringing free hugs to St. Andrew's Square. Look out UK, here we come! For anyone not familiar with the Free Hugs Movement, do take the time to google it (As it's late and I can't be arsed to link the webpage) and join in on the fun. I'll let you all know how it goes.
Tonight Ben and I caught Play On Words, a fantastic show in the tradition of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead written by a three man theatre company who have all been friends for years. I met one of their number at the Fringe Box Office and was exceedingly pleased to see what talented young men they are. The show was fantastic. Clever, moving, witty, unusual. Everything I enjoy in theatre. I wanted to stay and chat with them at the bar, but Ben and I headed home instead, stopping at The Last Drop (A pub which used to be the site of all the hangings in Edinburgh - har har very funny) and a (much quieter) pub near his house for a few drinks. All in all a very successful day.
Tomorrow will be a slow start and so, as that great 18th century jounralist would say, to bed.
Sleep tight,
Lucy
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Blue Skies
So there's been a bit of lull in my updates of late, although the acquisition of my amazing hat may be to blame. (Incidentally, for those who are interested, my new camera lands in the UK tomorrow, so photos should appear in fairly short order.) At any rate, I believe I owe you all an explanation of where I've been and what's been going on.
To work from the back to the front, which is not necessarily the only way for one to do things, but does work as well as any other way: Sunday, when we last spoke. I set off for my appointment with Song of The Goat with plenty of time to spare. So much in fact that, arriving at 2:15 I thought, "Oh, I shall adjourn next door and purchase mineself an sand witch." And did. Infuriatingly, I hadn't checked my ticket stub and, so convinced was I that the show was at 2:30, it surprised me greatly to find that in the time it had taken me to walk next door and pick up my sandwich the audience had queued, been admitted, and sat down. By my return at 2:25 the doors were firmly shut on a show which began, I learned, at 2:TWENTY. In a morose funk, I finished my sandwich (Which tasted of misery and defeat) before walking away from the venue.
I maundered around Queen Street Gardens, my mood not improved by the fact that they are private and therefore unenjoyable by common slobs such as myself. Eventually I headed back up to George Street and ran into Tom, a comedian I'd seen performing at the Free Fringe a few days ago. We chatted for a bit and then I moved on to a smoothie bar.
Rejuvenated by mangoes I got myself to St. John's and walked down into the cemetary. Here, at least, was somewhere that would be relatively quiet. The combination of canopied trees and spreading lichens tinged everything emerald green. Headstones haphazardly tilted, weathered away by years of silence. I walked through several courtyards before reaching a fairly secluded one with a wall of monuments. One of them had a bench built into its front. I settled down to write, but ended up asleep. That twenty minute nap was more relaxing than any full night's sleep I've ever had. The sounds of the city barely penetrated the grove of trees around me and nobody else came through the monuments to disturb my rest. I awoke feeling quiet and happy, and walked back to Fountainbridge.
The day had turned cold, wind picking up as I made a wrong turn and had to backtrack past shady bars and dirty take-out places to reach the cinema complex opposite Mick's. Of course, by the time I got there, exaughsted and cold, nobody was in. I phoned Mick and he agreed to return and open the flat. I sat at a cafe across the road and waited. There was some sort of hullaballoo going on with the film festival, which I later learned was the UK premier of Knocked Up. There was a red carpet photo op thing of sorts so I can only imagine there were (shock horror) "famous people" not 50 feet away. It didn't matter. I wouldn't have moved for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse at that point -- unless of course they had keys to the flat -- so I stayed where I was and watched the throng of people from a distance. Finally Mick arrived and I returned to the warm, smokey interior of the flat.
The temptation to remain at home was almost too great. The idea of staggering out into god-knows-where to find the swing dance event was not an exciting one and I felt like having a nap. Eventually, after some computer time and a few calls home, I worked up the strength to leave and, shielded from the elements by many layers, I set off for The Merlin. Now, my map only covers the centre of Edinburgh and so far this has not posed much of a problem. However, The Merlin was mere centimeters from where the edge of the map fell, and therefore after a certain point I was relying on trust that my directions were sound. Just as nagging fear of failure was beginning to set in I found myself in front of a two story building with signs to a swing meet upstairs. Thank God. It was about 9:45 when I entered the room, full of lights and dancers and a projector showing clips of old movies. Ben was in the far corner along with a few faces I recognized from the Jive Aces concert.
The evening was nice. Lots of dancing with a variety of people, many of them students at the University. Eventually, around 11:15, Ben and François (One of the dancers -- a delightful woman who's from France but has lived in Scotland for 10 years, giving her a Scots/French accent; Something that must be heard to be believed) and myself hopped in Ben's car and returned to Fountainbridge. Astonishingly, François was in number 5, just across the lane from me (#2) and Ben lived a few blocks down the road. We said our goodnights and I happily staggered upstairs.
The next morning was an early start since Mick had new surfers arriving and we needed to be out by 9am. I was packed and ready fairly quickly, happy to be on the move again. My clothes were beginning to stink of stale cigarette smoke -- not a pleasant thing. The hitchhikers and I traveled a short way together before parting ways at the Lothian Road junction. I headed off for my next couch but ended up writing letters for two hours in a Cafe Nero. Eventually I arrived at Mark's place around 12 after finding my amazing hat and promising the artist I would return with cash before the day was out. Mark and I ended up chatting for about three hours about nothing in particular, then I unpacked and ran back to secure the headgear of my dreams.
Mark's flat is a magical place tucked into rows of beautiful old apartment buildings, all spacious and high-ceilinged. I was sharing sleeping quarters with: 1 man from Georgia (ala Russia, not the deep South) 2 girls from Turkey, 3 more girls from Belgium, and Mark himself -- who grew up in South Africa and moved to the UK at age 15. His kitchen is packed with an arsenal of pans, cookbooks, unique spatulas, and exciting ingredients. We all enjoyed dinner together and then dispersed around the flat for socializing and reading before bed. I reassessed my letter-writing of the day and came up with the following conclusion.
There is something incredibly sexy about letters. This may seem like an odd statement, but it's true. A sealed envelope containing, not just a cursory thank you note, but a real whopper of a letter (10 pages -- at least.) is so satisfying, so thrilling. Full of longing and news and love and imagery. The paper crinkled at the back where moisture has adhered one side of the envelope to the other. Stamped, carefully addressed. Whenever
I send letters I wonder about the people who will handle them. Will someone working in a sorting room reach down and pick up my envelope? Examine it and long to read what's inside? And how will the person I'm writing to react? Joy, fear, exhilaration, sadness...What runs through someone's mind in the moments they spend opening a letter from far away? In an ideal world, it makes the day of whoever I'm writing to. They make time to enjoy the full experience of recieving a letter. They turn the envelope over and over in their hands, savoring the thin, tissue-like feel of the airmail paper, examining the stamps, reveling in the time and effort expended to deliver such a missive. They read the words carefully before falling asleep, and again over breakfast in the morning. They keep the letter in a safe place, where it can be accessed easily, and retain it as a special secret only they are aware of. A treat to be enjoyed in rare moments of indulgence and solitude.
Tuesday was a quiet day. I awoke to a sky that seemed dark enough for 5pm, even though it was only 11, and began my day slowly. I had plans to go to the Gallery of Modern Art on behalf of a friend, but ended up dawdling so much on my way there (In a fantastic shop called Stamper's Grove that sells an amazing assortment of papery goodness and exciting inks) that by the time I arrived they were close to closing and all the curators who would know the answers to my query had gone home early. I decided to come back later in the week and meandered around the gardens for a while.
