Marrakesh, Pt. I: The Riad

Hello, invisible readers all! Sorry it's been a wee while since we've last spoken, but many things have been afoot here at La Casa de Melville. Amidst a flurry of distinct unpleasantness (which I see no reason to get into here), two good friends and I finally put up (rather than shut up) and took a trip we've been talking about, quite literally, for YEARS.

When I first moved to Aberdazzle for my MLitt at the University, I fell in with a lovely and lively group of geologists (not as hard as it sounds in the oil capital of Europe) and during the endless nights of drinking too much and laughing too loudly, a plan was formed. It wasn't much of a plan-- in fact, all the plan consisted of was going to Morocco. Marrakesh, we figured, was a good bet as it wouldn't be as political at Rabat or as religious as Fez. Someday, we promised each other, someday we'd go and drink tea and eat couscous and buy scarves.

Someday just happened to be last Saturday. Alpha picked me up outside my door at a quarter to ten in the morning and we zipped speedily down south to Edinburgh Airport (a nice little place and decidedly more full of useful shops than the Aberdazzle Airport) where we mutually confessed never thinking this trip would actually happen. Especially with all the unrest in North Africa in the past few months, each of us figured one of the other ones would get cold feet and pull out and then the whole plan would flop like a house of cards. Apparently emboldened by each other's waiting and general game-ness, this never came to pass and thus we found ourselves boarding a Ryanair* flight direct from Edinburgh to Marrakesh. Handbags shoved in cabin baggage, we sat and chatted about what we actually wanted to DO once we got there. Turns out, we were essentially as laid back as the next person. See what I meant about the plan? Alpha and I had mentioned on the drive down that, for as long as we've been talking about this trip, we'd not actually done any research or planned anything to do while there. So, splitting two guide books between the three of us (the Lonely Planet Morocco (Country Guide) being one of them) we perused perspective restaurants and cafes and museums and gardens and utterly unpronounceable streets. This passed most pleasantly the majority of the 3.75 hour flight.

Upon landing, we cleared customs and then faced our next two hurdles almost simultaneously: exchanging currency and finding the person sent to meet us from our Riad. Alpha and I had figured on changing money via a cash machine at the airport while Lulls had gotten a few hundred Dirhams at Edinburgh Airport. Therefore, she scouted about for someone holding a sign for Riad Les Trois Palmiers while Alpha and I waited in line for what turned out to be the only functioning ATM in the entirety of the airport. Our flight had arrived early, and thus we waited anxiously in the main hall of the airport for someone, anyone, to hold an appropriate sign. We found a man holding a sign simply saying "JESUS" but he'd been waiting there even long than we had.

Lulls, who had been the one to confirm all the details with the people at the Riad attempted calling and eventually found another Riad guide who informed us that we had the wrong number for ours but that they were on our way. Not a terribly auspicious start, but as soon as we relocated to the foot of a large sign, a gentleman with just what we'd been looking for walked up, smiled, and welcomed us to Marrakesh. He then walked us directly to a microscopic tan taxi with no seatbelts and a driver who only spoke French who drove us with great speed and skill into the Medina: we'd arrived.

There were motorcycles, motorized bicycles and scooters a'go-go, driven speedily by men in business suits, boys in joggers and women strapped with infants alike. The window was rolled down, and the late afternoon sunshine air played havoc with my hair and I felt myself grinning like an idiot. There was a scent of orange blossoms heavy on the breeze and I giggled involuntarily. It was better than I had imagined.

We were rather unceremoniously off-loaded at the mouth of a street we would later learn was Dar al Bacha. We'd also later learn that the reason there was a stand of police there as well was because the Royal Abode was right there on the corner as well. We waited nervously with our bags at out feet for someone to tell us what to do next. Turns out, ours was but one of the parties being collected from the airport that afternoon, and once we were all together we headed off to the Riad.

Down Dar al Bacha past shop windows and stands selling fabulous wares, left at a convenience stall which seemed to have a small selection of everything under the sun, and then into a maze of tiny, bending streets between towering walls of pink clay. Later we'd navigate them on our own, but I'm endlessly thankful to the staff of the Riad that, for the first time getting there, we had a guide. But then we were at a door flanked by two metalwork lanterns and the door opened to us.

Night-time and the moon on the rise from the rooftop terrace of Riad Les Trois Palmiers

We set down our bags and took in this gorgeous new setting in which we'd found ourselves. One of the members of our new-found excellent staff gave us a tour of the premises and afterwards I scampered back down to the room, fetched my camera from out my handbag and beat feet back to the rooftop to drink in the skyline and the night air. The minaret you can see in the photo, dear reader, is that of the old school of the Ali ben Youssef Medersa. Once we'd found the air a bit cool, we headed back inside and down to dinner.

Upstairs hallway overlooking central courtyard.

Door to our bedroom

 There were several different bedrooms around the establishment, mostly with double beds, some even in little private and secluded rooms on the rooftop. Ours, however, was on the ground floor and through these impressive doors. The deadbolt you can see, dear readers, is completely and totally functional.

Three beds for we three tired travellers

 The mattresses were firm, the sheets cool and the pillow cases of excellent thread count. To say I was pleased would be a massive understatement.

Ceiling of the bedroom with this nifty and highly illuminating lamp

Bathroom, complete with Boots bag from the shop in the airport

 The shutters open onto stained glass and metal work, but for privacy and decency we kept them shut. Just out of frame to the right was the enormous open shower which had phenomenal water pressure. Much, much appreciation.

Les Trois Palmiers... makes sense

 The central courtyard had these three substantial palm trees, beneath which we sat and had both dinner and breakfast on a few occasions (though not at the same time). Off this was the kitchen and various sitting rooms with low slung chairs, benches with many, many cushions and the french-speaking television, I think.

Beautiful seating in the atrium

Everything was crisp and clean and cool and intricately carved. I could have sat here for an age, honestly.

Looking up

The view looking up at the internal hallways from the aforepictured seating. Our door is just barely visible beneath the arch.

Plunge pool and mosaic backsplash

The most I did was dip a foot into it, but this little plunge pool is fully functional, and a godsend I would imagine for the summer visitors. Imagine floating about in comfort while the staff furnish you with endless pots of sweet mint tea... le sigh.

Further mornings saw us venture out and do all sorts of shopping in the souks, but here's a selection of further images from within our gorgeous habitation:

In the entryway-- how stunning are the gladiolas?! And umbrellas for guest use? Perfection!

Fountain with basin and mosaic backsplash on an upstairs landing.
No water in it now, but something tells me, come summer...

The tops of Les Trois Palmiers

How fabulous is this stairwell?!? The soft, curving lines of the plaster against
the geometric patterns of the lampwork and rugs was fantastic.

That upstairs hallway again, but in daylight this time.
Isn't the snug at the end the most comfortable place to share a secret in the history of secret-sharing?

