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

The winner this week is Bertie whose two picks were so obscure, but also so profoundly weird, that he deserves the post-card solely because he played a risky card. Robert Liston and James Syme were two of the great surgeons of their day - that day being the first half of the 19th century. Liston's skills with the knife have become the stuff of rumor and legend. What would have completed the trifecta of great early 19th century Scottish surgeons would be the inclusion of Sir James Young Simpson, who among other things, was the first man to introduce the medical properties of chloroform anesthesia. Not to mention Bertie's pick of Field Marshal Douglas Haig - Bertie, you get the postcard and are in the running for the special gift at the end of the year.

I am awarding a runner-up postcard this week for Carey Love who complemented my long dead, but beloved dog Bonnie. I literally grew up with Bonnie and when she died, 15 October 1995, it felt like I lost a dear friend. Carey you get a postcard for making me tear up, just a little, thinking of my beloved Scottish terrier. Please e-mail me your address.

However, I would be remiss if I didn’t applaud all of the entries for this week. James Boswell, mentioned by that famed author Anon., plays to a literary quirk of mine, a penchant for 18th century long-windedness. For those of you who have never read Life of Johnson you simply must dedicate two or three months of your life to reading it.

I was surprised and pleased with the inclusion of Mr. Lee, who’s rifle when handled by British troops at the Mons, made the opposing Germans think that they were being fired upon by machine guns and not by well-trained infantry carrying rifles. Good show Lucy!

Norah and Daniel gave pleasing answers in Ramsay MacDonald and David Livingston. In fact, Norah upstaged her father, though I will say in Daniel’s defense that political figures from the interwar period will ALWAYS be rewarded in my book. Rod Stewart was close but his smarminess was just too much to be rewarded. James Barrie is a classic Scot, but was outshone by Peter-The-Great, whose pick of Groundskeeper Willie was creative and especially funny because he doesn’t exist. Or does he . . . this is the postmodern question of our day.

Good work everyone. This week, we’re doing Questions to the Wee Minister: whoever asks the best question, gets the postcard, and the best answer.

Peace Out Homies,

Ian

There is only slight exaggeration when I say that registration nearly killed me. I lost sleep, my heartbeat was like that of a jackrabbit, and I ground my teeth to next to nothing nightly, gnashing away at my mouthguard like it was chewing gum. The end result is that I am registered, finally, and have moved into my palatial postgrad office at 1 University Gardens. This here is a photo of my new workspace.

The best part of registration was the queuing. I actually looked forward to it because I enjoy writing the word “queue” so much and I knew that if I had to suffer through a long queue, I would get to write the word queue, at least several times on my blog. Mission accomplished. Go team.

My first step was to go to the registry office, which is the British term for Registrar, to see if I could register in advance of my registration time. I waited in the information queue, marked “enquiries”, for about twenty minutes. This seemed to be the logical place to wait if you have an inquiry. Those around me had an emaciated pallor indicating that they were either zombies or students trying to navigate the Scottish bureaucracy. After a while I found out that the “enquiries” window on Thursday was only dealing with obscure tax issues. A nice lady told Jansport and I to take our form to the queue across the quad.

There were multiple queues’ to choose from. I picked one that looked friendly enough and I asked a strapping fellow “is this the queue for registration?” He nodded his head. Jansport and I settled in for a nice long wait.

Like the American Nazi in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, I chose poorly. About thirteen of us realized that we’d been waiting in the wrong queue for a half hour. The queue’s aren’t posted with any signs or the like so it’s sort of a trial and error thing to see if you’re in the right one – it’s like a game – but one where you always lose. So my new compatriots and I moseyed across the quad to what looked like, and was, the correct queue. You see we were in the pre-registration queue when we actually needed to be in the registration queue.

After twenty minutes of waiting outside in our new queue, we were allowed into the main registration facility, which is an open room with a line of chairs stretching as far as the eye can see. After I took my seat I got to participate in what can only been called “registration chair hopping.” Every one minute and fifteen seconds you get to get up from your chair, and shuffle down the line, and then sit back down in a new chair. Most of the time you only advanced a single chair or two. Once, I got to skip ahead six full seats. I loved that moment. At the end of the registration queue you are met by a friendly bureaucrat who stamps your form and directs you to the next queue for payment of fees, only to be followed by another queue, this one to get your ID Card.