I opted not to take the free bus back to The Mound and walked home via the Water of Leith walkway. This small river meanders through Dean Village and a number of other beautiful spots as it makes its way down to the seaside and empties into the ocean at Leith. The path running alongside it is about 18 miles long, but the stretch from the Gallery of Modern art back into town in one of the most beautiful. I can feel my body relaxing into this habit of long walks, my legs now springing forward into each new step, muscles stretching and tensing. It's fantastic. I never felt the least bit tired the whole way home.
I stopped for groceries at the Co-Op and finally arrived home around 6:30. I had checked this with Mark in the morning and was under the impression that he would be home. He wasn't. Nobody answered the buzzer at the front door. Just as I was about to give up, a gentleman in a suit arrived with keys. He let me in, as he was headed for his own flat one floor below Mark's, but I was then no closer to gaining access to the flat itself. I sat at the top floor and decided to do some writing to kill the time. Then another miracle! Mark's neighbor shows up, back from an afternoon out, and we get to chatting and I explain why all these mysterious foreign people have been disappearing into Mark's flat (He was relieved to find out it wasn't human trafficking or anything) and tell him about my journey. Nick is from Belfast via a few other places like Australia and Detroit, now living in Edinburgh, he a fabulous guy. Very friendly and intelligent. We end up having drinks in his flat until about 8, when Mark returns and Nick has to leave for a dinner. Another new friend!
Wednesday morning dawns bright and beautiful. The overcast skies of the day before have vanished and the sun is everywhere. I set off to meet our dear friends Diana and Oliver at the Hub of the Official Edinburgh International Festival. I'm an hour or so early, but so are they. Hugs all around and a wonderful lunch before attending a talk given by two veterans of the Festival, Magnus Linklater and Sheila Colvin. I spent the pre-talk minutes obsessing over the fountain pen of the man sitting in front of me. I should've asked him if I could try it. I was introduced to an astounding number of people, all quite well-known in the society circles of Edinburgh. Diana knows everybody. It's rather remarkable. We had time for a cup of tea afterwards and caught each other up on everything that has transpired since we met last summer in London. A photo outside with a large painted cow and we were off with promises of contact the following day.
I stopped in at the Forest in hopes of seeing James, but he was nowhere to be found. Dustin and Deirdre were preparing to leave after the show of the evening. I said goodbye to them both and returned to Mark's apartment. Running late, I grab everything, thank Mark, and set off on foot for Leith. 20 minutes later I arrive via an unusual route at #2 Wellington Place. Kate, my new host, is fantastic. Young and smiling, she shares a flat with Gabor, from Hungary, and a whole host of other international folks. Her other couchsurfer, Edward (Or possibly Edoard? Spelling?) is from Spain, with an adorable Catalan lisp. The accent is quite amazing. We all set out for 80 Queen Street about 9, where there was apparently a free jazz concert.
The venue was great and the music fabulous. We all packed into a booth and enjoyed good drinks (Very tasty Rosé wine for me -- I honestly don't know why everyone spends so much time bashing Rosé for being unfashionable. It's rubbish.) and each other's company until the bar closed at 12:15. Half-way through we were joined by the Edward's sister and her boyfriend. The whole table was a mess of languages and accents. Gabor tried to teach us some Hungarian, but it was no use. I'm excited to have some people to practice Spanish with, just as they are excited to have someone who can help them learn English. Kate and I became a teaching duo. It was quite successful until she started to make up words. Then it just got silly.
I spent the night on a futon in the lounge -- very comfy -- and am now trying to get everything in order to have another crack at seeing Song of The Goat. We're also having a dinner party tonight so preparations are in order. This has been a truly mammoth update and I apologize profusely to those of you who have stuck it out till the end. Or perhaps I should commend you and hand out medals. Yes, that sounds like a much better idea.
Showering and laundry for me now, so adieu, adios, Viszontlátásra (Hungarian -- woo!), and other measurements as well.
Lucy
To work from the back to the front, which is not necessarily the only way for one to do things, but does work as well as any other way: Sunday, when we last spoke. I set off for my appointment with Song of The Goat with plenty of time to spare. So much in fact that, arriving at 2:15 I thought, "Oh, I shall adjourn next door and purchase mineself an sand witch." And did. Infuriatingly, I hadn't checked my ticket stub and, so convinced was I that the show was at 2:30, it surprised me greatly to find that in the time it had taken me to walk next door and pick up my sandwich the audience had queued, been admitted, and sat down. By my return at 2:25 the doors were firmly shut on a show which began, I learned, at 2:TWENTY. In a morose funk, I finished my sandwich (Which tasted of misery and defeat) before walking away from the venue.
I maundered around Queen Street Gardens, my mood not improved by the fact that they are private and therefore unenjoyable by common slobs such as myself. Eventually I headed back up to George Street and ran into Tom, a comedian I'd seen performing at the Free Fringe a few days ago. We chatted for a bit and then I moved on to a smoothie bar.
Rejuvenated by mangoes I got myself to St. John's and walked down into the cemetary. Here, at least, was somewhere that would be relatively quiet. The combination of canopied trees and spreading lichens tinged everything emerald green. Headstones haphazardly tilted, weathered away by years of silence. I walked through several courtyards before reaching a fairly secluded one with a wall of monuments. One of them had a bench built into its front. I settled down to write, but ended up asleep. That twenty minute nap was more relaxing than any full night's sleep I've ever had. The sounds of the city barely penetrated the grove of trees around me and nobody else came through the monuments to disturb my rest. I awoke feeling quiet and happy, and walked back to Fountainbridge.The day had turned cold, wind picking up as I made a wrong turn and had to backtrack past shady bars and dirty take-out places to reach the cinema complex opposite Mick's. Of course, by the time I got there, exaughsted and cold, nobody was in. I phoned Mick and he agreed to return and open the flat. I sat at a cafe across the road and waited. There was some sort of hullaballoo going on with the film festival, which I later learned was the UK premier of Knocked Up. There was a red carpet photo op thing of sorts so I can only imagine there were (shock horror) "famous people" not 50 feet away. It didn't matter. I wouldn't have moved for the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse at that point -- unless of course they had keys to the flat -- so I stayed where I was and watched the throng of people from a distance. Finally Mick arrived and I returned to the warm, smokey interior of the flat.
The temptation to remain at home was almost too great. The idea of staggering out into god-knows-where to find the swing dance event was not an exciting one and I felt like having a nap. Eventually, after some computer time and a few calls home, I worked up the strength to leave and, shielded from the elements by many layers, I set off for The Merlin. Now, my map only covers the centre of Edinburgh and so far this has not posed much of a problem. However, The Merlin was mere centimeters from where the edge of the map fell, and therefore after a certain point I was relying on trust that my directions were sound. Just as nagging fear of failure was beginning to set in I found myself in front of a two story building with signs to a swing meet upstairs. Thank God. It was about 9:45 when I entered the room, full of lights and dancers and a projector showing clips of old movies. Ben was in the far corner along with a few faces I recognized from the Jive Aces concert.