Rooftop terrace

A lemon on a lemon tree? Yes, please!

Another fabulous snug where we drank mint tea one afternoon and played gin rummy.
Yeah, we're that cool.

Detail of the gin rummy snug ceiling

Another ideal spot for confidences

"What are you doing?" "Sneaking." Sneaky Lulls!

 Watch this space for further details on the grand henna adventure, dinner, gardens, souks and museums galore... oh, also FOOD!

________________________
*: Please don't take this as an endorsement of this particular budget airlines-- They've screwed me over in the past and frankly, you get what you pay for, so... not a whole lot. They're bastards, but they'll (most of the time) get you from one place to another.

Right, bullet time!

Okay, so I'm sorry, I'm a shit blogger and have been remiss in my updating. SO MUCH TO TYPE! Ergo, the wonder of spot editing!

• I'm living with a wonderful, delightful woman named Danger Muffin-- D-Muff for short-- and she's fantastic. She moved here from MI and, despite a failure to communicate for 6 years, has clicked back into my life like she never left it. We originally met through the MSF and have a mutual unhealthy relationship with Shakespeare and Arts Organizations in general. As it is, we're living at approximately the same speed. Which is the speed of light and sound. Together. Amplified.
• My student loans still haven't come through. This makes me a sad panda.
• I'm working too many different jobs. I can't keep them straight. And I haven't been in my office in ages. I'm sure I'm supposed to be doing something for the Ph.D., but for the life of me I don't know what. Good sign?
• I haven't heard from DS in ages. Again, sad panda.
• I've been cast in a production of Miller's Crucible at the University. And which character is little Miss Melville portray? The "death-haunted, embittered 45 year old woman" of course. Type casting? Please say no, I only look 35.
• My crossword addiction has hit record levels. The careers office is enabling me by saving all their old copies of the Herald and the Guardian. I still buy the Times on a daily basis and hit up the Washington Post online. Sick, sick puppy.
• I've rediscovered my love of white russians. They're delicious and way kinder to my tummy-lining. For a change up, I will order a vodka and cranberry, but only because I believe in the fight against UTI. I also drink gin and tonic because malaria is a bastard. Ergo, all my cocktails serve very strategic purposes.
• I think that Scotland is currently underutilizing my generous and nurturing side. I'll expound more on this at a later date if I get the time.
• Damn facebook. Yes, I use it and I love it and it's the only way people who know me in real time can reach me on a consistent basis, but it keeps telling me all sorts of disconcerting things. What things, you ask? Apparently everyone I used to know is either getting married or spawning. No joke. Entire photo albums of engagement rings, ultrasound pictures or tiny humans fresh out of their wrappers-- they're everywhere. I used to think my being perpetually between boyfriends wasn't that unusual, but apparently I'm a piraha. Still, better than being perpetually between husbands, right? Right?!?
• I really miss playing the tuba. Unfortunately, there appear to be very few of them in Scotland, and even fewer that belong to me. That number being zero.
• The roses down near the beach ballroom are still blooming.
• I still love Scotland.
• It no longer strikes me as strange that I'm here. What does seem strange is that I was never not here. Is that odd?

Enough for now. I'll finish writing and then backdate the rest of the Wedding entry, it's just too much for my less than nimble little fingers at the moment.

One for the Ages, Part I: The Run-Up

Sorry for being so remiss in my writing. I promise, it hasn’t been for lack of thought or lack of material, but rather the presence of too much—too much to do, too many places to be, too many jobs and too few hours. All that sort of thing.

But first things first: The Wedding.

Oh yes. Articles intended.

For many reasons, CB’s wedding is THE Wedding. Mostly because she named me as a bridesmaid. Also mostly because she’s a wonderful, lovely friend. And mostly for the fact that this was, bar none, the most labor intensive bridesmaid-stint I’ve ever completed, for no other reason than The Cake. But I scamper ahead…

CB got married to her Pirate on a gloriously sunny day in Bristol. All joking aside, the weather really was lovely (about damn time, Britain!) and the whole thing was sunshine and flowers and free wine and happiness. The day before? Not so much. But it could have been a lot worse. And let me go on record as saying I’d do it all again, in a heartbeat.

And with all that as a disclaimer…

I caught the train down to Bristol on the Wednesday morning, leaving my warm, warm bed for the cold, cold train station at 5:30 am, and dropped CB a text to let her know I was finally underway just after 6. I’d picked up my dress from the seamstress just the evening before, as there had been some last-minute pinning and tucking. Assuming she had her phone turned off, LIKE ALL NORMAL PEOPLE, I settled down and pillowed my head on my arms from Aberdeen to Burgh of Edin. I there changed trains for Birmingham, settling in for the longer leg of the journey with my needlework and picnic bag accessible.

I was working on a little piece of craft-mastery of my own design, though the inspiration is well documented on the internet. What was Miss Melville sewing so painstakingly, you ask? I’ll tell you later. What matters now is that I was seated next to an older woman named Evelyn, and despite my moment’s trepidation on her arrival due to her heavy scowl and less-than-bemused air, she turned out to been overwhelmingly chatty. So much so, in fact, that she talked ALL THE WAY to Birmingham. She told me about her family, that she was turning 77 the same month her granddaughter was turning 7 (an endless source of amusement for the granddaughter), that her father had been abusive and her mother emotionally distant, her grandmother manipulative but loving, and a dizzying number of aunts, uncles, cousins, great -grand relations and obscure pets. Needless to say, she was lovely. We helped each other find our next train, as she was bound for Exeter and I for Bristol Temple Meads, and said our goodbyes on the platform as we boarded different coaches.*

The final leg of the journey was standing room only and dearly uncomfortable. Let’s just be clear when I say that I was quite happy to roll into Bristol, take out £100 for upcoming expenses and drop myself into the nearest taxi. I know it doesn’t compare to scrubbing down an apartment kitchen, but the trip was its own form of special.

All told, I arrived at my reserved Bed and Breakfast relatively unharmed and unharried. The place itself was positively LOVELY. Quaint, charming, well-staffed, warm, clean, comfortable—all in all, all for which one might ask. I called CB to let her know that I had arrived and where would she like me to be/what would she like me to do/what should I be doing? Her response was somewhere between a laugh, a grunt and a frustrated howl. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d been asking such things. As it was, I watched a few episodes of Top Gear (Oh, Dave channel, how do I love thee…) and waited to be instructed about dinner arrangements.

Showered, napped, spot-ironed and with a pint down in the pub, I began questioning the busing schedules of Bristol. Roughly one on the hour, the barmaid told me. Turns out, they’re about as predictable as the ones here in the ‘Deen. I eventually caught one, laid down a ridiculous amount of money for a day ticket and tripped the light fantastic into town, where I met the whole maiden CB family.

