Happy Thanksgiving, America! We had a lovely Thanksgiving here in Scotland. Sam did the holiday right with a turkey and full trimmings. I uncorked the wine. A nice time was had by all, in particular Penny, who has enjoyed the random bits of food which fell on the ground with great enthusiasm. In all seriousness, we miss you all, but you should know that we had a lovely time ‘representing’ the United States in grand form in spite of our rather modest means.

On Sunday, we ventured to Edinburgh, our first trip there together, and my first trip there in nearly fifteen years. The last time was my first visit to the UK. This trip was lovely though it was a chilly day, in the 30s with a touch of brisk wind, weather that chilled to the bone. Compared to Vermont or New Hampshire, this isn’t really all that cold, but here it is a very moist cold, a film of mist hanging over Glasgow and freezing the iron fence outside of our flat. Wet cold is cold indeed.


We went to Edinburgh Castle for St. Andrews Day. The castle had free admission in honour of the holiday and we had a nice time frolicking, or “storming” the castle, as Sam has been apt to say. There is the National War Museum of Scotland in the Castle as well as the regimental museum to the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards, two places we enjoyed greatly. Both are fitting museums to the illustrious and rather glorious history of Scotland’s contribution to the Union and Empire. Plus, in both, there are a multitude of portraits of burly men with fantastic moustaches. Sam enjoys this fact very much.

After wandering through the castle, we went to the pub, The Beehive, and I had a tremendous steak and ale pie, whilst Sam had fish and chips and mushy peas. We both came home with warm bellies full of British goodness.

Cheers,

Ian

Election Day Thoughts

What an exhilarating week! Sam and I missed being in the States for the election, well to some degree, though I’m safe in saying we didn’t miss the election season at all. We are fortunate to have a pretty bi-partisan group of friends and no doubt for each of you who are happy with the results of this contest; there are some, who are now mourning the loss. 2008 was an exceptional year with two exceptional people running. History was the real winner in this race.

This is not a political blog and I refuse to give my take on the candidates themselves. There’s enough of that on-line and my life is better lived without the rubbish of politics dominating my thoughts. However, I will give you my observations on our night.

We had a grand time staying up all night watching the returns. We popped over to the Student Union where there was an election party for students. It turned out to be a tremendous letdown and a bit younger of a crowd than we are used to rolling with. While waiting for a single malt in the bar line, for twenty minutes, I heard a long conversation from two men behind me about the sexuality of the Republican Vice-Presidential contender. It was not my sort of event. I knew we were in the wrong place when the bartender called me “Sir”.

We bagged-in the campus event and came home to watch the returns without the stench of idiocy around us. We put on the BBC and watched MSNBC live on our computer. Sam made snacks and we stayed up until 5:00 am (Midnight EST). This made our Wednesday a bit of a wash but it was worth it for such a historic moment. We simply couldn’t say, in fifty years, that we went to bed early rather than see this defining moment, irrespective of political persuasion. No cliché is apt to the change that will face our nation in coming months.

The Scots were very interested in this election. Even the conservative papers in England have given Obama high marks and McCain, and especially Palin, very low marks. I can’t tell you how many questions I have gotten about this election over here – ones that I was largely incapable of answering.

Perhaps the most moving moment, for me at least, came at 4:30 am on Wednesday morning. Senator Obama was the new President-Elect and we had watched McCain give his elegant concession speech. I took Penny out before we turned in. I put on her harness, pulled on my toggle coat outside of my pajamas, and we walked up the street to a small green nearby. In every townhouse on our street, there was at least one flat, with the lights on, the residents sitting up and watching the election night coverage of a foreign nation, live, all night long.

I have always known that the nation of my birth was a special place: indeed, I was raised with a certain sense of national pride. I have never been prouder of my nation that in the effect that this election, that this historic moment, had on people over here. You can detest the results of this contest and decry the new President all you want; however, a sense of hope transcended the Atlantic and was burning in the lights of living rooms of a cold, skeptical, nation. This is truly remarkable.

Congratulations America,

Ian

What ho world! A hip, hop, Happy Halloween to you all! Sam and I celebrated by eating spaghetti and pounds of Cadbury chocolate. Those of you with wee ones, I hope you had fun being cute with your children, and those without, I hope you had fun going to your adult themed Halloween parties, events that usually end with embarrassment caught on camera.

The seasons have changed here and we’re creeping (or slouching if I was feeling literary) toward the wintry doldrums of life on the Irish Sea. Sam and I have a small, portable and fake, coal fireplace that we light (plug in) before bed that manages to heat the bedroom. We’ve started calling it Bob after the Cratchit by the same name. The great thing about the new fangled electric fake coal is that we don’t have the shortage. Or the asphyxiation.

This week we had a big night out in Glasgow. I had a class on Spreadsheeting for Historians that was as lively and entertaining as it sounds. Then we popped out to a local pub for a pint of ale for our “big night out” this week. We went to a place called the Aragon, a small but clean establishment, and it would have been a good night had we not been accosted by a chatty, reasonably drunk, Glaswegian with a fondness for Americans, Coen Brothers films, and Philip Roth novels. We had a quick beer and left.

