I’ll certainly be playing up the drama.

How I got to Glencoe is almost as much of a story as what I did there. I first heard of Glencoe shortly before I left the States, when my father told me about my ancestors, the MacDonalds of Glencoe. I mentally filed away the name, on the offhand chance I somehow ended up in the town.

A couple of weeks ago, I realized I had a midterm essay due on February 16^th. That essay is the reason you haven’t heard from me in a while. I spent all last week pounding my head against my keyboard and occasionally writing a sentence or two. When I wasn’t at concerts or plays starring Zack Braff, that is. There was also a delightful teatime spent at a local cupcake bakery, but I’m getting off the already tangential track of this post…

What a reward it would be, I thought to myself weeks ago, to go on a trip after the essay is handed in. I poked around on the internet a bit, discovered there was a Youth Hostel in Glencoe, and began the overly complex process of getting myself there.

Calls were missed, buses were canceled, beds were unavailable, it really looked like I wouldn’t be able to go at all. Then on Wednesday, I got a call saying they had a place for me after all. And so began frantic last minute preparations.

The main problem was that I did not have proper shoes. I went hillwalking (yes, that’s a word in Scotland and it means exactly what it sounds like) last week with a local church group and discovered the necessity of hiking boots.

That whole experience deserves its own post but—thanks to that darn essay—will probably never get one. Essentially, I went to Narnia with a bunch of—ahem—older church members. I think that’s a reasonable summary.

The important thing is I did the whole walk in my Wellies and ended up with a gruesomely injured toe. As my only other footwear option was my Converse, I knew I was sunk.

Literally, given the terrain around here.

Fortunately, the woman leading the hillwalking group had a pamphlet prepared with information on hiking boots and so, armed with this knowledge, I headed off to Tiso, a shop on Buchanan Street, the main shopping street in Glasgow.

I cannot emphasize enough how important it is to have hiking boots that fit properly.  It can honestly be a matter of life and death. Or at least agonizing discomfort. Therefore it is highly recommended that, when you buy hiking boots, you spend two weeks wearing them around the house to see if your feet start to hurt. So I had been advised by the hillwalkers. Tiso’s return policy reflected this idea, allowing a two week exchange period provided the boots were never worn outdoors.

I was leaving for Glencoe the next day.

So I bought pair of boots, prayed the pain they caused my right foot was due to that injured toe from the previous weekend, and headed out.

Along with the two-week boot trial period, there was another piece of advice I got while hillwalking last weekend. When I said I was hoping to go the Glencoe, a woman told me about Lost Valley, which her son and daughter-in-law had visited. She herself had been too intimidated by the trail.

“It’s only about this wide,” she said, gesturing with her hands less than two feet apart “and then there’s just a straight drop.”

“Wow,” I said. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Very. It’s supposed to be beautiful, though. Worth the climb, if you’re up to it.”

“I might like to try that,” I mused.

She looked at me sternly. “Tell the people at the hostel where you’re going. And take someone with you. Someone who’s done it before, preferably. Don’t go by yourself.”

I guess I’m not good at following instruction…

Finally, Friday rolled around. After a History seminar in which I knew nothing other than that Trotsky was killed with an ice pick in Mexico (I did much better in the previous class, which focused on Machiavelli and the world of Renaissance Italy. Go figure.) I ordered my tickets online. It was a good thing I did too. The bus I had intended to take was sold out. I had to take the 6 p.m. bus, which left Glasgow after sunset. Out the windows was just darkness and rain for the whole two and a half hours.

And then, quite suddenly, I found myself on a street, in pouring rain, at 8:30 at night, without a single clue what to do next. I asked the bus driver where the hostel was and he gave me directions which ultimately proved to be wrong. Fortunatly, I was skeptical from the start, so I ducked into a hotel—the only open building in sight—and after waiting around in the lobby until I had to go to the kitchen to finds somebody I got clarified instructions.

And then promptly set out the wrong direction.

You know that feeling you get when you realize there’s something next to you even though you haven’t seen it yet? I got that feeling as I walked along the road. With a start, I looked to my left.

There was nothing. Quite a lot of nothing, actually. Just the empty black sky .

Then I realized there was a great deal of the sky that was darker than the rest. A hill, I realized. No, no, I thought to myself as my eyes kept creeping upward. That was no hill. It was a mountain.

(You were expecting me to say space station, weren’t you?)

It was as extremely disconcerting mountain, to tell the truth. If you wonder how a mountain can be disconcerting, just wait until one creeps up on you in the night.