Well, ‘met’ is a bit of a misnomer. I’ve met them all before, being great friends with CB’s mom and referring to her as my boss for more years than I like to remember. CB’s brother, his wife, the Aunt, the parentals… a lovely family. A lovely pub. Good food, fast talk, CB making entirely inappropriate comments about my chest, and I realized in a flash that all things with this wedding were really going to be just fine, so I ordered a stoli and tonic, crushed my lime and smiled. Good times.**

The next day saw me up and moving about with good speed, trying to get to the Chaplaincy to help bake a cake. No, I’m sorry—to help bake THE CAKE. The Cake to end all Cakes. The truly important, dear god don’t ruin this for everyone cake. Yeah, that one: the Wedding Cake.

CB had decided a while back that she was going to bake her own wedding cake. Well, g’donnah as the Aussies say, and I didn’t think a whole lot more about it until that morning. Good thing CB had, as she had all the ingredients, the recipes, the pans and pots and measuring cups aplenty. After stumbling about the top of Park Road for a bit (I’m useless with directions, sorry, CB!) another charming and nigh-on disgustingly perky bridesmaid, CW, met me and guided me into the dark heart of the University of Bristol. Somewhere between the gleaming Ivory Tower which is the Wills Building and eventually stumbling on the Chaplaincy, CW and I bonded. All things good. Once in the kitchen, I unloaded the requisite bottle of red wine from my purse and met the delightful Family Wally: Mama Wally (MW), Papy Wally (PW) and Beta Wally (BW). As CB had previously told me that MW is the only person other than myself within the circle of her acquaintance who listens voluntarily to sea chanties, I figured we'd get along just fine. In that, I was right. :) BW is actually a godzilla in a blonde, curly wig. He's utterly adorable and occasionally rampages. This mostly made for good entertainment as PW attempted to reign him in while we four womenfolk busied ourselves in the kitchen. I made a ribbon bouquet, complete with stem, out of the ribbons from the bridal shower, and all was happy and hectic but controlled.

By the time we had to break camp to leave for the rehearsal, the bottom tier and top tiers were finished baking. All the carrot (ALL THE CARROT) had been grated, lemons zested, and all that really remained was to bake the rest and frost. No problem. CW and I trucked it on back to her apartment to collect CB's dress, the delightful creation of satin and organza and embroidery which had been the subject of so many evening conversations. Once we finally got in the taxi, dress across laps, I noticed I had smudges of frosting all down my front and no time to do anything about it. So much for the yellow dress I'd purchased for the occasion, time left no time for such considerations! Dropping the dress off with the vastly capable door staff of the hotel, we hot-footed it over to the church, which was conveniently located just across the street.

At this point, I thought things would calm down and the overwhelmingly brisk pace of the day would be checked. Not so much. Apparently, they'd double-booked the church, and we had something like 15 minutes to go over the practical "You stand here, you walk over here," bits of the service. So far as I could tell, our job was to walk in ("Slowly!" hissed the mother of the bride, "You've got to make sure you leave six paces/enough space/you're going too fast/smaller steps!/feet together/don't rush!"), sit in the front pew, and then walk out. Awesome, I can handle that.

Post-rehearsal, I had a brief chat with the father of the groom, who is a lovely man with an accent which I can only describe as the one I would pull should I want to mock the ultra-posh Brits of yesteryear. But it's his actual accent. And I couldn't laugh, because that would have been terribly rude. Oh yesquiteratherhmmmm. All in all, I think I pulled it off.

As a small sidenote, apparently the rehearsal dinner isn't a tradition over here. Convenient for the parents of the groom, but less than conducive for getting we happy few fed and back to the kitchens. As it was, the parents of the bride fed me yet again at a lovely restaurant right on the waterfront where I had cheese and leafy things before legging it out of there and into a taxi to meet up with CB, who had rushed out even earlier to get back to the cake.

When we eventually got there, all things were relatively as they should have been, with the small exception of a party of observant Islamic men who had also booked the kitchen to cook for Ramadan. I feel this part of the story is best captured by CB herself: "when I got back there were 3 Muslim blokes there cooking a feast for Ramadan for about 50 people. I wasn't able to get in the door. They said they would be gone in 10 minutes. An hour later they were still there so I just started working around them as best I could.They finally left but the place was a mess. I was able to work around the mess, but when they came back to clean up it really go hairy. I needed the sink to keep washing mixing bowls and utensils as i changed back and forth between carrot and lemon cake and frosting, but they were using the sink. That killed another 45 minutes of valuable time.Then at one point one of them TURNED OFF THE OVENS!. Thank GOD the Cake noticed and we turned them straight back on so there was no damage done. If she hadn't seen that happen 2 tiers of my cake would have been ruined.And then finally one of the batches of frosting didn't turn out. For some reason it was complete soup. It wasn't usable. So we weren't able to get the whole cake frosted that night."

Confession time: I was the one who made the cream cheese frosting-flavored soup. It was me. I nearly destroyed ALL. The thing of it is, I didn't do a DAMN thing differently between the two batches. The first one set up, the second one didn't. Maybe it was that the kitchen was too hot from all the other cooking. Maybe the cream cheese was softer. Maybe the refrigerator was warmer due to being opened so much. I DON'T KNOW. All I know is that the frosting did. not. work. I felt awful. CB assured me that it would be okay, that we'd get duncan heines frosting from painsbury's in the morning and all would be well, but after going to such lengths to make this cake from scratch, I felt terrible about compromising the integrity of the homemade cake.

In the end, we got the remaining cakes baked, the first layer frosted completely, the bottom layer assembled, and CW's boyfriend to our location (more difficult than it sounds). The poor chap had worked a full day up in York and then taken the train down for a few hours to Bristol. He as tired, road weary (or track-weary, rather?) and hungry. Still toting his luggage, he shows up to help us transport the cake, as we were a woman down. We'd sent MW and the rest of the Family to the bed and breakfast-- same one I was booked into, actually-- to get some much needed rest. The little tyke didn't know what time it was supposed to be, and his parents weren't much better. The merciful thing to do was to let them shower and sleep, but it left us a lap short to transport the boxes of cake via cab to the hotel where the reception would be held and where CB was staying. Enter CW's boyfriend, who from here on out will be referred to as Captain Cake. Once we'd cleaned out the kitchen and loaded all the boxes with their precious cargo, the real fun began.