The evening was nice. Lots of dancing with a variety of people, many of them students at the University. Eventually, around 11:15, Ben and François (One of the dancers -- a delightful woman who's from France but has lived in Scotland for 10 years, giving her a Scots/French accent; Something that must be heard to be believed) and myself hopped in Ben's car and returned to Fountainbridge. Astonishingly, François was in number 5, just across the lane from me (#2) and Ben lived a few blocks down the road. We said our goodnights and I happily staggered upstairs.
The next morning was an early start since Mick had new surfers arriving and we needed to be out by 9am. I was packed and ready fairly quickly, happy to be on the move again. My clothes were beginning to stink of stale cigarette smoke -- not a pleasant thing. The hitchhikers and I traveled a short way together before parting ways at the Lothian Road junction. I headed off for my next couch but ended up writing letters for two hours in a Cafe Nero. Eventually I arrived at Mark's place around 12 after finding my amazing hat and promising the artist I would return with cash before the day was out. Mark and I ended up chatting for about three hours about nothing in particular, then I unpacked and ran back to secure the headgear of my dreams.
Mark's flat is a magical place tucked into rows of beautiful old apartment buildings, all spacious and high-ceilinged. I was sharing sleeping quarters with: 1 man from Georgia (ala Russia, not the deep South) 2 girls from Turkey, 3 more girls from Belgium, and Mark himself -- who grew up in South Africa and moved to the UK at age 15. His kitchen is packed with an arsenal of pans, cookbooks, unique spatulas, and exciting ingredients. We all enjoyed dinner together and then dispersed around the flat for socializing and reading before bed. I reassessed my letter-writing of the day and came up with the following conclusion.
There is something incredibly sexy about letters. This may seem like an odd statement, but it's true. A sealed envelope containing, not just a cursory thank you note, but a real whopper of a letter (10 pages -- at least.) is so satisfying, so thrilling. Full of longing and news and love and imagery. The paper crinkled at the back where moisture has adhered one side of the envelope to the other. Stamped, carefully addressed. Whenever
I send letters I wonder about the people who will handle them. Will someone working in a sorting room reach down and pick up my envelope? Examine it and long to read what's inside? And how will the person I'm writing to react? Joy, fear, exhilaration, sadness...What runs through someone's mind in the moments they spend opening a letter from far away? In an ideal world, it makes the day of whoever I'm writing to. They make time to enjoy the full experience of recieving a letter. They turn the envelope over and over in their hands, savoring the thin, tissue-like feel of the airmail paper, examining the stamps, reveling in the time and effort expended to deliver such a missive. They read the words carefully before falling asleep, and again over breakfast in the morning. They keep the letter in a safe place, where it can be accessed easily, and retain it as a special secret only they are aware of. A treat to be enjoyed in rare moments of indulgence and solitude.Tuesday was a quiet day. I awoke to a sky that seemed dark enough for 5pm, even though it was only 11, and began my day slowly. I had plans to go to the Gallery of Modern Art on behalf of a friend, but ended up dawdling so much on my way there (In a fantastic shop called Stamper's Grove that sells an amazing assortment of papery goodness and exciting inks) that by the time I arrived they were close to closing and all the curators who would know the answers to my query had gone home early. I decided to come back later in the week and meandered around the gardens for a while.
I opted not to take the free bus back to The Mound and walked home via the Water of Leith walkway. This small river meanders through Dean Village and a number of other beautiful spots as it makes its way down to the seaside and empties into the ocean at Leith. The path running alongside it is about 18 miles long, but the stretch from the Gallery of Modern art back into town in one of the most beautiful. I can feel my body relaxing into this habit of long walks, my legs now springing forward into each new step, muscles stretching and tensing. It's fantastic. I never felt the least bit tired the whole way home.I stopped for groceries at the Co-Op and finally arrived home around 6:30. I had checked this with Mark in the morning and was under the impression that he would be home. He wasn't. Nobody answered the buzzer at the front door. Just as I was about to give up, a gentleman in a suit arrived with keys. He let me in, as he was headed for his own flat one floor below Mark's, but I was then no closer to gaining access to the flat itself. I sat at the top floor and decided to do some writing to kill the time. Then another miracle! Mark's neighbor shows up, back from an afternoon out, and we get to chatting and I explain why all these mysterious foreign people have been disappearing into Mark's flat (He was relieved to find out it wasn't human trafficking or anything) and tell him about my journey. Nick is from Belfast via a few other places like Australia and Detroit, now living in Edinburgh, he a fabulous guy. Very friendly and intelligent. We end up having drinks in his flat until about 8, when Mark returns and Nick has to leave for a dinner. Another new friend!
Wednesday morning dawns bright and beautiful. The overcast skies of the day before have vanished and the sun is everywhere. I set off to meet our dear friends Diana and Oliver at the Hub of the Official Edinburgh International Festival. I'm an hour or so early, but so are they. Hugs all around and a wonderful lunch before attending a talk given by two veterans of the Festival, Magnus Linklater and Sheila Colvin. I spent the pre-talk minutes obsessing over the fountain pen of the man sitting in front of me. I should've asked him if I could try it. I was introduced to an astounding number of people, all quite well-known in the society circles of Edinburgh. Diana knows everybody. It's rather remarkable. We had time for a cup of tea afterwards and caught each other up on everything that has transpired since we met last summer in London. A photo outside with a large painted cow and we were off with promises of contact the following day.
I stopped in at the Forest in hopes of seeing James, but he was nowhere to be found. Dustin and Deirdre were preparing to leave after the show of the evening. I said goodbye to them both and returned to Mark's apartment. Running late, I grab everything, thank Mark, and set off on foot for Leith. 20 minutes later I arrive via an unusual route at #2 Wellington Place. Kate, my new host, is fantastic. Young and smiling, she shares a flat with Gabor, from Hungary, and a whole host of other international folks. Her other couchsurfer, Edward (Or possibly Edoard? Spelling?) is from Spain, with an adorable Catalan lisp. The accent is quite amazing. We all set out for 80 Queen Street about 9, where there was apparently a free jazz concert.
The venue was great and the music fabulous. We all packed into a booth and enjoyed good drinks (Very tasty Rosé wine for me -- I honestly don't know why everyone spends so much time bashing Rosé for being unfashionable. It's rubbish.) and each other's company until the bar closed at 12:15. Half-way through we were joined by the Edward's sister and her boyfriend. The whole table was a mess of languages and accents. Gabor tried to teach us some Hungarian, but it was no use. I'm excited to have some people to practice Spanish with, just as they are excited to have someone who can help them learn English. Kate and I became a teaching duo. It was quite successful until she started to make up words. Then it just got silly.I spent the night on a futon in the lounge -- very comfy -- and am now trying to get everything in order to have another crack at seeing Song of The Goat. We're also having a dinner party tonight so preparations are in order. This has been a truly mammoth update and I apologize profusely to those of you who have stuck it out till the end. Or perhaps I should commend you and hand out medals. Yes, that sounds like a much better idea.
Showering and laundry for me now, so adieu, adios, Viszontlátásra (Hungarian -- woo!), and other measurements as well.
Lucy
Monday, August 20, 2007
This Is Not A Test
This is a short post.
In this short post I would like to express the following:
I have acquired a hat.
It is probably the greatest hat of all time.
That's right.
Since the beginning of creation.
And since I have no camera, you must all wait with baited breath to behold its might and glory.
There is other news, but it has been eclipsed by the hat.
The hat has you.
That is all.