Around about that time, I realized I was on the wrong road, so I doubled back to the hotel, found the right road, and continued through town.

It was raining buckets and I was in jeans. Bad combination there. By the time I asked a girl—the first person I encountered—if I was on the right road to the youth hostel, I was soaked up to my knees. And according to her I had another mile to go.

I passed the last house, crossed a bridge, and sighed in relief to see a sign for the youth hostel.

Then I saw what was yet to come.

The road led though dense woods. There were no lights. There were no houses. There were no cars. There was just road, wood, and dark. And that was it.

Big deal, I thought. Ooh, scary woods, I’m so intimidated.

Yes, I think sarcastically. Don’t you?

I continued into the woods, walking as fast as I could while carrying a gallon of water on each leg.

Some ways into the woods, a Land Rover rushed past me at high speed. The headlights lit up the road and trees. And then it was gone.

It was only then that I realized how dark it was. And what trouble I might be in.

Now, I had several things in my favor, and really only three against. The first thing I had going for me was my parents’ weird idea of what counts as vacation. Instead of Disneyland or the Caribbean, we go to Canada and camp. So I have a lot of experience in woods, at all hours of day or night. Also, my mother typically insists on walking at night without lights, so walking in darkness was something I’d done before. Not on a cloudy night with no moon or stars, but I was at least familiar with the sensation of walking and not being able to see all the surrounds. I also have pretty good night vision. And, strange though it may sound, I was quite lucky it was raining. The little light filtering through the clouds did nothing to illuminate the way, but it did make the water running down the road glint ever so slightly. That was the only thing that kept me from wondering of into a ditch or pond (both of which lined most of the road, I would later discover).

However, as I said, there were three problems. The first was simply that I had no idea where I was going and, if the water stopped, could wonder off the road at any moment. The second was that I was quite far from any form of civilization, and getting farther by the step. Anyone who has ever been in my general proximity knows that I’m a loud person. My general belief is that as long as I can scream, anyone within a quarter mile or so will hear me.

I was already a half mile from town, and surrounded by thick foliage. I could scream my head off and no one would hear.

That was the moment when genuine fear hit. There I was, a stupid, 21-year-old, female American. Sure I took self-defense, but that partially depends on your ability to run, which I certainly couldn’t do as my jeans got more and more laden down with water. Also, self-defense wouldn’t do me a lick of good if a wild animal came along. A rabid dog, maybe. Or some vicious Scottish creature I didn’t even know about. The possibilities mounted up in my head. Which brought me to the third problem: light.

I later realized that I was much better prepared for the trip that I thought. I had hiking boots (which were green, so I named them Leonardo after the fancy backpack I was going to get, but then I realized it was weird to call both of them by the same name, so the left one is Leo and the right one remains unnamed), a high quality backpack (called Lil Ezio because it’s the daypack from my bigger suitcase/backpack which is called Ezio), a walking stick (called Samwise—his story is yet to come), a serious raincoat, decent thermal underwear, lovely wool socks, the works.

My only flashlight, however, was a keychain shaped like a video game character.

Furthermore, it was buried in my bag, and I was not stopping in the rain to fish it out. So onward I continued in terror and damp.

Eventually I found people. A few lone houses lit stretches of the road. A man in a car stopped in the entrance to his driveway when I waved, and he confirmed I was on the right track. A girl offered me a lift, but I was soaked and didn’t want to get her car wet. At one point I wondered into the wrong hostel entirely and greatly confused some flustered Asian students before stopping angrily back out into the rain.

Finally, I made it. A Scottish woman with platinum blonde dreadlocks, several piercings, and a tattoo around her wrist that looked suspiciously like the inscription from the One Ring checked me in at the front desk and I staggered to my room, dripping as I went.

It was a very nice hostel, perfectly clean with lots of facilities. There was a drying room filled with dehumidifiers and stacks of newspaper and the overpowering smell of wet people. To be fair, it wasn’t room that smelled but all the drying gear in it; when I went into the room today when it was mostly empty, it hardly smelled at all. My backpack had stood up like a champ, but it was a bit wet in places, so I shover it full of newspaper and set it out to dry. I also put my jeans in the clothes dryer. Nearly everything in my bag was dry, however. Thank goodness for my weird habit of always packing in Ziploc bags.

I was in a dorm room meant to hold six people, but that night I had it all to myself. I ate a granola bar or two, read a little, and fell asleep feeling pretty darn proud of myself.

The next morning I packed up what I needed for a day trip, leaving the rest locked in my room (to think that I ever responded with anything less than absolute joy when my parents gave me fancy travel locks for Christmas). Then I headed out to the reception desk and asked the One Ring lady where on earth I should go for the day.