We lined the boxes up on a low rock partition along the driveway to await the taxi driver. Captain kept trying to talk to CW about the day, how he was feeling, answering the questions she casually flung at him, but after asking she'd scuttle away to check for the cab or check on CB, leaving him with a mouthful of words which would trail off in a Walter Mitty-esque sense of resignation. Something about this struck me as absolutely hilarious, a fault I can only chalk up to exhaustion and overwrought nerves. The bit of road which led to the chaplaincy is a squidgy, and in the age that it took the cabbie to find us, we milled about and generally lied about how tired we were. CW went to pick up one of the boxes of cake to move it closer to the curb, and as I stood talking to CB, she screamed. Actually screamed. Oh god, I thought, please don't have dropped the cake. Then she screamed something about slugs. Oh NO. You see, my dear reader, it's been a very wet summer here in Britain, and there are slugs EVERYWHERE. And not the little slugs that nibble cabbage in a garden. These are big, slimey fuckers to leave visible trails all over the sidewalks. And all I could think was that one had managed to squirm its way into the box and onto the cake. The mental image of the little frosted tier over which we had labored so lovingly absolutely covered in giant, olive drab slugs glistening in the street light filled my mind. Ogodohgod, NO!

As it was, CW had gone to pick up the box and put her hand on a slug quite safely on the exterior of the box. She even had the good sense not to drop the box. She's a winner, that CW. However, she did cause me a small bout of cardiac arrest.

Once we FINALLY got into the taxi, we three girls in the back with boxes of cake and Captain in the front with the bowl of soup-frosting on his knees, we let out a collective breath and asked the cabbie to drive very, very carefully. As we went along, we quickly realized that we in the back were fine, but Captain was in serious danger of slopping the sugary sludge over the edge of the bowl and all over his lap. "I feel like I'm in the third leg of some sort of perverse triathlon," he said quietly, inducing a fit of near-hysterical giggles from the back seat. Once at the hotel, CB oversaw the unloading of the cab and put CW and Captain back into it and packed them off to CW's flat while I went to find a trolley to transport the various boxes to the commercial refrigerator in the kitchens where the hotel had has we could store it all overnight. With a vague prayer to nebulous powers that the sustained cold of the fridge would bring my soup-creation to frosting-firmness, I followed like a pup at CB's heels. We both realized at roughly the same time that the buses had finished running for the night and I was effectively stuck in Bristol unless I wanted to shell out for a taxi. Ugh. CB offered quite gallantly to just curl up next to her in the enormous yes-it's-a-honeymoon-suite-but-we-want-a-bed-so-big-we-don't-actually-have-to-touch-while-we-sleep bed, but after watching her print off the readings for the next day, I soberly considered my options and figured that it would be cheaper in the long run to take a nighttime taxi rather than wake up in town and have to fight my way back to the Inn to gather my bridesmaid dress and assorted necessities. CW and I had worked out a shopping list with nibbly-bits for the lunch the next day, useful things like band-aids and Tylenol, and the ever-necessary hair drier. Leaving all this for the night, I said goodnight for the last time to Miss CB and caught a cab.

And this is where, for me, the whole thing went pear shaped.

When the cab rolled up to the Inn, all was dark. No lights in windows, no busy downstairs pub-- nothing. Not only was the front door locked, but it was also chained and padlocked. So, on a scale of locked, it was very locked. I knocked and knocked, I tapped at windows, and shouted hello in the hopes of raising a reply, all to no avail. The cabbie, bless him, hadn't immediately driven off, and asked if I needed help. Did I have the number for the inn? Maybe I could call and someone would answer who could then come down and let me in. No, I didn't have the number. So he called his dispatch and had them track it down for me-- amazingly kind, eh? In the meanwhile, I went around back and shook the gate. Deadbolted. DAMN. Whyohwhyohwhy. It was 1:30 in the morning, I had soupy frosting in my hair, I smelled noticeably of carrots, and my friend was getting married in less than 14 hours. I went around the front again and in desperation POUNDED at the front door. By that time, the cabbie had been waiting well over 15 minutes, but had a number for me to call. I pulled out my mobile and dialed.

Only to be met by the robotic voice of a woman telling me I didn't have enough credit on my phone to complete the call. [*Mentally drops to her knees and wails wordlessly*]

"There's nothing for it," my patient cabbie sighed, "I'll take you back to the Hotel if you'd like?" For the moment, it looked like my only option. But I didn't want to wake up CB who had surely FINALLY gone to bed for some desperately needed sleep. I didn't want to bother her the NIGHT BEFORE HER WEDDING. I wanted to be competent and adult and get into the bed reserved for me, dammit! I sighed and said I'd try the back gate just one more time. Shoving my hands in my pockets in the cold, my knuckles already bruising from pounding on the door, I felt the ribbon I had stashed there, the one I hadn't looped into the bouquet. "Could I...?" I leaned all my weight against the gate, buying a few millimeters and enough to loop the ribbon through the gap, hook it onto the nub and pull it up, springing the gate. Success! Once inside the yard, I started trying the doors. The downstairs was definitely locked, complete with a yale lock. The upstairs door, however, adjacent to the iron rose trellis, had just a regular lock, and an older one at that. Right, time to put the skills to the test... I rattled the door with all my furious, mentally-exhausted might and then YANKED it open. The bolt sprung free and I was IN! I left the door open and went back to inform the cabbie, who wished me a good sleep, and I locked the gate back behind me. A good night indeed. I don't think my head hit the pillow before I switched off.

For what happened when my eyes opened again, stay tuned.




*There is something so strange about train conversations. I know the film-loving few among us can cite numerous cinematic examples of what I’m describing, but parts of it sadden me. Evelyn at several points marveled about how she was telling me all of these unpleasant but true things about people had loved, her parents and their parents, but never told her own children, much less her grandchildren who are mostly my age. I told her, in my honest opinion as a grandchild whose grandmother withheld all manner of information until it was far too late, that they would want to know. It’s far too important to just tell a stranger on a train. I hope she does, and I hope her grandkids have the decency and the sense to stop and listen.
**Good times made even better by the drinks tab being picked up by CB’s Aunt, who is a Sister (not in the “Help a sister out!” sense, but rather the “I’m sorry, Sister, I have no idea how that rosary wound up there” sense) which effectively means that the Catholic Church bought my booze. I repeat, GOOD TIMES.

Nairn Highland Games, 2008

... otherwise known as a highlight of my life!

Honestly, one of the best. weekends. ever. Not only was the weather on Saturday absolutely brilliant, but the company was smashing, the drinking delightful and the locale unmatched. But to tell the story...

Alpha and I drove up with Pandy on Friday afternoon as soon as I got out of work. After loading two crates of tennents (the local brew of paupers' choice) and the tent into the boot, we hit the road. A rather severe thunderstorm threatened to slow us down, but we would not be deterred. Friday night saw the construction of the tent village, some lovely homemade lasagna by our host, let's call him the Dear Scotsman (DS), and a lovely sunset over the Northern Highlands.

Saturday morning brought further arrivals as all prepped for the Games. Our little tented village, see below, added a few more neighbors and general conversation sprung up between the old friends and first-timers as we munched on various cereals and began tossing about the tins of brew. It was really quite refreshing to once again be amongst those hardy souls who do not smirk at the notion of the breakfast beer.