I arrived at the registration office at 1:40. I left with my ID card at 4:10. It was fantastic. I never thought I would say this but I’ve had more efficient dealings with Penn Dot.

One more day until the end of this week’s postcard content. Submit your awesome Scot!

Ian

In June, I was told by my university to expect a “welcome pack” in coming weeks. What was in this pack? Who knows. What you may not know, dear reader, is that “coming weeks” is code in the UK for three to four months.

Long story short, when I left on 6 September, my welcome packet hadn’t arrived. Sam got it in Vermont last week. I should have known things would be like this, but one likes to be the optimist, even when dealing with ancient bureaucratic institutions. In said packet was my registration letter. Sam scanned and sent a copy to me here so I’m able to go to registration this week.

In the States it is much the same: universities create a bureaucracy so impenetrable it becomes discouraging, if not downright depressing, for the humble and idealistic student (such as Self, the martyr) who is just trying to get registered for class. There are layers and hoops and all of it designed to make things as difficult as possible. On top of this, my bank in the states still does personal banking with an abacus, so the five international calls I have made to their customer service helpline has led to me wallowing in the corner of my shower, shivering and crying.

It’s a mess – but we Isherwoods know how to stiff upper lip these things. Our coal-black Welsh blood gives us a higher tolerance for foibles than the average stock. Instead of getting riled up on a bureaucrat, we usually take our frustrations out on those whom we love and who just so happen to be around. Jansport is not a happy backpack.

However, I am coping as best I can and soothing my clerical frustrations with countless cups of Cadburys drinking chocolate and old episodes of Friends. The British LOVE friends. When I was last a student in the UK, way back in the 90s in the days of poor personal hygiene and crappy alt. bands, way back then, the British LOVED friends. Now they love Friends in syndication – the same episodes from 1998. It’s like I never left. Ross and Rachel, Chandler and Monica, and Phoebe, don’t even get me started on her. What will they get up to next!

On the upside, when I get my ID card (Thursday – well, hopefully) I can go to the library, and more importantly, join the Research Club, an establishment similar to the Drones Club, only with brighter people as members and without all the roll throwing. Or at least I hope this is the case.

Remember – post your Scot of Distinction! Only four days left!

Pip pip,

Ian

The Results:

This week’s postcard winner was Daniel with this question: “What is the latest you have been out alone in the evening due to your fear of hooligans and hooliganism?”

What makes this a winner? It is funny and it hits at a fundamental truth about Self and Glasgow. This town is full of hooligans and I’m deathly afraid of teenage hooligans especially at night, when their numbers swell, their voices become louder, their actions bolder. In conditions like these I become like Thomas Hobbes calling out for a central government to maintain order on the streets. Needless to say, I don’t like leaving the house in a hooligan infested area without an escort, preferably one with depth charges and torpedoes. No really – the kids here like to stab people with broken bottles. I have a big target practically stamped on my bespeckled face. So I think around 9:30 or so is the latest I have been out by myself.

Daniel will be sent a postcard tomorrow and is now in the running for a special gift at the end of the year. I love making this stuff up. Lucy, Tommy, and Bertie Wooster (anon)’s questions made me laugh out loud.

This is NOT to say that I didn’t appreciate, giggle, or grin at all of the questions posed. It means a lot to have communication from all of you on this site – really – because its good to know there are folks back home who are reading. Clearly you all get what this site is about: making fun of oneself and the culture in which I have chosen to live. Don’t worry – there’ll be plenty of chances for more postcards for your refrigerators. I'll try my best to come up with more awkward moments - you come up with questions and comments.

This week’s question: who, in your estimation, is the most interesting Scot? Obscurity will be rewarded; however, there is a pressing need for you to write a one-sentence justification for your interesting Scot of merit. So give a name and a brief explanation as to why this Scot is superb. “Interesting” is one of those lame words that is almost completely subjective. Post here or e-mail to iaisherwood@gmail.com.