The first words out of her mouth were Lost Valley.

I pounced on the idea. “Where is that?”

“You probably want to wait until tomorrow. It’s supposed to be better weather.” We both looked out the window, where it was snowing half-heartedly. Didn’t look too bad to me, really.

“How far?” I persisted.

She showed me on her computer. “It’s a full day walk. If that’s what you want to do, then I say go for it. Just follow this path along the main road—it’s a bit boggy, be warned—and then this trail up to the valley.”

With a small topographical map left by a previous visitor and printed directions I never looked at, I set out the front door.

And stopped dead in my tracks.

You may recall that the previous night I had seen nothing during my journey from Glasgow to the hostel beyond the outline of a mountain and some trees. Stepping out of the hostile that morning was my first sight of the Scottish highlands.

When I was in middle school, my mother took a group from our church to Iona. I remember one of the days she was gone, I was at a local church with my father. It was a gray, wet day, not really raining, but threatening to. Cold enough that I was wearing a sweatshirt, but that’s about it. Outside the church was a small mound of dirt on which they’d apparently been trying to cultivate native grasses. I went and sat in the grass and figured Scotland probably looked something like that. Wet, grassy, hilly, gray. It sounded about right. It doesn’t sound like an important moment in a life, but I know that that’s the point when I started wanting to see the Scottish highlands.

It wasn’t until years after that that I even saw a mountain. I’d seen mountains when we lived in Pennsylvania (think District 12) and I’d seen the Rockies once, but for a period of nearly ten years I didn’t see anything bigger than a hill. It wasn’t until I went college searching on the east coast that I saw anything even remotely approaching a mountain in size. For some reason, I went mountain mad. It was my love of the mountains that made me want to apply to Mount Holyoke. When I went to Vermont with my grandfather and saw legitimate mountains, I couldn’t even speak I was so awed.

In short, mountains are kind of a big deal to me.

So when I finally went outside and saw the mountains of Glencoe…well, there’s really no other way to put it…

I burst into tears.

Fortunately, I can walk and cry and the same time, because I started making my way towards the road that would take me to Lost Valley.

Neither my words nor my pictures could do that walk justice. Send in a professional, and maybe they could get the job done. When I later tried to find something to compare the mountains to, the first thing that came to mind was a lion. A lion is beautiful, but it could tear you to pieces without a thought or any remorse. But in a way that’s part of its beauty, the fact that it will forever defy human control. The analogy didn’t fit, though. You can look at a lion and take it all in. But these mountains were so big, it hurt to look at them. They just kept going past your field of vision and at least my abilities of comprehension.

After a while, I think my brain got so flooded with mountaininess that is sort of shut down its awe cortex (or what have you) and I was able to function a little bit better.

In the nick of time, no less. I hadn’t realized that when a Scot tells you “it’s a bit boggy” what they mean is “how long can you tread water?”

That was when Sam came to my recue. Sam the walking stick came free with my boots (along with half-price socks!) and I nearly left him behind in Glasgow.  My roommate, Ashley Rose, encouraged me to take Sam (at that point unnamed) along because she feared for my safety.

I seem to have that effect on people…

The trail I was following was more like a streambed than a path, but with Sam’s help I could check for deep mud (I learned the necessity of this when I sank down to my ankle) and—on numerous occasions—vaulting over actual streams flowing into the River Coe.

Quick geography lesson: The name Glencoe is often spelled Glen Coe, meaning it’s the glen (think big valley) the river Coe flows through. For most of my walk, I was going down the middle of the glen, sometimes alongside the main road, sometimes completely out of sight of the cars.

It had been snowing pretty heavily and the sky was so dark I checked my cell phone. 10:35 a.m. I’d been out on the trial for about an hour. Then I realized the glen seemed to be getting lighter. I looked around, confused, and then finally turned the way I had come. Sunlight was bouncing off the mountain at the far end of the glen. It was a glorious sight.

For the next hour and a half or so, the sunlight moved through the glen, shinning off different slopes and behind different peaks. I looked around as much as I could while still keeping an eye on my feet.

As I went higher, there was more and more snow, even though the sun was out for most of my climb.

There came a point where the trail ended in a mass of boulders. Oh, there was probably a trail in there somewhere, but I lost it immediately. Fortunately, vacation with my parents had prepared me for this was well. Devil’s Tower and Niagara Glen taught me how to climb massive rock piles, while Evangola had added the bonus of everything being wet and the North Shore added unimaginable cold. Role it all together, and I was well prepared for a little rock heap in Scotland.