In this short post I would like to express the following:
I have acquired a hat.
It is probably the greatest hat of all time.
That's right.
Since the beginning of creation.
And since I have no camera, you must all wait with baited breath to behold its might and glory.
There is other news, but it has been eclipsed by the hat.
The hat has you.
That is all.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Bohemian Living
Sunday Sunday Sunday.
Mick, my current Couchsurfing host, is improvising on the piano across the hall, and the two hitchhikers from Nottingham who arrived from Scandanavia (!) last night have gone out for groceries. Mark, my next stop, says he ("inadvertently") has 7 people staying with him tonight, so it looks like I'll be here for a little while longer. Song of The Goat performs at 2:30 today, for which I cannot wait. But yesterday...oh yesterday. I saw the most amazing show so far. A new piece written by Mark Quarterly, an undergrad at Durham University, called Odyssey. It has nothing to do with Homer aside from an educated joke explaining the names of the two main characters, Neoptolemus and Pyrrhus -- two names for the same classical charater: The Son of Achilles. They are twins.
I got to the show completely by chance through a new friend made at the Forest Cafe. And now we must pause in this anecdote.
A word on the Forest: It's a beautiful old building that has been completely adapted into a sort of modern/bohemian version of an 18th Century conversation-filled Salon. All the people who work there are volunteers who spend their time making delicious food while all over the room people curled on couches and in armchairs talk about anything and everything. Musicians play for free on the stage and people who wander in and out perform poetry on a whim. Upstiars there's a converted church which acts as a theatre venue. Free shows go on all day. Readings, experimental theatre, musicals, concerts -- anything. It is a haven. I could stay there all day.
So that's that. Anyway, yesterday morning I wandered in and found myself swept upstairs for a free show merely titled "The Thing." A group of us were ushered into this room full of chairs. Each chair had a hat on it. There were people dressed as traditional mimes standing in the corners of the room. There were signs that said things like "Games" "Costumes" "Guns Etc." There was a giant cardboard Tom Cruise. There was a script.
One of our number who was, inexplicably, already dressed in a tricorn and period clothing and carrying a birdcage, got up and read from the script. We were the play. It was all up to us, a group who had never met before, to create something from nothing. The mimes were actors who couldn't think for themselves but would do anything we asked. The next hour and half was absurd and silly and serious and amazing amounts of fun. We ended up putting one of the hats on trial after engaging in battle with an army of zombie lions who had attmpted to follow us onto our ark and had to be killed by Amelia Earhart who was carrying a silver spike. The trial ended in conviction for the hat (A black bowler) and we all parted ways.
After the show I met the creators, an American couple from LA. We talked Southern California talk for a while. My accent got muddled. It was their first performance and they felt it had gone really well. She was a director and he an actor. They were both doing degrees in the UK and were interested in my script, so I told them I'd email over a copy. There's a spot open at the Forest for a reading. We could do it. It could work. That's the way things are here. "You've written a play? What's it about? Oh yeah? Well I'm an award-winning actor and my fiancee here who's part Australian part Werewolf is a director. We have access to a space in London. And there's Jeff! Yeah, Hi Jeff. This is Franchesca. She's written a play. You want to fund it? That's great! Alright, auditions next week? Fantastic. And Sam? I know you're making sandwiches today...yeah...would you write us a press release? Cheers." And so on.
Anyway, I caught the second half of The Lime Tree Bower by Conner MacPherson around 6 which I hadn't been able to stay for a few days previously. Slept through the first half because I'd only got about 4 hours sleep the night before, then watched the second bit. It was very good. Chatted with the actors afterwards, then headed across the street with James, one of the volunteers from the Forest who does tech and sells cookies, who had invited me to see Odyssey at Bedlam Theatre. Bedlam is the converted Gothic church which serves as the theatre space of Edinburgh University. Go figure. It's fantastic. About 90 seats. Small enough to be intimate but large enough and well-equipped enough to be really professional.
The show completely blew me away. If you ever get the chance to see anything done by this company - do so. Offensive Shadows. They are fantastic. The dialogue was fast-paced and perfectly delivered. Sharp, witty, unpretentious, multi-layered. The actors were all ridiculously talented. The piece was full of physical interludes. Harsh, jagged dances mirroring the ongoing story, the relationships, the backdrop. The set was minimal and the lights were perfect. Nothing over the top, just enough the create beautiful, separate environments and moments. The whole show was urgent, immediate, in-your-face kind of stuff. I loved it. There was nothing I could say afterwards aside from "That was f-ing amazing."
Unfortunately they had a fast changeover for the next show so I was unable to stay and talk to the actors. The lead was also the writer, which I didn't know at the time. It was the sort of piece that really stays with you long after you've left the place. It haunted my thoughts for the rest of the night. It made me think. Theatre rarely does that, even though that's ideally what it should always do. They expressed their desire as a company to brush aside the mess of mediocre theatre that plagues so many stages today and they have done so admirably. I couldn't thank James enough for persuading me to go.
Getting home was a pain in the arse as it had been pissing down with rain all day and nightfall hadn't brought any respite. I finally made it back to Mick's flat soaked to the bone and was exceedingly grateful to change into something dry. Sleep came quickly and I dreamed of inexplicable things.
Today will be full of (hopefully) less rain and more beautiful theatrical experiences. I'm off to catch a bus to the Assembly at Aurora Nova for Lacrimosa, Song of the Goat's new piece, then swing dancing tonight with wild abandon from 7 to midnight. Another adventure.
Eat your porridge. It's made with love.
Lucy
Mick, my current Couchsurfing host, is improvising on the piano across the hall, and the two hitchhikers from Nottingham who arrived from Scandanavia (!) last night have gone out for groceries. Mark, my next stop, says he ("inadvertently") has 7 people staying with him tonight, so it looks like I'll be here for a little while longer. Song of The Goat performs at 2:30 today, for which I cannot wait. But yesterday...oh yesterday. I saw the most amazing show so far. A new piece written by Mark Quarterly, an undergrad at Durham University, called Odyssey. It has nothing to do with Homer aside from an educated joke explaining the names of the two main characters, Neoptolemus and Pyrrhus -- two names for the same classical charater: The Son of Achilles. They are twins.
I got to the show completely by chance through a new friend made at the Forest Cafe. And now we must pause in this anecdote.
A word on the Forest: It's a beautiful old building that has been completely adapted into a sort of modern/bohemian version of an 18th Century conversation-filled Salon. All the people who work there are volunteers who spend their time making delicious food while all over the room people curled on couches and in armchairs talk about anything and everything. Musicians play for free on the stage and people who wander in and out perform poetry on a whim. Upstiars there's a converted church which acts as a theatre venue. Free shows go on all day. Readings, experimental theatre, musicals, concerts -- anything. It is a haven. I could stay there all day.
So that's that. Anyway, yesterday morning I wandered in and found myself swept upstairs for a free show merely titled "The Thing." A group of us were ushered into this room full of chairs. Each chair had a hat on it. There were people dressed as traditional mimes standing in the corners of the room. There were signs that said things like "Games" "Costumes" "Guns Etc." There was a giant cardboard Tom Cruise. There was a script.