Due to our location, we had a lovely walk up along the shoreline, and arrived just in time to see the combined pipe and drum band march along the perimeter. Thus the games began! (To be fair, I spent a fair amount of time talking to DS's other guests in a beer garden directly adjacent to the games field, but I caught the major events.)

The atmosphere was far from lacking. While there were the requisite carnival rides and attendant riffraff, along with the requisite jokes and movie quotes pertaining to such folk, there were also stands selling highland tablet (how to describe?... if fudge and maple sugar candies had a love child? I think that's about right) and hand-knit sweaters, kids and dogs running about on leashes and free, completely unintelligible announcing, and this guy:


I know it may be hard to see, but there's an additional neck on that there guitar, and it kinda sounded like a ukulele. Translation: awesome.

There were several events that I'd never really seen before, and while I'm sure they're all part of a proud and useful tradition (as is everything in Scotland) I couldn't really tell the precise use of this giant game of tug-'o-war.



For me, the highlight of the Games themselves had to be the Caber Toss. I'd been looking forward to actually witnessing this for so incredibly long, I was giddy as a schoolgirl the entire time.

A caber mid-flight!

The action was intense, I can totally understand why DS felt the need to look away! Additionally, he looked quite dashing in his full kit, well done!

The rest of the weekend was spent drinking and laughing so hard my sides hurt, eating grilled burgers and toasting bits of bread over an open flame. Apparently there were bugs about, but they decided to pass on biting my flesh-- perhaps the gin and tonic therapy I've adopted has really and truly put them off! To be fair, I wasn't the one swilling the gin, I left that up to Clarkie. I did, however, sample several glasses of this:


The conversation ran a little something like this:
Alpha: What's that?
Miss Melville: Looks like sangria to me!
Queen of the Brew: I don't know if I'd go that far... let's call it punch and leave it at that.
Miss Melville: (takes a deep pull from her mug) Either way, works for me!

To be absolutely fair, the entire weekend came off without a hitch due mostly to the efforts of one man: our Dear Scotsman. Always moving about, seeing to things, popping in and out of conversations, finding flashlights, leading the way to the pub and back again, taking care of all the organizational pitfalls that plague large gatherings like this one-- he did it all with aplomb and skill. Hats off to you, kilted grillmaster! Please note the tankard: again, well done!



I was the last one standing come the end of Saturday Night into Sunday morning, and beyond seeing the last of the drunks to bed and tidying up a little bit, I gazed at one of the most memorable and spectacular sunrises of my young life:






We drove back to the 'Deen, slightly sunburned and very happy, later in the morning on Sunday. Le sigh. Back to the everyday worries of rent and submission deadlines, but I lived the dream for one full weekend, and that's pretty good by me. If you ever, EVER, EVER get the chance to go to the Highland Games, any of them, don't think twice. Don't even blink. Just go! And if they're in Nairn, look for me-- now that I know that they're there, I will be doing everything in my power to get back. :)

Huntly Castle

If you're ever in the area, and you want to see a decently well-preserved castle with incredible history, let me recommend Huntly:

It's a few stops down the line if you take the train out of Aberdeen, the day return is less than you'd pay for a nice bottle of wine, and if you ask me it's a pretty good way to spend a day. Some may disagree. On this particular day, a friend of mine (who just happened to be buying his ticket down to Glasgow for a Lads' Weekender at the same time we were in the que)-- let's call him Dear-- asked where we were going. The conversation ran a little like this:

Dear: "So, where are you ladies off to?"

Me: "Huntly, just for the day."

Dear: "... Why?!"

KayPea: "There's a castle there!"

And so there is. It's a comfortable walk through the very quaint town of Huntly to the Castle from the station. The approach is lovely, and as the Castle grounds butt up against the other great Scottish landmark-- a golf course-- there's lots of pretty green spaces about. Large parts of the Castle are labeled with helpful little signs, and there's clear distinction between the different ages of renovation within the grounds.

Some of the highlights include a fragment of the medieval road leading to the old gate:

The very unique frontispiece:

The remains of the stable (the differentiation in the floor shows the size of the stalls, and the very small size of the horses bred in the region at that time):

The labeling along the front of the "recent" addition:

The intricately carved mantlepieces, some of which are remarkably intact:

Here's a lovely shot of KayPea doing what she does best-- recording her stay in Scotland frame-by-frame with her lovely camera! ;)

Though, to be fair, the view from the very top of the round tower was definitely worth snapping for posterity...

For a modest fee (even more modest if you join up for a year-long membership in the Heritage Trust) you gain entry to the grounds and this lovely chunk of history. So do it!

Too Long

So very, very much has happened. Now when I sit down to think about it, it's hard to remember all the little bits that I wanted to recall here... where did I leave off? Where's my cast of characters? What the hell has been happening to me?!?

Well, let's start off with the basic dramatis personae: the girls with whom I live. There are seven of us now, all beds are occupied and you couldn't fit another stick of celery in the fridge if you tried. Our latest resident, Naimee, arrived from Nigeria two weeks ago now, and she seems quite sweet. She always speaks in a husky sort of whisper, but always comes by my door and waits for me to acknowledge her greeting before moving on. Being from Nigeria, she's basically surrounded by her fellow countrymen-- I really don't think there's anybody left in Nigeria, they're all in Aberdeen. Most seem to be studying things having to do with oil and gas, and the rest of the girls aren't so much a fan. But we'll get to that later. Okay, so, there's Naimee, Josephine (from Uganda? I think), Loretta (from Ghana), Elena (half Nigerian, half English), Nicolina (from Oslo, Norway) and Christine (also from Norway). Josephine and Loretta are both in law of some kind, and Loretta looks like she just stepped out of a premiere London firm-- she's always immaculately dressed, hair perfect, face pristine. I have no idea how she does it, and her english is amazing. Elena is married with two small children, and she misses them dearly. She reminds me a bit of my mother when she was younger. Nicolina is probably the friendliest out of all of us, as she bounces from room to room, visiting, complaining with good humor and generally commiserating. She's so pleasantly plump with amazingly clear skin and very dark hair. Christine is in the room immediately next to mine, and she's perhaps my favorite. She's this tiny little slip of a girl, blonde hair and blue eyes like the quintessential Norwegian, but when she was young lived for a year in Teaside, so she honest to god sounds like she's from Newcastle-- it's about the most bizarre thing possible, watching the native English try to grasp the fact that she's actually Norwegian.