I only fell once.

Somewhere along the way, I began to get incredibly thirsty. My water bottle only had so much and I was concerned about saving it. As I slid around on the snow, listening to the river, I found myself thinking “Water, water everywhere and not a drop to…wait a second!”

Moments later, I had a handful of (very clean) snow in my mouth and was feeling much better about life.

I encountered other hikers along the way, all heading down, but they confirmed I was going the right way. To be honest, I didn’t know what I was looking for. Wasn’t I already technically in a valley? But onwards I went. Onwards and upwards. Twice I thought I’d reached it. I even stopped a confused German tourist and asked her to take my picture when I hadn’t even gotten there yet. But that’s all right, because they were really terrible pictures.

I figured it out in the end, though.

See those two tiny specks in the middle? Yeah, those are people.

It was a moonscape, dusted in snow. I assume it’s a seasonal riverbed, judging by the loose rock that makes up the valley floor. It gave the overall impression of being the center of something. The hidden space and the heart of something much larger. And I had the weirdest sense that it was the right place for me to be.

I sat on a rock and ate my Nutella-and-peanut butter sandwich, much to the confusion of the two other hikers in the valley. They gave me weird looks from the depth of their bundled water-proof clothes. They looked like they could’ve climbed Mt. Everest and been overdressed. Meanwhile I was sitting calmly in a sweater and track pants, probably glaring at them like I owned the place.

I had two good reasons why: first, I had climbed all the way up there, by golly. For a weakling like me, that achievement had to be worth something. Forty-five minutes of scrambling up increasingly icy rocks deserved some kind of reward. Secondly, I had been told by both the hillwalking woman and the One Ring lady that Lost Valley was known to be the location where the MacDonald family kept stolen cattle herds.

Frankly, if someone actually got my cows up there, they could keep them.

I know it sounds crazy, but cattle theft was the thing back in the day. I’ve spent so much time in history classes this semester hearing about people going around stealing cows that I’m not at all surprised the MacDonalds had a valley devoted to the purpose.

What I didn’t know as I sat there scarfing down my lunch was that this valley was also where the MacDonalds fled after the massacre. And where 40 women and children died from exposure.

When I found that out this morning (thanks to the internet instructions I never read), my reaction—were it to be reenacted by Nathan Fillion—was something like this:

All I can say is I’m glad I didn’t know that when I was there. If only because it would have made me a tinsey bit more concerned about the blizzard I watched sweep down the valley at me.

It soon became clear it was time to go.

As anyone who has ever climbed anything other than stairs knows, it is far harder to climb down than it is to climb up. I’ll admit, in the snow and the growing darkness, I became flustered and rushed. My boot slipped and I pitched forward, barely getting my hands up in time to keep from bashing my head against a rock. My right hand twisted funny and I felt a spike of pain in my thumb. I didn’t even bother getting up, I grabbed a fistful of snow and pressed it to my finger. A moment later, it was clear I’d just bruised myself under the nail. I picked myself up and soldiered on, having learned my lesson. The only real danger was rushing. If I took my time, I would be fine.

It was an absurd walk back down to the path by the road.

The storm raged on as I hiked back towards the hostel, little flecks of ice stinging my face and eyes. It was a problem I knew how to fix, actually, thanks to the million and one times I read The White Darkness. But I had no interest in destroying my glasses, I didn’t bring any electrical tape, and I was just too lazy. Ever since I’d left the valley, I’d been mentally running through all the books I’ve read about surviving (or not) in arctic conditions. Of particular concern was “To Build a Fire” by Jack London.   But my boots were more-or-less dry, so I wouldn’t be killing dogs any time soon.

Although I kept an eye out for sheep just in case.

Hey, it worked in Star Wars.

The sun came out as I hit the road back to the hostel and I was re-stunned by the area’s beauty. That couldn’t blot out the pain in my feet, so I returned to my room and collapsed in bed. It was only 4 in the afternoon.

Originally, my plan had been to get dinner somewhere, but my feet hurt so much walking was out of the question, so I ate nearly all my remaining food, leaving just a little for the following morning. I dozed off, but realized I needed to stay up longer if I wanted to sleep at all that night, so I dragged myself to the Quiet Room, wearing ever piece of dry clothing I had, and read The Amulet of Samarkand for an hour or two.

I could talk your ear off about how wonderful that book is normally, but I have to say the British version is even better. All the original slang that was cut out of the American reprint is preserved, and the jokes that didn’t translate finally make sense.

