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