Today was the nicest day in the history of Glasgow. It was sunny with wisps of white clouds overhead and a blazing 65 degrees outside. Of course, this being the most beautiful day on record in the history of Scotland, it was the one day that I forgot my camera before taking my daily constitutional.

The other significant thing today was that I found a flat and make my deposit tomorrow to confirm it in my name. It is a basement apartment with a private garden around back complete with a small tree. There are bay windows overlooking the garden, ample room for furniture (that I don’t have), and it is located literally next to the University. It is slightly bohemian and will be a lovely place for man, woman, and beast to live. I will post pictures once I move-in next month.

I officially register at the Uni this week and meet with folks in my department. The picure today is of the department itself - my workspace is on the second floor. This week there'll be plenty of opportunities for awkwardness and many chances for Wodehousian adventures as I attempt to navigate the bureaucracy of a Scottish University, which is deep, treacherous, and downright dangerous to the soul of man. I will post my foibles as they are bound to happen.

Cheers,

Ian

After my last post, when I derided American shopping malls, I decided today to pip on over to the Buchanan Street Gallery a mall in the City Center of Glasgow. Buchanan Street is closed to traffic. It is a market center smack in the commercial district of Glasgow, stretching four or five blocks, and lined with small shops, eateries, and pubs. It’s like a slightly crappier version of just about any town center/shopping area on the Continent, only without a mustachioed baker with the outrageous Continental accent. Here the bakers sound like Robert Carlyle.

The mall isn’t much: it is three small floors of shops catering largely to the teen and early twenties demographic. In the middle of it is a Boots. At first I was intimidated by the rather rough looking fourteen-year-old girls standing menacingly outside. I watched a show on female hooligan violence last night on one of the British cable channels and it has made me a little wary of getting a beat-down by a pack of teenagers. I gathered my courage and made past them as quickly as possible.

In Boots I bought two kinds of soap. I have become something of a germaphobe since arriving in this city and my Hughes-like hand washing, always a present part of my life but frequently in remission, has come out in full force as I have to touch lots of things in public. I’m exactly thirty-six hours away from touching everything with a tissue.

To get to Buchanan Street, you take the Subway (subway – not tube), which consists of two loops that go around the city. One is clockwise and the other is counterclockwise: it’s that simple. To contrast the simplicity and perfection of the Subway, the Glasgow bus network must have been designed by a toddler. Any logical person can’t possibly figure it out - defies all reason. I spent twenty minutes trying to figure out what buses took me where and I ended up throwing the map across the room and walking an hour in the rain to arrive at the desired location.



After procuring my soap from Boots and strolling a bit in the shopping district, I made my way back to the old homestead. Tonight I have a pint of real ale and a curry on my radar. I will let you know if there are any disastrous consequences.

I wanted to mention Real Ale as an unofficial endorsement by Wee Isherwood of CAMRA, a British organization determined to making us all better beer drinkers. CAMRA is an ugly and sloppy acronym for The Campaign for Real Ale. I won’t post their website, for that would be an official endorsement, but you can google the name and see what you think.

The British and Scottish palate for beers has changed in the last thirty or forty years and has gravitated toward a preference for Continental lager beers. Most of these are mass-produced big names like Carling, Stella Artois, and Carlsberg. They are rather expensive to buy here compared to some of the more famous bitters and stouts.

The mission of CAMRA is to reverse the trend and to get more Britons and Celts consuming real ale made with real ingredients: organic beer as a staple of the diet, how it was before things got all weird after WWII. In premise, I agree whole heartedly with this mission, as it helps small brewers get their products, often superior and much more interesting on the palate, to consumers who otherwise would be wary of drinking the warm and classic ales of yore.

One more day until this week’s postcard contest is finished: post your question in the comments section or e-mail me. The photos are of the Uni and the Kelvingrove Art Museum last night.

Ian

Jansport and I were talking last night and I realized something. Jansport said, “Sometimes you take a negative tone, Isherwood. I’m sorry to have to tell you this but it is rather off-putting, all of this sarcasm. It makes life rather tedious.” Dear readers, I don’t want this to be the case! Jansport and I have embarked on a true adventure here in Scotland and I don’t want you to think that I am not having a good time. I am having the BEST time a man can have talking to his backpack in a foreign country. The coolness of Scotland is found in the simple, subtle, but interesting differences between this country and the US.