We went to my club, The Drones, for a bite and were in luck for it was Curry Night with a good special on food. Sam was pleased. Being a bit of a contrarian, I ordered pasta, as I didn’t want to follow the curry-indulged masses.

The election coverage over here has been very interesting. We’ve seen a lot of coverage on America and race. Every Yank they tend to interview comes from Texas, which isn’t the most representative state, but the sensationalized British press loves a stereotype, especially if it’s wearing a ten gallon hat. A post office clerk asked Sam the following: “Do you think America is really ready for a black president?” Needless to say it is pretty much all the Scots are talking about, or rather, all they are talking about to us.

That’s all for politics and all that rot. Most of you know my beliefs are increasingly cynical about all of that but we’re going to an all-night event at the Union to watch the returns. Its theme is “Americans go to the polls – we go to the pub.” Don’t worry – we sent in our ballots.

Talk to you soon,

Ian

Ps. For your information, I was called a Wee Man, by a wee man, to his friends, outside of the Botanic Gardens. He looked at me and Penny and said “Have you heard the one about the wee man and his wee dog.” That wee man almost got a wee glare from me.

What does one say about British Television? Sorry, Scottish television - my bad. Sam and I have been shopping for a “traditional” television for the last few days. Now one would think that a traditional TV means one that was made in the 50s. This is not the case over here: traditional means, instead, a television that is more than about 2 or 3 years old. They are all LCD mad over here and if you own a traditional TV, you are the most extreme form of loser. We are that extreme form of l.

We popped down the local electronics store and bought one for a reasonable price today from a nice chap in a cardigan named Philip. He did us proud and only slightly ripped us off. This is good because we were growing mighty tired of watching DVD’s on my 12-inch laptop screen every night.

So we have a TV and when the weather’s good, which never happens here, we can get 5 channels. When the weather is bad, we get maybe two. Right now we’re watching a program on obscure island life in Northern Scotland. Though some of you were probably wondering how “curry night” goes over in the only pub on a lonely northern wind swept island, we are not really that interested. Trust me, we’re huge fans of the obscure and boring British TV, so if we don’t like it, it isn’t interesting. Surely, it beats a program on cheese, but not by much. Penny is asleep with the occasional low grumble to let us know that she misses animal planet and her higher standard of living in the States.

Sam and I are ecstatically grateful, even for our show on Curry Night, to have a TV because the flat was getting a little quiet. There’s only so many hands of gin you can play before you want to consume your cards, on the rocks and nightly, to avoid the monotony of life without technological mind-numbery. We got our interweb hookup today so we’re officially back in business and able to post things. Thanks for being patient. We’ll be up with photos soon.

Sweeet - there’s now a program on Kenyan Elephants. I gotta go.

Cheers,

Ian

Love (or something) for Sale

I really don’t know how to feel about the fact that a prostitute solicited me last night. At least I think she was a prostitute, though come to think of it there was no discussion of the matter, so I can’t definitively say whether the label I am attaching to her employment is accurate. It isn’t like prostitutes wear a uniform or nametag or something. She might not have even been a full-time prostitute. Who knows.

Let me describe the situation and you can judge.

So self and doggie were out for a walk last night around 10 pm. I am usually afraid of going out after dark but Penny was being a fussy, so we decided to go for a stroll, to work out some aggression. Now, we don’t live in a bad neighborhood at all, but there is a commercial district nearby on the Great Western Road, a major thoroughfare here in the West End, that is full of mini-markets and small boutique shops.

So Penny and I rounded the corner, me in my Barbour jacket, scarf, and tweed cap, and Penny in her harness. As we approached the local Spar mini-market, I noticed a rather hardened woman dancing outside of the doorway with an eight pack of Super Tennants, and singing, quite literally, her own song to the beat of, I think, Madonna.

Penny paused and gave a snort indicating moral condemnation. I pulled her along and we began to walk around the woman giving her a wide berth. It was as we were passing, she said, “Fancy a honeymoon, Love,” to me and I scowled my scowl, the one I have reserved for these situations. Sam says that this is a look of absolute abhorrence. I don’t mean to scowl this way – it just happens – it’s my nature.

The woman then began to berate me in thick Glaswegian, words I didn’t understand except for the many powerful expletives, as I continued walking, rather briskly, up the street. Not running, mind you, but briskly shuffling. She didn’t follow me but I think she got the impression that whatever wares she was selling, I wasn’t buying. I sashayed home.

When I got home Sam asked me about my walk. I said, “Penny was a little fussy, she barked at a bicyclist, she peed, I got solicited by a prostitute, or at least I think she was a prostitute.” Sam thinks that yes, she probably was.

So I got that going for me.