One of our number who was, inexplicably, already dressed in a tricorn and period clothing and carrying a birdcage, got up and read from the script. We were the play. It was all up to us, a group who had never met before, to create something from nothing. The mimes were actors who couldn't think for themselves but would do anything we asked. The next hour and half was absurd and silly and serious and amazing amounts of fun. We ended up putting one of the hats on trial after engaging in battle with an army of zombie lions who had attmpted to follow us onto our ark and had to be killed by Amelia Earhart who was carrying a silver spike. The trial ended in conviction for the hat (A black bowler) and we all parted ways.After the show I met the creators, an American couple from LA. We talked Southern California talk for a while. My accent got muddled. It was their first performance and they felt it had gone really well. She was a director and he an actor. They were both doing degrees in the UK and were interested in my script, so I told them I'd email over a copy. There's a spot open at the Forest for a reading. We could do it. It could work. That's the way things are here. "You've written a play? What's it about? Oh yeah? Well I'm an award-winning actor and my fiancee here who's part Australian part Werewolf is a director. We have access to a space in London. And there's Jeff! Yeah, Hi Jeff. This is Franchesca. She's written a play. You want to fund it? That's great! Alright, auditions next week? Fantastic. And Sam? I know you're making sandwiches today...yeah...would you write us a press release? Cheers." And so on.
Anyway, I caught the second half of The Lime Tree Bower by Conner MacPherson around 6 which I hadn't been able to stay for a few days previously. Slept through the first half because I'd only got about 4 hours sleep the night before, then watched the second bit. It was very good. Chatted with the actors afterwards, then headed across the street with James, one of the volunteers from the Forest who does tech and sells cookies, who had invited me to see Odyssey at Bedlam Theatre. Bedlam is the converted Gothic church which serves as the theatre space of Edinburgh University. Go figure. It's fantastic. About 90 seats. Small enough to be intimate but large enough and well-equipped enough to be really professional.
The show completely blew me away. If you ever get the chance to see anything done by this company - do so. Offensive Shadows. They are fantastic. The dialogue was fast-paced and perfectly delivered. Sharp, witty, unpretentious, multi-layered. The actors were all ridiculously talented. The piece was full of physical interludes. Harsh, jagged dances mirroring the ongoing story, the relationships, the backdrop. The set was minimal and the lights were perfect. Nothing over the top, just enough the create beautiful, separate environments and moments. The whole show was urgent, immediate, in-your-face kind of stuff. I loved it. There was nothing I could say afterwards aside from "That was f-ing amazing."
Unfortunately they had a fast changeover for the next show so I was unable to stay and talk to the actors. The lead was also the writer, which I didn't know at the time. It was the sort of piece that really stays with you long after you've left the place. It haunted my thoughts for the rest of the night. It made me think. Theatre rarely does that, even though that's ideally what it should always do. They expressed their desire as a company to brush aside the mess of mediocre theatre that plagues so many stages today and they have done so admirably. I couldn't thank James enough for persuading me to go.
Getting home was a pain in the arse as it had been pissing down with rain all day and nightfall hadn't brought any respite. I finally made it back to Mick's flat soaked to the bone and was exceedingly grateful to change into something dry. Sleep came quickly and I dreamed of inexplicable things.
Today will be full of (hopefully) less rain and more beautiful theatrical experiences. I'm off to catch a bus to the Assembly at Aurora Nova for Lacrimosa, Song of the Goat's new piece, then swing dancing tonight with wild abandon from 7 to midnight. Another adventure.
Eat your porridge. It's made with love.
Lucy
Friday, August 17, 2007
I'm Stopping This Silly Titular Pattern
This is turning out to be far more frequently updated than I thought it would. My apologies to all of you who thought this would be a suspenseful manner of following my escapades.
Violet, to clarify, is the first of many folks from The Couchsurfing Project who I'll be staying with. For all you travelers out there I highly recommend this site. It offers you the chance to really connect with local people and learn about the city you're in through their eyes. It's a cultural exchange as well as a free place to stay. Log on to http://couchsurfing.com/ to find out more.
My callouses are beginning to flake into small pieces. This is always a sad time for a tall ship sailor away from home a) because it promises untold pain for about 48 hours when one returns
to the sea and must regrow them and b) because it's also like severing a connection with home. I was struck with awful home sickness last night -- not for on-land home, but for brig home. I thought of family camp and sailing into the sunset and sleeping on deck in the sun during transit and I grew sad. Apparently there are some tall ships in Southern England, so I'm hoping to get my fix once I'm over there, though it's not the same as enjoying the company of the lovely folks aboard the Lady. So if any of you happen to end up here, know that I miss you and wish you were in Edinburgh with me.
to the sea and must regrow them and b) because it's also like severing a connection with home. I was struck with awful home sickness last night -- not for on-land home, but for brig home. I thought of family camp and sailing into the sunset and sleeping on deck in the sun during transit and I grew sad. Apparently there are some tall ships in Southern England, so I'm hoping to get my fix once I'm over there, though it's not the same as enjoying the company of the lovely folks aboard the Lady. So if any of you happen to end up here, know that I miss you and wish you were in Edinburgh with me. Yesterday got started on a stressful note as I slept through my checkout time at the hostel and, after hastily stuffing all my earthly possessions haphazardly into my bag, was unable to find Violet Dalton's offices.
Violet, to clarify, is the first of many folks from The Couchsurfing Project who I'll be staying with. For all you travelers out there I highly recommend this site. It offers you the chance to really connect with local people and learn about the city you're in through their eyes. It's a cultural exchange as well as a free place to stay. Log on to http://couchsurfing.com/ to find out more. Luckily I searched Charlotte Square as well as Charlotte Street and found her at the National Trust Offices. She was very kind and allowed me to put my bag into her car for the day. We made an arrangement to meet up at 7:30 and then parted ways.
Since I'd had such a haphazard start to my day I made it as far as the Half-Price Hut and Ticket Tent, via Boots for a cheap meal, before collapsing on the grass and trying to organize my day. After about an hour I felt ready to face the afternoon. I bought a ticket to see Two Left Hands, a sketch comedy show done by a friend of a friend and her friend, then headed over a few blocks to check out some of the stand-up being delivered through the Free Fringe.
The Free Fringe is a movement to bring comedy to the Fringe Fest without high ticket prices, or any ticket prices at all for that matter. I highly commend all the comedians I saw at the Mercat Bar. They were courageous and amusing and obviously just doing it for the love of the thing. I stayed for a show and a half, convinced all the comedians that I was a reviewer simply because my journal and pen were on the table, then had to run like mad for the Rocket to see Two Left Hands.
My journey was not a successful one. I made it to the Rocket already late before realizing that the show was actually at the Pleasance Courtyard, which turned out to be a few blocks away. Then from the Courtyard I found out that the real venue was another block away at the Pleasance Baby Grand. So off I went, now 15 minutes late. The show was being held in a storage container, of all places, and the ticket-taker said they weren't too fond of late-comers, but that he could sneak me in during a break in the sketches. Luckily right as we reached the door a sketch ended, and I was hurled into a small, dark space full of people. Claustrophobia aside, the show was marvellous. I introduced myself to Leila afterwards and, although we both had to dash away to other obligations, agreed to meet for a drink or something in the future.
I then toddled back to the Rocket for AINE...(tigone), a production of Antigone set during the troubles in Ireland. The Cafe downstairs, Angel's, was packed with American teenagers. Apparently all from Southern California and all talking senselessly with sentences full of "like's" and "whatever's," they were like a flock of very loud, obnoxious birds. I tried to exude English vibes as I tucked myself into a corner and devoured a blueberry muffin.