Take Tesco, the British Supermarket, as a case in point. At Tesco there are three registers open and one central queue, which is of course a British word for “line” and one that is really fun to spell. Q-U-E-U-E. See how much fun! In the states we have ten lines with ten checkout people at Giant, but here they have one central queue with three tellers. It seems to make sense, though it makes for a longer line. One thing I don’t miss at all is the sudden flush of severe, disabling, anger in realizing that I’ve picked the slowest line in the whole supermarket. The central queue suits the British as they have what I believe to be a hereditary ability to wait in groups for service.

I am no Top Chef. This has been reconfirmed with each trip to Tesco. I don’t know what has happened to me, but without my wife, I am like a lost teenager walking around and buying random items that I think will eventually comprise a meal. I thought I was more self-sufficient that this, but it turns out I’m not, so I buy things like baked beans, digestive biscuits, and mustard. Later I wonder why I don’t have anything to eat. It’s kinda sad. Sam probably thinks it’s a little endearing too.

Anyway, here the hot cocoa (a dietary staple for me) is, of course, “drinking chocolate” and made by Cadbury’s. Is it terrific? Of course, and relatively cheap for the amount of exhilaration that this elixir induces. The pre-made meals at Tesco are pretty good – I have a couple of Scotch pies I’ll be eating later – and some of them look reasonable fresh. There are plenty of pre-made Indian dishes for relatively cheap and they cater to the British and Scottish love for Asian cooking. My flatmate told me that Indian food was the second food of the UK, and judging from the six curry shops in two blocks around me, this is indeed the case.

Here’s my point: so far the only shopping I have done here has been for sustenance. In the States, when we’re bored, we tend to go to the malls or look around shops for something to do, and this can eventually end up with a purchase of something we don’t need. I have been here for two weeks now and except for a book from the Oxfam shop on Byers Road, I haven’t bought a thing other than food. I haven’t even poked about the shops. I don’t have a flat yet, of course, but my point is, I think, that when a place is so fresh, the very act of walking and watching is entertainment enough. Sam and I haven’t lived in a “city” since we first graduated from college, now eight years distant. I think I forgot how interesting a city is to just absorb. And this makes me very grateful to be here.

Okay, no more sappytime. Keep the questions coming for this week’s postcard contest. You can e-mail them to iaisherwood@gmail.com, or post in the comment section. I think I’ll do this postcard thing weekly depending upon the interest of the crowd, so everyone will get a chance to win a “touch” of Scotland for their refrigerator.

Cheers,

Ian

Yesterday was a milestone day. First, I got my mobile set up. It is known as a “pay as you go” phone. We have these in the US but they’re mostly used by drug dealers and not by wee men in corduroy sport coats. Here, this is not the case. For those who wish to call, e-mail me and I will send you my secret number. After all, I am a blog celebrity and I don’t want the world to bother me on my mobile whilst I am gallivanting about town.

Another significant thing happened. Like in the US, here at the University of Glasgow local nightclubs and other event centers have promotions during “freshers” week, or the week of registration for first year students. So on a number of prominent street corners on campus, there were loud, brash, young people distributing any manner of things, like flyers, free cups of tea, sweatshirts, and the like as promotions to get other young people off to their clubs.

Nobody offered me anything. Students around were offering other students things but when they looked at me, they figured I was likely not the kind of fellow who went to nightclubs. One girl even withdrew a flyer she had already offered to me. For this, of course, I am thankful. However, I did find it a touch insulting. I mean, I look youngish, I think. I could pass as a fellow who liked to booty-shake the night away, right?

No, I think instead I look like the kind of person who was likely to ask someone whether they had a permit to distribute flyers. This is the simple nature of my maturation that manifests itself in an outward appearance of moral rigidity.

The other significant event yesterday was that I got thoroughly, completely, absolutely, soaked. I haven’t talked about the rain yet. This is surprising because it rains every day. I am not joking. There has only been one day I have been here when it didn’t rain for at least a few minutes. Today was an all-day annoying drizzle. The kind of rain that makes you feel silly for carrying an umbrella, but if you go for a long walk (as I did), you get soaked to the bone.