Apart from the girls who live with me, there's Arrlah, Dawn, Raj and Sabrina. Arrlah is on the same course as Christine, also from Norway, and also amazing. Here english isn't quite as good, but she's so funny that it doesn't matter. She's incredibly tall and thin and gorgeously Norwegian anyways, but a lightweight. Dawn is from the Lake District, has a car (!) and lives with Arrlah. She's a bit more abrasive than the rest of us, but a good pub chum nonetheless-- she's also in Geology and keeps sweeping us along on her department's post-grad pub crawls, which makes for a good time. Raj is this tiny little Indian girl on the course with Christine and Arrlah, originally from London but went to Uni in Liverpool. Sabrina is from Berlin, she's 27 with white-blonde hair and the softest voice ever. We all went out clubbing exactly ONCE and i think we scandalized the hell out of poor Sabrina. Now, Raj is dating Jerry, who is from Ireland (Cork, to be precise) who seems like a genuinely nice guy. Both he and Nicolina are studying International Relations, but he doesn't come out with us much as he is inevitably the only guy. Poor thing.

Kids in my class: there are only FOUR OF US. In the entire program. Nowhere did the University of Aberdeen admit to the MLitt being so small. I mean, there are about 30 people in total, if you combine the MLitt in Scottish and Irish Studies, MLitt in the Novel, MLitt in English Literature, Masters in Visual Culture, and we few MLitt in Comparative Literature and Philosophy. Of there four, there's Warren, who is the only boy. He went here for his undergrad as well, but took Hispanic Studies, so he's a little rough on the philosophy. Siobhan also went here for her undergrad, but she was in English and French. Lena makes four, and she's from Germany. I'm not exactly sure of the details, but she told me that she's not actually finished with her undergraduate degree back in Germany, but that she'll take the last year when she heads home after completing this program. *scratches head* But then how did she get in? Who knows.