The show, I'm sorry to say, was awful. The reason for the American teenagers downstairs became apparent when I found out that the show was, in fact, being done by an American Teenager Theater Group. Would you imagine that? And what's more, they were from Los Angeles. And they were all doing terrible Irish accents.
Jessie Cornwell remarked that the Stanford Shakespeare Society was going to get slaughtered doing their show on the Fringe because they're in the UK. This is a similar phenomenon. Don't do your amateur Greek play at the Festival of Epidaros. Don't take your badly-trained student actors to muddle incomprehensibly through what is probably a very good and interesting adaptation in awful accents to people who actually know how they're supposed to sound. Needless to say, the UK portion of the audience reacted quite differently from the American section. After the show a gaggle of Scots girls exploded onto the sidewalk beside me and burst into fits of laughter, unable to believe the quality of the acting and dialects.
And that's the thing. It's not just about doing the right accent -- though, in my book, if you can't do the accent right you shouldn't be doing it at all and chances are even if you're doing a good job acting nobody will notice because of how you sound -- it's about doing the right acting. These kids had a long way to go on that front, though good on them for coming all the way out here to do it. Albeit badly. Anyway, I was disappointed, but not all shows can be fantastic. That's just the way things go.
Violet and I returned to her flat via Arthur's Seat, which is moments away from Princes Street, 
but looks as if it's in the middle of wild countryside. The peak is 823 feet tall and sits within Holyrood Park. It was formed by a now-extinct volcano and then eroded by a passing glacier. I'm planning to hike up it before I leave the city. You can also drive up the side of it, which we did. As we rounded the cliffs the sun was lancing through the clouds on its way towards the horizon, striking all the rocks with a beautiful orange glow. It was stunning.
but looks as if it's in the middle of wild countryside. The peak is 823 feet tall and sits within Holyrood Park. It was formed by a now-extinct volcano and then eroded by a passing glacier. I'm planning to hike up it before I leave the city. You can also drive up the side of it, which we did. As we rounded the cliffs the sun was lancing through the clouds on its way towards the horizon, striking all the rocks with a beautiful orange glow. It was stunning. Violet's flat overlooks the river as it runs into the North Sea, currently at low tide exposing rocky shores and several tide pools. It's full of beautiful colors and nooky rooms and a cat, which is a nice change. She's been hosting counchsurfers non-stop for ages, and I commend her for it. We had a lovely dinner and sat about until about 12, then went to bed. I opted to sleep in and take this bus this morning, which was a good idea. I didn't properly wake until about 11. Fantastic.
My plans for the day include meeting Josh Cornwell, who's also staying in Edinburgh for the Festival, and Ben, one of the swing dancers I met at the Jive Aces concert. He's given me a few swing events to check out this Sunday, so it should be a grand day full of dancing for me.
And now, I'm feeling peckish. So it's into the shower and off to the cafe for a morning meal and then onto the bus and into the city for fun and games.
Hope everything is well with all you lovely people out there.
Lucy
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Welcome To The Madness That Is The Fringe
This morning I was awoken at the ungodly hour of 4am by the rumblings of my inner jet lag demon. Since breakfast at the hostel isn't served until 8am, what was I to do? I recalled the Fringe schedule booklet I'd picked up the night before and so, with my trusty map in hand and many different colored pens, I sat down to pick some shows to see for the day. Now, my understanding had been that the hefty pamphlet in my hand contained shows for the next week or so. My goodness was I ever wrong. Upon flipping through the pages, I realized that all 315 of them were full of shows playing ON WEDNESDAY. It completely boggled my mind. So I went through and circled everything that looked interesting, then went back and had to ruthlessly cull so I wouldn't be sitting in three separate venues at once. I grabbed tickets from the Fringe tent and set out on my adventure.
First: A production of Christopher Durang's Laughing Wild. I had rushed and rushed around the Royal Mile trying to find the venue and was terribly late, only to discover that it was an 11:15am, rather than 11am show. (This becomes a trend as time wears on, wait and see) The show itself was performed, to my surprise, by a Discordian theater company.
For those of you not familiar with this text, kindly look it up. And ask me to hand you a Pope Card next time we meet. The show itself was underwhelming, funny in parts, but a bit off. I dicovered that this was because the actor/company team (a man and a woman) were not quite clear on the subject of reality. Still, they had a good message, and for that I give them good wishes.
Next: A dash to The Underbelly (An awesome venue under a bridge) for The Leeds Tealights Comedy Revue. An undeservedly under-attended sketch show from five young men which was bloody fantastic. I hope their audiences grow over the course of the show. Highlights: Roxanne being performed by actors holding a) Rocks b) Sand c) A Red Lightbulb -- with electricity! and d) A Sword and Shield (See: Knight aka Night). Perhaps you needed to be there.
A bit of a repite for lunch. Had the most delicious sausage and mash at the Castle Tower Pub. Just the right thing for a hungry theatre-goer.
Then! One of many highlights of today: Bouncy Castle MacBeth (From the company who brought you Bouncy Castle Hamlet!) This was quite possibly the most innovative and completely bizarre production of the Bard I have ever seen. I don't really need to explain more, as the title says it all. But I should add that the inflatable Birnam Wood (Made of Palm Trees -- classy) was fabulous, as were the inflatable cactus, inflatable swords, and, in the most extreme case, inflateable Banquo! From the moment they inflated the entire contraption at curtain to its dramatic collapse at the end, I was laughing. It was too absurd.
While there, I spoke with a whole load of folks in shirts reading "The Matrix: The Pantomime!" I'd passed them earlier in the High Street and had immediately written down the show as a must-see.
For those of you reading this who are unfamiliar with the Pantomime (It's a British thing) it's a tradition over here involving a variety of fairy tales which are all adapted to more or less the same story line, a Dame Bloke in a dress. Excuse me, many dresses. Many outrageous dresses.)(See:, and a lot of audience participation (See: Shouting). So the next time someone shouts "Hello Boys and Girls!" at you at deafening volume, be prepared for a good time.
I had just enough time to catch the Panto before the swing concert I was already booked for. So off to the Fringe Office to buy a ticket. I got in line at 6:15, the show was at 7. By 7:55 I had finally made it through the line and was racing towards the Underbelly, listed on my handy, and now very well-loved (See: Mostly destroyed) map. I skidded in only to realize that the venue was on top of the bridge, whilst I was below it. So UP THE STAIRS! I charged up six flights and emerged onto the bridge. After a few false starts in the wrong direction -- it was now a few minutes after 7 -- I fianlly got to the right place. It was 10 after. I was sure it was too late. However, this time, the show was not at 7:30 instead of 7, but had been held up by some glitch, and I thankfully joined the full que of people waiting to get in. The show was pretty fantastic. Corny, full of bad puns, a few songs, silly costumes, and some really horrible American accents. References were well-placed and sometimes agonizingly set up. One of my favorites: (As Morpheus, Trinity, Cypher, and Neo sit down to eat soup for no apparent reason) Neo: Yeah, this is quite good. But why are we all eating it with forks? Morpheus: Because there are no spoons, Neo.
Imagine awful jokes like that for an hour. Oh yes, it was grand. And I sincerely mean that.