So if you visit, bring your wellies and a sturdy coat. Umbrellas, from what I’ve heard, are useless in the winter because of the wind. To combat the elements, like in Das Boot, I am thinking of growing a beard, which will likely come out lopsided on account of my diminished ability to grow hair on the right side of my face and head. I think its because I sleep on my right side, but it could also be because I’m right handed.

I thought we’d try something on Wee Isherwood for this weekend. I would like readers (all 5 of you) to send any question that they may have for me about all of this, for lack of a better word, stuff. I’ve been here for almost two weeks and the honeymoon is slowly wearing off. I don’t know what you want to hear about my Scottish adventure – so – if you post some questions I can try to answer them. ALL questions will be considered no matter how simplistic, mundane, silly, or just plain weird. Respond in the comments section to this posting so all can see. Those who prefer privacy, e-mail me. The better the question, the better my response. Whoever sends the BEST QUESTION, wins a postcard for their fridge from Scotland (oooohhhhh). I alone will judge.

Cheers,

Ian

ps. The picture is of a canon from Stirling Castle. I just thought it was cool.

Remember the Mike Myers skit “if it isn’t Scottish, it’s crap!” I know that my buddy Bilvox (who is now, mind you, is in the same single-name rockstar category as Prince), well Bilvox (or Bill then) and I used to go around with our fake Scottish accents and reenact that skit in the early nineties. Oh, the nineties! Those quaint days when SNL wasn’t really that funny but we thought it was, back when Bilvox and I cruised through Sewickley on our rollerblades, long hair flapping in the breeze coming up off the Ohio River, flannel shirts trailing, tied around our waists. What I wouldn’t give for some Soundgarden and my old Fender Stratocaster right now!

The point is that in my limited experience with Scotland, I can say from casual observation that the Scots LOVE Scotland. Mike Myers was right. To do something Scottish is to do it better than anyone else in the world. To the Scots, the people “down south”, meaning the English, do things completely differently. They even have their own types of tea (Scottish verses English blends), meat pies, and of course, differing thoughts on what makes a traditional breakfast.

The English traditional breakfast consists usually of eggs, toast, tea, bacon, sausage links, baked beans (sometimes), fried bread, and possibly mushrooms. As you can see, it was designed to make the old ticker do a double take first thing in the morning. How could you perfect it, right?

The Scottish breakfast is like the English version only on the roids. I suspect this is because the English version had to be topped. Likely this is because the English version wasn’t Scottish, and therefore it was Crap! Thus, the Scots invented the Barry Bonds of breakfasts.

The Full Scottish Breakfast consists of all – I said all - the trappings of an English breakfast but with the additions of black pudding, a larger sausage than the English variety and cut into a patty, potato cakes, and sometimes smoked haddock or kippers. Like the English version, there is an endless debate as to what is an authentic Scottish Breakfast. The only commonality between each version is the lethality of eating it. According to public health expert Witold Zatonski, as quoted in the Daily Record, “If you go to Scotland, the health indicators are miserable, particularly the west of Scotland and Glasgow . . . The traditional Scottish breakfast is a biological disaster. It is not healthy and, in fact, it's a lot worse than that."

That being said, I love the fact that I can go up the street and legally get something to eat that has been described as a biological disaster. There aren’t that many legal substances left that are legal biological disasters – maybe smoking – but that’s not as socially acceptable as bacon, sausage, and kippers. Well, maybe not the kippers. I think you’d be hard pressed to find that many substances that are as cheap as a traditional breakfast and as dangerous to ingest. Well, maybe drinking turpentine or something, but you know what I mean.

The bottom line is that after a week here, I actually don’t mind the food. I quite like it. Last night I hit up the local chippie for a fish supper. It was completely fried, doused in malt vinegar, and coated with salt. It literally left a film on my teeth. Today, after a breakfast of cheerios, I had a chicken pie for lunch with tea in the Botanic Gardens. What a glorious country, this Scotland, one where a man can get a meat pie for lunch and snack on it in public without a single chap thinking there is anything odd about a person supping on gravy filled, flaky goodness, while they are out for their daily constitutional.