I'm enrolled in three courses currently, two of them being combined with all the other MLitts and the lone Visual Culture guy. Two of them are basically worthless and alternate Wednesdays-- Research Methods and Scholarly Writing and Presentation. For the past few classes in Research Methods we've been learning all about citation-- medieval manuscripts, the short title catalogue, calendar of state papers, database of national biography, the whole nine yards. Now, I know that citation is crucially important, but two hours of it is mind-numbing. And it's so ridiculously nit picky that I can't bring myself to feel confident in it. Our very first graded assessment was over just this bullshit, and lord only knows what they'll deduct points for, as the directions were a tad less than clear. Regardless, it's done. Unfortunately, Scholarly Writing isn't much better-- last week we spent two hours in a computer lab learning how to use PowerPoint. Yes, that's right. PowerPoint. I was slightly less than enthused. I mean, if you don't know how to put together a few slides, you probably shouldn't be in grad school. And there's a tutorial built in to the program! The single saving grace of this entire class would have to be the lecturer, let's call him the Academic Aussie (A2 for further reference). He's brand-new to the UK and the University this Fall, and he got the class dumped in his lap when the faculty who was supposed to teach it withdrew for unknown reasons. He didn't write the syllabus, he didn't pick the grading criteria, and he has the common decency to accept that most of us could skate backwards blindfolded through it. His field of specialization is medieval Icelandic and viking poetry, which I think is awesome. He's just young and awkward enough to be endearing. We have to submit a PowerPoint of 10 slides to him, along with a 5-minute presentation next week on the scholarly topic of our choice. I e-mailed him, asking if he wanted us to submit our topics to him "so as to avoid subjecting you to 30 presentations on the existential tendencies of Emily Dickinson's poetry," to which he responded, "Ahhh, the existential tendencies of Emily Dickinson! I can hardly wait! If you're worried about it, feel free to ask me or come by my office. You could come by the office even if you're not worried." And THEN, during that interminable course on PowerPoint, he kept pulling ED as the example topic, and I'd grin compulsively each time. After offering up that frequently it's easier to read white text on a black background in low lighting, he announced that his "esteemed colleague in the back corner..." and then told them exactly what I'd told him. *blushes furiously* He then quasi-walked me to my next class, and I say quasi- because I didn't realize where he was bound for, but then saw him walking back precisely the way we'd come after opening the door for me. I think he's probably just a genuinely nice guy. I'll drop by his office hours on Tuesday and ask if there's ever going to be an opportunity for him to talk to the class about how to locate and submit to reputable journals, how to tell that they're reputable, and how to find the good conferences, considering that's what I was hoping the class would be about anyway.
My third and by FAR the best class I've got is called "Encounters: Literature and Modern Thought," and despite the hokey title, I love it. We started out reading a new defence of the Humanities which I think every administrator and professor back at LakeState should read like gospel. What made it even better is that the man who wrote it, Dr. Chris Fynsk, was the one leading the class! There's just the four of us in the class, and so discussion is more like conversation, and the whole setting is just to intimate, I love it. Dr. Fynsk is the Head of the School of English, and also the leading authority on Maurice Blanchot, who was next up on the reading list. I'm coming to realize that I have a natural affinity to post-war French philosophy. I was the only one of the four to have read Hegel, who was heavily quoted in the text we read, Blanchot's essay, Literature & the Right to Death, and I felt a little special. Next we moved on to a new reading and a new lecturer: Jonathan Israel's Radical Enlightenment and Dr. Nesbitt. I like Dr. Nesbitt, he has the same vocal quality as Dr. Gadzinski back at LSSU-- all whispery and slightly hoarse. He's also fresh off the boat from the University of Miami-Ohio, and he called me out on my accent almost immediately. His concentration has mostly been on the Haitian Revolution, and he just sent his manuscript off to the publishers after 5 years of work. Needless to say, he's been in a good mood since then. They also just asked him to edit some new translations of the key figure in the Haitian Revolution (proves how closely I was listening, I don't remember the guy's name-- Toussant L'Ouverture, perhaps? I don't remember) and he's been floating since then. Anyways, we just finished up with Spinoza's Theologico-Political Treatise, and I was left questioning how we never read him in any of Dr. Swedene's philosophy classes? He's a RADICAL thinker, and basically dismantles Cartesian dualism, Hobbes, Locke and all of the Bible in a coherent system which is still impossible to completely refute. He postulates necessary mutation ages before Darwin boarded the Beagle, claims God OR Nature in his argument before Nietzsche announced the death of God, presented a singular essence of substance and postulated that motion is inherent in matter, in direct opposition to Newton, and we never even read an excerpt! I don't get it. And next week we're on to Diderot. I'm looking forward to it. What a sensation-- I can't remember the last time I was actually stimulated by what I needed to read for class.
On other fronts, we've made friends with the gentlemen who live in the flat directly next to ours. I guess this is going to require a little more naming... There are only 5 in their flat, all studying law, I'm told: Allistair is an older guy, I'd put him at just over 40, maybe? Grey hair, he was in the royal military for years and years, and he's got some crazy stories. His wife is holding down the fort in Glasgow, and he frequently slips away for the weekends down to visit. Peter is from Warsaw and vaguely fish-faced, his english is rather brutal, and he loves the Pixies. What an odd mix. Then there's Jack, who is not JUST French, he's Parisian. Lord, he's so, so Parisian. He's in real estate law and kept on about how he's really a citizen of the world-- yeah, okay. Alessandro or Alex, he's from Athens and is working on the first year of his Ph.D., but he received both his undergraduate and his masters here as well. For the sake of reference and continuity in most parts of my life, let's refer to him as The Greek. I have yet to actually meet the other guy, Allistair says he's from Egypt or perhaps Saudi Arabia, he doesn't really know. What makes all of this quite fun is that their kitchen window forms a 90-degree angle to my bedroom window, and while they can only really see the corner of my room and the side of my wardrobe, I can always hear when they're about. I keep my window open because I like to keep my room nice and cool, but the shower is also right on the other side of the wall, and there's a faint smell of moisture and mildew when the room is shut up tight. Occasionally I'll actually sit beside the window as there is a chair there (as it was when I moved in) and it gets nice afternoon sunlight. Yes, CB, there is sunlight in Scotland, it's our best-kept secret. But when I do sit there, I look almost straight into their kitchen. Just the other day, Allistair leaned out the window and, seeing my light on, called to me. We then had a very pleasant chat whilst leaning out our respective windows. It's a little strange and occasionally a little invasive, but I like it.
We first met them during a fire drill when some of the freshers in the flat below us decided that garlic bread would be AMAZING, but then proceeded to pass out without pulling it out of the oven... stupid drunk 18 year old boys. Anyways, Christine took the initiative and invited them over for drinks one Friday night, but they never showed! Well, at least not until we'd polished off all the wine and opened the door to head out to the clubs. Allistair then came over and begged forgiveness later the following week, explaining that Christine had talked to Peter, whose english isn't quite up to par, and he didn't tell them about the invite until an hour or so after she'd knocked. Well, no hard feelings, we'd try again. I decided to make some bruschetta and truffles, serve some hummus with celery and tomatoes and we'd all drink wine like proper adults. Allistair, Peter and the Greek all made it this time, and a lovely time SEVERAL bottles of wine were had. Somebody suggested heading out to the clubs, it was only 1 in the morning-- sure, why not? (Allistair later claimed that it was my idea, but I KNOW that it was not, Christine thinks it was the Greek, and I'm apt to agree.) We'd also picked up a girl named Bruna who is here doing her semester abroad from Brazil-- she's petite, charming and has an unusual lip piercing, in addition to being friendly with Jack. Well, the rest of the girls hung back because we'd made plans to head out to Braemar the next morning for a small weekender, but what the hell, I'd go. Then I found myself in a cab with people I'd known for about 3 hours-- Peter, Jack, Bruna and the Greek. We went out, danced, Jack and the Greek kept buying me drinks, all was well. Then the bars closed down and we headed home. The Greek slipped a small glass marble in my jacket pocket and left his arm around my waist-- Allistair had mentioned something about his having a girlfriend earlier in the evening when the Greek stepped out to answer a cell phone call, but I decided to ignore it. A nice thing to do? Certainly not, but it's what I did. We eventually caught a taxi and scavenged through their apartment and mine of cans of assorted beers and 1 1/2 bottles of white wine, and then headed out to the woods behind the housing so as not to disturb sleeping roommies. Jack brought his new Polaroid camera and took several pictures of trees in the dark, claiming he would put them in a frame and their juxtaposition would create beautiful meaning. Like I said, he's uber-Parisian. The rest of them gradually drifted away, and the long and short of this is that I wound up fooling around with the Greek while sitting on an old downed tree in the woods behind the residence. He's a talker, and just prior to kissing me told me that he and his girlfriend, Frederica, have been together for a year but he doesn't love her anymore, but it's so familiar and comfortable that he doesn't know how to leave her, and that it was she who had kept stalker-calling him earlier because she didn't want him in another girl's flat. With good reason, I suppose, in hindsight.
The thing is, the Greek reminds me a LOT of Luther. They have the same basic build and coloring, though Luther was a bit more pale. They shrug the same way. Their hands are startlingly similar... and I don't know what that means. I was also quite drunk, so try not to judge too harshly. He walked me to my door, kissed me goodnight, asked me to keep all this under my hat, and walked to his own door.
I woke up the next morning to go to Braemar, still drunk, leaves in my hair, and giggly as all hell. Christine took one look at me and squealed.
Braemar was beautiful. Dawn drove, and I must say that the Highlands are everything people say. I'm in love with this place. We walked around the village, saw highland cows, pronounced 'hey-lin coo', traversed shallow rivers, and basically had a smashing time.
Since then, life's been pretty quiet. My iPod, my baby, is sick-- she shivers and grinds and won't play, and I can't quite figure out how to remedy the situation. I finally got into town and found out the technical support number for Apple here in the UK because the website helped me not at all, so hopefully I can send the baby off and they'll fix her up right. My speakers also died, and I'm not so happy about that. I finally got my excess aid check, but it's going to take another 3 weeks to open a checking account so I can cash it. NOT HAPPY. *le sigh* It's just that it's taking so long. I also still don't have a cell phone, or a mobile as they call them here. Everyone is completely confounded by this-- how do I survive?? My loan officer called it "barbaric." I just shake my head-- it's not like I'm living on raw meat at the back of a cave, I just lack the ability to text-message. I think I'll finally break down and get one of the little pay as you go jobbies from T-Mobile, they seem to have the cheapest phones that will do everything I want. I have no desire to pay what will translate to $100 for a damn phone. Lord. I wince at paying $20 for groceries.
Speaking of groceries, I'm living on celery, cherry tomatoes and hummus. No joke. And I think that, in combination with all the walks up and down hills to school and back, is vastly helping my figure. I'm a fan of this. I also live on the third floor of my building, and that can't hurt.
I watched L'Auberg Espangole yesterday by myself, and both winced and laughed. I first saw it with Luther on his recommendation, and bought myself a copy a while later, but that was nearly 3 years ago. I hadn't seen it since then, and to watch it now, I realize that I'm living in my own spanish apartment. I don't know how it's going to turn out, but I'm okay with that,
Regarding my next bold move, I went to a wine and cheese reception with the College of Arts and Letters and had a very interesting exchange with Dr. Fynsk. He introduced me to the heads of the schools of Law and Business as one of the "excellent students" which I take to be quite the compliment. Dr. Fynsk is the one responsible for the creation of the Center of Modern Thought, which is on the cutting edge of interdisciplinary exchange here, and I think it's absolutely brilliant. There's no doing anything about the really big, important issues if you stay pigeon-holed in philosophy and refuse to talk to the earth science people, who in turn scoff at the economists, who discount the sociologists-- we've all got to talk together, and that's what the Center is all about. There's a big meeting on Energy here in the Spring, and I'm outrageously excited about it, but more on that in a different post. Anyways, Dr. Fynsk asked where I was from and I murmured something about it being a little, no name university in Michigan. He said, "What, like the University of...?" No, I didn't go to the University of Michigan. Bitch, please, they wouldn't let me in. He went on to say that I seemed most excellently prepared for the kind of discourse he wanted to foster and had I considered staying on for my Ph.D.? It seemed to him that someone like me could really flourish here at the University of Aberdeen.