Luckily I had grabbed some sort of baconey cheese thing in pastry before going in, because I had to rush back to the hostel, shower, clean up, and run to clubWEST to see The Jive Aces, Britain's top Swing band. And the rush was worth it in every way possible. The only alarming element of the evening was that the band attributed their seemingly endless supply of energy (Which was impressive) to L. Ron Hubbard. I'd never heard of Scientology Swing before, but they were damn good. So I'm willing to overlook that discrepancy. I met some amazing dancers (Apparently there's an active swing scene in Edinburgh) and one of them -- who lived in Santa Barbara for six months, small world -- gave me his email so I could hear about any other upcoming events. We danced from 9:30 to midnight and had a total blast. If it wasn't their last night I'd definitely go again. It felt great to be back on the dance floor.
So here I am, exaughsted and happy, definitely not going to be suffering from jet lag tomorrow morning, and ready to move onto my next adventure -- meeting Violet Dalton, my host for the next two nights! I'm dropping bags with her tomorrow morning and will be on my own for the day before meeting her again at 6 when she gets off work. Very excited. (Have become Welsh.) Well, not really. My accent's getting all Scottish though, so that's fun. So yeh! Writing postcards like a fiend, but haven't had any time for stamps. Rectify that soon enough so most of you can expect post. Tomorrow is another day full of shows to see and places to explore.
Till the next carrier pidgeon brings me more 20p bits,
Lucy
First: A production of Christopher Durang's Laughing Wild. I had rushed and rushed around the Royal Mile trying to find the venue and was terribly late, only to discover that it was an 11:15am, rather than 11am show. (This becomes a trend as time wears on, wait and see) The show itself was performed, to my surprise, by a Discordian theater company.
For those of you not familiar with this text, kindly look it up. And ask me to hand you a Pope Card next time we meet. The show itself was underwhelming, funny in parts, but a bit off. I dicovered that this was because the actor/company team (a man and a woman) were not quite clear on the subject of reality. Still, they had a good message, and for that I give them good wishes. Next: A dash to The Underbelly (An awesome venue under a bridge) for The Leeds Tealights Comedy Revue. An undeservedly under-attended sketch show from five young men which was bloody fantastic. I hope their audiences grow over the course of the show. Highlights: Roxanne being performed by actors holding a) Rocks b) Sand c) A Red Lightbulb -- with electricity! and d) A Sword and Shield (See: Knight aka Night). Perhaps you needed to be there.
A bit of a repite for lunch. Had the most delicious sausage and mash at the Castle Tower Pub. Just the right thing for a hungry theatre-goer.
Then! One of many highlights of today: Bouncy Castle MacBeth (From the company who brought you Bouncy Castle Hamlet!) This was quite possibly the most innovative and completely bizarre production of the Bard I have ever seen. I don't really need to explain more, as the title says it all. But I should add that the inflatable Birnam Wood (Made of Palm Trees -- classy) was fabulous, as were the inflatable cactus, inflatable swords, and, in the most extreme case, inflateable Banquo! From the moment they inflated the entire contraption at curtain to its dramatic collapse at the end, I was laughing. It was too absurd.
While there, I spoke with a whole load of folks in shirts reading "The Matrix: The Pantomime!" I'd passed them earlier in the High Street and had immediately written down the show as a must-see.
For those of you reading this who are unfamiliar with the Pantomime (It's a British thing) it's a tradition over here involving a variety of fairy tales which are all adapted to more or less the same story line, a Dame Bloke in a dress. Excuse me, many dresses. Many outrageous dresses.)(See:, and a lot of audience participation (See: Shouting). So the next time someone shouts "Hello Boys and Girls!" at you at deafening volume, be prepared for a good time. I had just enough time to catch the Panto before the swing concert I was already booked for. So off to the Fringe Office to buy a ticket. I got in line at 6:15, the show was at 7. By 7:55 I had finally made it through the line and was racing towards the Underbelly, listed on my handy, and now very well-loved (See: Mostly destroyed) map. I skidded in only to realize that the venue was on top of the bridge, whilst I was below it. So UP THE STAIRS! I charged up six flights and emerged onto the bridge. After a few false starts in the wrong direction -- it was now a few minutes after 7 -- I fianlly got to the right place. It was 10 after. I was sure it was too late. However, this time, the show was not at 7:30 instead of 7, but had been held up by some glitch, and I thankfully joined the full que of people waiting to get in. The show was pretty fantastic. Corny, full of bad puns, a few songs, silly costumes, and some really horrible American accents. References were well-placed and sometimes agonizingly set up. One of my favorites: (As Morpheus, Trinity, Cypher, and Neo sit down to eat soup for no apparent reason) Neo: Yeah, this is quite good. But why are we all eating it with forks? Morpheus: Because there are no spoons, Neo.
Imagine awful jokes like that for an hour. Oh yes, it was grand. And I sincerely mean that.
Luckily I had grabbed some sort of baconey cheese thing in pastry before going in, because I had to rush back to the hostel, shower, clean up, and run to clubWEST to see The Jive Aces, Britain's top Swing band. And the rush was worth it in every way possible. The only alarming element of the evening was that the band attributed their seemingly endless supply of energy (Which was impressive) to L. Ron Hubbard. I'd never heard of Scientology Swing before, but they were damn good. So I'm willing to overlook that discrepancy. I met some amazing dancers (Apparently there's an active swing scene in Edinburgh) and one of them -- who lived in Santa Barbara for six months, small world -- gave me his email so I could hear about any other upcoming events. We danced from 9:30 to midnight and had a total blast. If it wasn't their last night I'd definitely go again. It felt great to be back on the dance floor.
So here I am, exaughsted and happy, definitely not going to be suffering from jet lag tomorrow morning, and ready to move onto my next adventure -- meeting Violet Dalton, my host for the next two nights! I'm dropping bags with her tomorrow morning and will be on my own for the day before meeting her again at 6 when she gets off work. Very excited. (Have become Welsh.) Well, not really. My accent's getting all Scottish though, so that's fun. So yeh! Writing postcards like a fiend, but haven't had any time for stamps. Rectify that soon enough so most of you can expect post. Tomorrow is another day full of shows to see and places to explore.
Till the next carrier pidgeon brings me more 20p bits,
Lucy
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Welcome To The Wet Hair That Is My First Day in Edinburgh
My nine hour flight from LAX to Dublin went smoothly on an aircraft that was sadly devoid of personal TV screens, but very full of foldable headrests, which are probably the greatest air travel comfort invention since the reclining chair. I watched Shrek 3, which was noteable only for its use of the Lady Washington as a model for the ship featured and Nick Williams as a model for the Captain. I must admit the blocks were very familiar. Unfortunately I only got about a half hour of something resembling sleep during my truncated nighttime. It was unnerving to see the sun go down at 8am and rise again at midnight, but that's what you get for traveling clockwise around the globe.
Once in Ireland, my European journey began with the following passport control officer saying "Welcome to Ireland! And how long will you be staying with us, Lucy?" I responded, truthfully, only a matter of hours as I had a plane to catch to Scotland. "Well, be like that then" he retorted with a smile. I am so unused to airport workers who actually behave like real people it caught me quite off-guard. I proceeded to my gate and fell fast asleep on the bench for an hour -- a much-needed rest. The flight to Edinburgh was over almost as soon as we'd taken off. Ireland was beautiful from the air. So flat it looked as if someone had painted it straight onto the glassy surface of the ocean. The surrounding islands brooding like sleeping behemoths shrouded in fog. I'm looking forward to coming back with time to really explore.