In this past week, I have had two bacon sandwiches, two sausage rolls (fyi- the perfect food), bangers and mash, fish and chips, a meat pie or two, and the classic British student cuisine of beans on toast. Without my wife and pup, alone here in my room, I have completely destroyed the past six years of healthy eating in a single week. Another six or seven days of this and there could be disastrous biological consequences for Wee Isherwood, alone, missing his wife and pup, and eating like a West Highlander.

Mmmm . . . sausage roll.

Ian

I was not born to boogie. I proved that a few nights ago at a Scottish folk dance for international students that was akin to a Junior High dance. I awkwardly sat on the side, sipped my free drink, and boogied out early. I am not the social butterfly I once was (that was ironic – for those who don’t know I have little in common with a butterfly. I am closer to chickadee).

HOWEVER, today’s gander to the Glengoyne Distillery was something that I was born to do. The greenery, the water falling majestically through the crevices of the gentle rolling highland hills, and the sip sip sipping of a 10 year old single malt while learning about a drink that I have devoted much of my adult life to researching (ahem).

There are many things Scottish that I find a bit odd but whisky isn’t one of them. Glengoyne is a pretty, Scottish owned, distillery that to my knowledge doesn’t distribute directly to the states. The art of making whisky is deceptively simple (so said the guide) and by and large any person with a degree of ambition and a teensy bit of intellect could set up a still and make their own mash whisky provided that they didn’t mind the government beating down their door and arresting them.

Being a brewer’s son, it was interesting to see another alcoholic product being made and the similarities between the two processes. Of course the product is different, but the smell of the barley house, smelled like barley (obviously) and yeast, and the mash kettles for whisky are similar to those used in making beer.



Earlier today I went to Stirling Castle, which is a famous enough landmark in Scottish history, but it is also the home of the regimental museum of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders. They are a distinguished regiment with a long and heroic history of war honours. In the museum were artifacts from that history including a surgical set from the Crimean War by Weiss and Sons that is an EXACT copy of my surgical set on display at Gettysburg College Library. Of course, that is a totally dope coincidence for someone like me but probably doesn’t apply to any of you. Lets just say I had a moment.

So a pretty good day. Whisky, regiments, and surgical sets. Who knows what the future may hold for Wee Isherwood in Scotland (hopefully a flat – and soon!). Now I am watching Lord of the Rings in the UK. For some reason it feels like a good fit. Cheerio.

Ian

There were no trust falls today but orientation still made me feel awkward. In a room full of 200 international postgraduates, there was little mingling, and even less casual conversation about the pip pipping of the daily whatnot. No, if ever there was an unapproachable group we were it, filling that auditorium with the kind of earsplitting silence usually reserved for funerals or the coffee hour after service in the most dour of Presbyterian churches.

There was much thumb twiddling from yours truly. I never know where to look in these situations. Truly, I like to watch other people being awkward. It makes me feel better knowing that they feel that way and that I feel that way too. So I sometimes gaze out into a crowd. Often someone will notice my gazing and think that I am staring at them. Our eyes make contact and both jaws drop. Then I shy away, because I don’t want that person to think I’m the kind of fellow who goes about staring at people for no apparent reason. My reaction makes my staring even creepier.

Instead of staring at the other internationals I focused on studying the University Map, which I think is written in cartoon. It bears no real resemblance to a real map; one to scale that actually has the roads as they are in real life. No, it is like somebody got a third-grader to recite a map from memory for transcription by a person who has lost his short-term memory. The map doesn’t really work, it isn’t to scale, and I keep missing whole buildings because they are numbered and I continually have to flip the bloody thing over to read the key only then to realize I have walked three hundred yards in the wrong cardinal direction. Of course the problem may not be the map.

I love international students. I am proud to be in their number. As I sat there in my dorky windbreaker from Gap Kids and my Jansport (JANSPORT!) Backpack I fit right in. We all have party hearty stamped on our foreheads. Just don’t forget your drink ticket that entitles you to ONE free drink.