SAY WHAT.

I'm in the process of scheduling a suggested meeting with him to talk about precisely this. The thing is, I hadn't thought to stay here for another degree-- you're supposed to go to a bunch of different schools, maximizing the number of people you know in academia and therefore vreating as large a network as possible. However, as the Greek put it, if you're happy here and they've got the best department around, why would you leave and go to a lesser institution? Why, indeed. It would depend on funding, honestly, as I can't really afford to say here for another three years, but the idea has more and more appeal the longer I think about it.
Speaking of the Greek, he was supposed to come over for another round of drinks with his flatmates just this past Friday, but I guess they just found out about a huge presentation they all need to work on and so bailed out. Unfortunatley, none of them thought to tell us... like Allistair says, their concept of punctuality is fluid. Time is irrelevant. We're still experiencing some gaps in culture, but I'm getting more and more used to it. The Norwegians are getting more and more frustrated by it, though-- their classes are dominantly populated by Nigerians who don't so much adhere to western ideas of courtesy or respect. I don't know about any of this personally, as I'm not in class with any of them, but their stories are pretty wild.
I'm getting used to my united nations spanish apartment. Starting at about 5 in the evening, people open their doors, there's a rotation of people in the kitchen, talking about your day, asking about lectures, relaxed visiting... I like it. There are still some shocks to be had-- Naimee apparently brought several whole dried fish with her from Nigeria, and she made one up the other night. They're all wrapped in newspaper, but she dunked it in a tupperware bowl full of water and popped it in the microwave. The fish, eyes, guts and all, reinflated and then popped, at which point she knew it was done. The smell of fish in the apartment was overwhelming... and she casually picked the meat off the bones. I was a little startled, but to each their own. Christine attacked the kitchen with a can of air freshner as soon as Naimee was back in her room, and all I could do was laugh. Also, I still hate the smell of fish.
Ohh, there's so much more to tell-- a disasterous tapas dinner with Dawn and her friend, Bosh, my first encounter with chips and cheese, mysterious bagpipes and drums on a Saturday morning, my new brown shoes, a box from home that made me cry-- but this post is too long already, and when you live at the speed of light, by the time you slow down to talk about everything, it seems so long ago that it can't be interesting. It was all just last week, but I'm already a different person than I was then.

I'll try to update this more often, I think that will help.

New Year, New Apartment, Same Old Existential Quagmire

I've finally done it-- I have a private apartment with hardwood floors and my rent is paid. This may not be a milestone for other folk; others look at buying their first house or getting married as a momentous occasion. Considering that I plan on staying firmly enfolded in the abusive arms of academia for the rest of my natural life, this is very likely the best I will ever do. My cable magically works without a box and I'm not paying for it, the telephone has a dial-tone, and there are french doors between the living room and the dining room come library which are only missing two panes of glass.

Moving was a hurculean effort which I have no desire to revisit-- let us merely say that I have a few wonderful friends. On the topic of friends, let's provide some pen names for them. Firstly, my best friend, Hello Baby. This is also the main lyric of her internationally-recognized theme song by Ursula 1000. Some have speculated that Hello Baby is part Veela, and that is what has men falling lapping tongue over tea kettle to open doors for her. Regardless of her physical charms, she is a charming, intelligent, wonderful friend. Secondly, our mutual friend, Raw/Regal, a prominent figure both on campus and at the bar. Raw/Regal and I have a somewhat contentious history, but have of late (barring the intereference of individuals not yet mentioned and recently graduated) come to a close understanding. She is also playing host to a crew of pirates, two of them principally-- Flaxen-Hair and Jolly Roger. These two gentlemen of fortune are a basically inseperable pair, mostly traveling with their canine, Gator. Lastly (for the time being) we have Snow White, my dearly devoted friend who, when you really need her, when you're to the wall and you've got to move 12 milk crates of books to your second-floor apartment, she's there and plans to stay until not only the books are up, but the clothes and dishes as well. She's also the most loyal girl I've ever met.

That said, Snow White helped with the move every step of the way. My landlord, a biology professor on campus, is notoriously hard to reach, and I finally tracked her down the morning of the great move, nabbing the new keys at around 11 am. Snow White met me with a crock pot in which to make chili (did I mention she is a newly-minted militant vegetarian?) and her tool box, should we need it. Despite their honest intentions, Hello Baby and Raw/Regal did not arrive on the scene until almost 2 pm. We'd all gone to the hockey game the night before, but while I had returned to my former habitation to pack up my material possessions, they dicided that a fifth of vodka each sounded like a good idea. Now, we're all seasoned drinkers up here in the frozen north, but still... When they finally did appear, there was no doubt that they were still drink. Giggly-drunk. Ridiculously drunk, actually, and I really should have just sent them home, but my back was already beginning to ache as a result of the aforementioned book-filled milk crates. The two of them managed to move most everything else that I own to the new place, and several things that I didn't own, like frozen brownies, towels, laundry detergent, magnets, coupons, and an onion. Thank you, Ladies. They also violated the fourth ammendment by opening some other people's mail, but let's just forget about that.

I spent the first night in my new place on Saturday night. I would like to be able to say that I'm a real adult and am comfortable being alone, but it's not true. No, I'm a big chicken. I made Hello Baby stay the night with me. It's an old house, very creaky, and the wind was blowing. All of my powers of rationalization were not enough to keep me from yelping every time one of the pipes popped or the floor squeaked. I had confined myself mainly to the bedroom and continued unpacking until a bag tipped over in one of the front rooms. I honestly screamed and dove under my covers, which is where I stayed-- shivering all the while-- until Hello Baby rescued me from myself. She's pretty great like that.

Since then, I've been fine. Unpacking is a gradual process, but it's moving along. I discovered that I have cable which I'm not paying for, and this is indeed a blessing. 90 channels of indulgence? Yes please. It's a fine distraction. I still need to figure out how to acquire the internet in the apartment, but I'm planning on making brownies later and trotting them down to the two boys who live in the downstairs apartment. They're both Fisheries and Wildlife Science majors, and I'm wondering if they'd be willing to run a line up to my place if I chipped in $10 a month? We'll see.

I've come to the conclusion, after laying on my couch and listening to no fewer than three faucets drip in almost-unison, that I miss living with someone. Almost anyone, really. I don't particularly need a boyfriend at this stage of the game, but having someone around to fix things like the faucets or find the replacement lightbulb or eat the rest of the gulosh I made today would be nice. Just someone else, someone's thoughts other than my own. A good guy to share a roof with-- wouldn't that be nice? I'd split the grocery bill and he'd hand me my water glass when I'm all cozied in to my chair and I've left it on the coffee table.

I need another beating heart in my abode.