Ian

The Romance of It All

So this whole no interweb thing is completely unacceptable! It means that I have to compose blogs the “old fashioned” way, the same way that works of literature were composed in the glorious 90s, in Microsoft word, at home, before walking to the library in the rain to post them on my blog. It makes one think how we all survived before home interweb access. Those who think we haven’t passed into a new completely different age, think again.

Actually, our existence is not dissimilar to when Sam and I first moved in together, in a small and ridiculously cleap flat in Shadyside, with our friend Adrian in 2000 after we graduated from college. We didn’t have the interweb then at home and we had to scrounge for furniture and homewares. Groceries always seemed like a luxury and I am convinced that I lived off grilled cheese for a year. However, I always found a way to drink single malt scotch, something that in Scotland I can’t afford to do. Oh, the irony!

Moving over here is similar in that we’re in the “Shadyside” part of Glasgow and are scrounging together a proper home as cheaply as we can. I suppose it is romantic to be price shopping for frozen peas. Romantic is what I keep telling myself. “Isn’t it romantic that we have to ration coffee” or “isn’t it romantic to not have a bathroom fan” or “boy, it is so romantic drying ones boxers with an iron.” Life’s what you make of it.

Saturday we ventured to Ikea, the universal cheap good store, for people who are putting together their lives. Not that our life is put together by any means: Ikea doesn’t come with group therapy but it is a nice play to find some throw rugs. Before we came to Scotland I thought that we were just approaching the “real” furniture phase of our relationship. My academic ambitions have unfortunately made us put off real furniture for another half a decade - at least.

Now to get to Ikea, without a car, is like making it to Mordor if you’re a ring bearing Hobbit. It simply can’t be done without hardship. From our flat, Ikea is almost exactly five miles away. To get there, and this is where it gets to be ridiculous, you can either take a taxi for about fifteen pounds (which amounts to about nine-hundred US dollars at the present rate of exchange), or you can take the Subway followed by the Bus.

When we looked at this process on the map, we thought it might take about forty-five minutes. Boy were we wrong. It took us two freaking hours to get to Ikea, which of course means, it took us two hours to get home. We spent three times as long traveling to Ikea as we did in Ikea itself. We also got to experience a long Glaswegian bus ride full of hooligans and some rather rough looking fourteen-year-old girls. It was a cultural experience. Sam thought it was great – I thought I was going to get stabbed. This is why “we” work.

The good news from all of this is that Sam has made a modest home out of what was originally a rather sad looking flat. We even have groceries and the means to make food, which simply amazes me at my wife’s resourcefulness. Penny is happy with her daily walks to the Botanic Gardens: she even likes the weather.

Oh, and Penny got a rather nice little compliment from a lady in Kelvingrove Park. She said that Penny was “one of those well-bred northern Westies – not like the manky southern Westies you see around here.” This is the kind of compliment every parent hopes for their dog.

Tootles,

Ian

Ps. Please pardon if I spelled the word “manky” wrong – it may very well be “mankey” but I am simply not sure of the spellings of some Scottish slang.

Jansport and I have been neglecting our duties on the Interweb! Truth to be told, I was composing a message for you all last Friday night, when my computer blew up. I haven’t the interweb to keep me company since. I am writing this, now, from the campus library, on a public keyboard, which makes me wince. Those who know me know of my great aversion to the public and their social diseases. Not those kind of social diseases – more like influenza and scabies. Those are the kind that make me scared of public computers.

So Jansport and I have been roughing it for a few days. On Saturday, I moved into our new flat, which is located in the heart of the West End of Glasgow. That means it is close to campus. It is a garden apartment, which means basement, but it has three large windows and a pretty back garden.

Living here reminds me of wartime Britain. Here me out. We haven’t a TV, internet, or a radio. Those who know me know I write in fountain pen. We have a washer but no dryer – this is the custom in the UK – laundry is aired instead. The heating system, like all British heating systems, is set up to provide heat during specific hours of the day, and not necessarily according to need. There is an old coal fireplace in the main room.

So picture me, sitting at the table, taking notes on a book written in the 1930s in fountain pen, drinking tea from a mug, teapot at my side, my socks on the radiator drying, and my clothes on the line out back. Throw in a ration book and an air-raid siren and I’d be all set. Truth to be told, I don’t mind the 40s, and I get some kind of strange satisfaction in having to iron my sheets dry. I told the Sam that our iron, from now on, should just be referred to as our dryer.

I’ve been collecting the whatnots that make a house a home. Like a kettle, set of pots and pans, and plates. For a couple of days, before my cook set arrived by post, I only had a single plastic spoon. I discovered that, although difficult, you could butter toast with the handle of a plastic spoon. Unfortunately, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich was too much, and Spoon buckled under the strain of spreading chunky peanut butter over wholemeal bread. I was a bit upset – it meant I had to stir my tea with a pen – but Jansport wasn’t. He didn’t like all the attention Spoon was getting.

In other news, my girls arrive on Thursday. This is extremely exciting and it will finally feel like we can all get started with our life over here. Also, for you all it will mean an additional voice on this post, making sure than I don’t go on about spoons and my backpack.

Cheers,

Ian