The other truly eventful thing today was that I ate lunch with Lord Lister. Okay, I ate a pre-made sandwich from Marks and Spencer with the statue of Lord Lister in Kelvingrove Park. Don't know who Lord Lister is? For shame! Google him now and give thanks to the gentle quaker baron for saving your life.

Ian

Coffee, Tea, or Instant Brutality

I can’t confirm this by any type of empirical data or quirky historical anecdote - but I think Instant Coffee was created to torture Americans. I am not sure which peoples invented the substance, those granules of absolute discontent, but whoever did had to know, positively, that this stuff could only be tolerably used as a weapon. If the Germans had instant coffee at Verdun they would have had no need for poison gas.

As I am spaceless, I have to rely on a kettle for my daily few cups of necessary caffeine. Designer coffee, although whimsical, has never been my thing and it is much too expensive over here to be a part of one’s routine. When it comes to the Joe, I am as average as a slice of Dutch apple pie.

Without “crockery” of my own I am subjected to having only a borrowed cup, kettle, and a spoon. Every morning I go to my dorm kitchen, say hello to the odd fellow staring at his toast in the corner who never responds, and I turn on the kettle. Then I stand there waiting for the water to boil, wondering whether the toast eater is looking at me, or whether his toast is sufficient enough to sustain his gaze when someone else is in the room. I don’t want to get in his business but if it were me, I’d have a hard time focusing on my toast with so much “action” going on over by the tea kettle. But I digress. . .

With such meager implements and surroundings I am left to drink Instant Coffee. This nation has worn my down. I prefer my morning jolt to be from the bean and not the weed, but the weed-drinking Peoples over here have converted me out of necessity. I am now an insurgent coffee drinker forced to imbibe in the weak, paltry, cuppa tea for sustenance. Scotland 1 Wee Isherwood 0

So far flathunting in a new city has been an adventure. Now, looking for a place to live is one of those universal frustrations. The contrarians among you will now say something like “actually, I rather like looking at all those different places.” That’s silly. Nobody likes uncertainty, except the truly perverse, and we all have an internal “den” impulse where we like the security afforded by our own space.

I am a spaceless man of late. Here’s a photo of my dorm room:




I know – gorgeous. It is a "holiday flat", which means dorm room in translation. Especially admire the duvet cover. Thankfully, though, I have had a place to keep my stuff for the last three days, a place with interweb access, where I can look for flats on-line and summarily be rejected by landlords because they don’t care for my dog Penny. How could anyone hate this gentle being? How could anyone reject this wee beast?




Yet she is flatly rejected without so much as a sniff or growl. For West Highlanders, the Glaswegians aren’t very welcoming to one of their own.

As for me, I am getting along in grand style. Orientation is this week (please be trust falls, please be trust falls) so I will have plenty of opportunities to be awkward with the other internationals. I will, of course, post any mishaps or follies. Cheerio!

Ian

The Isherwoods are a wee people. We know this. Often I have said to self, "Self, you are a wee man." The fact is I bought my windbreaker from Gap Kids a few years back and it fits me like a glove - a wee glove.

Being wee, accepting one's weeness, is one of those things that shows, truly, that I am a confident man. After all, there are lots of wee people who do some nasty things because they are compensating for their weeness, like start wars, or fights, or binge drink. No, accepting who one is may be one of those great lessons for short people everywhere.

Alas, I was wandering about my new town Glasgow yesterday with a friend and a convenience store clerk called me a “wee man”. As I am still new to this whole accent thing, my initial reaction to Glaswegian is to smile stupidly at the person talking. So at first I didn’t know what he was saying. After an internal “what the deuce” I asked my friend, “did he just call me a wee man.” She said, “yes” then laughed riotously at my weeness.

Now, Scotland is hardly a nation of giants. I have seen hundreds of men so far in Glasgow whose inseams are likely as short or shorter than mine. But being called wee, though somewhat charming compared to short, shorty, tiny, shrimpy, miniature or vertically challenged, made me come to the realization that this blog, this portrait of Sam, Penny and I abroad, must be called for what it is: it is a saga of wee people in a new (daresay wee?) land.

So enjoy. We’ll try to send updates as often as we can. Oh, and the caption photo is of the University. More to come soon . . .