Once in Edinburgh I found my way to the Caledonian Backpacker's Hostel -- an amazing building full of murals and interesting people. I'm sharing a room with at least 24 other folks for the next two nights, then beginning my couchsurfing odyssey. Went out into the city and retrieved tickets for the shows I'm going to see, so full reports on those as they come in.
Nostalgia has relinquished its grip on my spirit and all I can think of is the adventure ahead. All that matters is being here, now, in the midst of a bustling city full of theatre, art, music, and comedy. However, my time on the machine grows short as I am out of twenty p bits to feed it with. So until next time, when I'll be even more deeply emeshed in the culture of the fringe, remember that even if your cereal gets soggy you can still eat it with a spoon.
I have no idea what that means either.
Cheers!
Lucy
Once in Ireland, my European journey began with the following passport control officer saying "Welcome to Ireland! And how long will you be staying with us, Lucy?" I responded, truthfully, only a matter of hours as I had a plane to catch to Scotland. "Well, be like that then" he retorted with a smile. I am so unused to airport workers who actually behave like real people it caught me quite off-guard. I proceeded to my gate and fell fast asleep on the bench for an hour -- a much-needed rest. The flight to Edinburgh was over almost as soon as we'd taken off. Ireland was beautiful from the air. So flat it looked as if someone had painted it straight onto the glassy surface of the ocean. The surrounding islands brooding like sleeping behemoths shrouded in fog. I'm looking forward to coming back with time to really explore.
Once in Edinburgh I found my way to the Caledonian Backpacker's Hostel -- an amazing building full of murals and interesting people. I'm sharing a room with at least 24 other folks for the next two nights, then beginning my couchsurfing odyssey. Went out into the city and retrieved tickets for the shows I'm going to see, so full reports on those as they come in.
Nostalgia has relinquished its grip on my spirit and all I can think of is the adventure ahead. All that matters is being here, now, in the midst of a bustling city full of theatre, art, music, and comedy. However, my time on the machine grows short as I am out of twenty p bits to feed it with. So until next time, when I'll be even more deeply emeshed in the culture of the fringe, remember that even if your cereal gets soggy you can still eat it with a spoon.
I have no idea what that means either.
Cheers!
Lucy
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Welcome to the chaos that is my backpack.
Well, here we are.
At the behest of a close friend I've started this blog in an effort to keep all and sundry aware of my doings over the next six months. I've had precious little time between tall ship sailing, packing, and organizing to see all the people I'd like to see in Ojai and the surrounding countryside prior to leaving, but perhaps this will make partial amends. For anyone who wishes to receive postcards and other exciting foreign paraphernalia, feel free to leave a mailing address. It will be included in the next outpouring. I'm currently up to my eyeballs in Things To Do Before I Leave, a daunting noun to say the least.
To bring those unaware of my plans up to speed: I have recently returned from two weeks aboard the beautiful tall ship Lady Washington, love of my life that she is, sailing through the San Juan Islands with a band of beautiful compatriots -- sailors and guests alike -- and am now back home preparing for the following madness. I will be flying out of LAX tomorrow morning and landing in Edinburgh, Scotland on Tuesday the 14th -- smack dab in the midst of the Edinburgh Festival and Fringe Festival. I'll be there for the remainder of the month enjoying theatre, dance, prose, poetry, art, film, and general debauchery, then moving into northern Scotland, down to Ireland, over to London (briefly), then scooting out to Berlin. From there my plans get hazy, but they involve Greece, Italy, France, and Luxembourg (!) in quick order. There may also be a detour to Israel in October, but that remains to be seen at this point. By December I'll be fairly stationary in England and will remain there until January, when I head to the University of Salamanca in Spain for a 10 week course in Spanish Language. I suppose, after that's all done, I'll come home.
Possibly.
Internet may be scarce at times and fees may be exorbitant, but I will try my hardest to update this as frequently as possible with the latest on my adventures. They promise to be quite something. Photos will also make their way here once my camera has arrived in a few weeks.
I am also accepting quests, as they make the traveling much more exciting. These can range from getting a photo of a monument or building you've always wished to see, to delivering cookies to an estranged loved one or long-lost relative. No task is too absurd. It gives me something (fairly) constructive to do with my time.
So that, I suppose, is that. Any contact from home will appreciated and enjoyed, either through comments here, emails, boxes of candy, letters, small animals, etc etc etc. The most reliable way for things to reach me by mail will be to send them to my house, where my parents will be the most well-informed about where I can collect mail from next. Just address the envelope to me at 727 s. La Luna ave. Ojai, CA 93023 and all should be well.
And now the cavernous mouth of my backpack opens wide like the very jaws of Beelzebub, enticing me to pour my belongings into its maw and begin the process of taking everything I own into the world on my shoulders. See also: Packing.
Until next time,
Lucy
At the behest of a close friend I've started this blog in an effort to keep all and sundry aware of my doings over the next six months. I've had precious little time between tall ship sailing, packing, and organizing to see all the people I'd like to see in Ojai and the surrounding countryside prior to leaving, but perhaps this will make partial amends. For anyone who wishes to receive postcards and other exciting foreign paraphernalia, feel free to leave a mailing address. It will be included in the next outpouring. I'm currently up to my eyeballs in Things To Do Before I Leave, a daunting noun to say the least.
To bring those unaware of my plans up to speed: I have recently returned from two weeks aboard the beautiful tall ship Lady Washington, love of my life that she is, sailing through the San Juan Islands with a band of beautiful compatriots -- sailors and guests alike -- and am now back home preparing for the following madness. I will be flying out of LAX tomorrow morning and landing in Edinburgh, Scotland on Tuesday the 14th -- smack dab in the midst of the Edinburgh Festival and Fringe Festival. I'll be there for the remainder of the month enjoying theatre, dance, prose, poetry, art, film, and general debauchery, then moving into northern Scotland, down to Ireland, over to London (briefly), then scooting out to Berlin. From there my plans get hazy, but they involve Greece, Italy, France, and Luxembourg (!) in quick order. There may also be a detour to Israel in October, but that remains to be seen at this point. By December I'll be fairly stationary in England and will remain there until January, when I head to the University of Salamanca in Spain for a 10 week course in Spanish Language. I suppose, after that's all done, I'll come home.
Possibly.
Internet may be scarce at times and fees may be exorbitant, but I will try my hardest to update this as frequently as possible with the latest on my adventures. They promise to be quite something. Photos will also make their way here once my camera has arrived in a few weeks.
I am also accepting quests, as they make the traveling much more exciting. These can range from getting a photo of a monument or building you've always wished to see, to delivering cookies to an estranged loved one or long-lost relative. No task is too absurd. It gives me something (fairly) constructive to do with my time.
So that, I suppose, is that. Any contact from home will appreciated and enjoyed, either through comments here, emails, boxes of candy, letters, small animals, etc etc etc. The most reliable way for things to reach me by mail will be to send them to my house, where my parents will be the most well-informed about where I can collect mail from next. Just address the envelope to me at 727 s. La Luna ave. Ojai, CA 93023 and all should be well.
And now the cavernous mouth of my backpack opens wide like the very jaws of Beelzebub, enticing me to pour my belongings into its maw and begin the process of taking everything I own into the world on my shoulders. See also: Packing.
Until next time,
Lucy
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