Still, I was pretty darn lonely. I’d resolved to go to the front desk and buy a can of soup, simply to have something to do, when my roommates arrived. A lovely trio of flat mates from London. They invited me to eat with them (dinner was mashed potatoes, beans, and sausage—they insisted they don’t usually eat so British) and then we all ended up in the Quiet Room together, not being at all quite but having a good time. They asked if I wanted to go with them the next day, and when I said I had to get back to Glasgow, they gave me their contact info and said if I ever needed a place to stay in London, I should just contact them.

What started out lousy turned into a lovely evening.

The next day—today—I got ready to go and was about to check out when the One Ring lady told me that she’d checked last night and all the buses to Glasgow were sold out. I had an Open Return ticket, which meant that if enough scheduled ticket holders showed up, I wouldn’t be getting a seat. So I headed out immediately, and spent an hour sitting in freezing conditions at the bus stop. I’d been told that if I couldn’t get a place on the 11:30 bus, my best bet was to take the 12:20 to Fort William and then a train to Glasgow. It was all rather funny, because Fort William is where I would have ended up if I’d gone with my flatmates. But I didn’t really feel like laughing.

Instead I invented a game of going through my MP3 player and finding music to match the scenery. The winner was “Vox Populi” by 30 Seconds to Mars. Which just shows how limited the selection on my MP3 player is.

The bus rolled up and the door opened with agonizing slowness. There was one seat left on the bus. And it was all mine.

The bus route went through the glen so I was able to share at everything all over again, this time without the worry of ankle-deep mud. I actually started to feel exhausted after an hour or so, simply from staring at all that scenery. Which sounds pathetic, I know. But you try it sometime. Taking all that in is hard work.

As we wound our way south, the mountains became more brown than white and I began to lose interest. Then suddenly we were skirting the edge of a loch (they’re very different things than lakes, really, except for maybe the Finger Lakes in upstate New York) and I had the strangest sense I’d seen it before. A particularly vivid dream I’d had early last semester had taken place on a lake just like this. It continued to look more and more like what I’d imagined, and I wondered what loch it might be. I figured I could look it up online when I got back to the flat. Then I saw the sign on the side of a barge: Loch Lomond Cruises

My first sight of Loch Lomond, another Scottish place I’d been desperate to see. I’d know it would mean a lot to me to see it, but I hadn’t expected my first thought to be, “I’ve dreamed about this place.”

So that gave me something to ponder for the rest of the trip.

Arriving back in Glasgow, I was faced with two problems. One, my legs were so stiff from the strain of the previous day and the lack of motion on the bus ride that I could hardly walk. Two, I was starving. The second problem overrode the first and I dragged myself to the nearest Greggs (a bakery chain). For some reason, I was craving a meat pie, even though I’ve only ever had a taste of Scotch pie. I ordered a steak bake and was delighted to discover that I was basically beef stew in puff pastry.

I walked back to my flat reflecting on my adventure and marveling over the wonder that is British food.

There are some things in life you have to do no matter how stupid they seem. Or are.

My act of great stupidity took place in St. Andrews, on a trip organized by the Glasgow University International Society. For £20 we got a round trip by bus, along with free entry to the castle and cathedral tower. There was also a stop at the Queensferry bridge.

I have come across Britishized (Britishised?) versions of many things I thought were purely American. Geordie Shore, the British version of Jersey Shore, remains the most horrifying example (I may have watched an episode anyway…). Most are just surprising. I did not, for example, expect to run into the Golden Gate Bridge in Fife.

There was also a cool railway bridge just down river.

Back on the bus, I was glaring at a herd of sheep (I am quite open in my dislike of the woolly brutes) when I noticed they weren’t the only white, fluffy things outside the window. It had begun to snow. A mile down the road, the ground was covered (in snow, not sheep, although either is possible).

Now, I like snow. It’s pretty, especially when admired from indoors. What I didn’t know at the time was than most of my day would be spent outdoors.

Why, you ask?

Here’s the castle:

That’s why. Not a roof in sight. Hardly any walls to speak of. Nothing but cold, cold, cold.

It was awesome.

Counting St. Andrews, I have only seen three castles in my life. One was, of course, Edinburgh Castle. The other was Warwick Castle, in England, which I saw when I was ten.

But I was more excited about something else. Since was ten, I have seen the ocean twice. The first time was on a mission trip in Belize, when I was ten. The second time was in St. Andrews.

Funny thing about the ocean: it looks just like Lake Superior…except not as clean.

The coolest part of the castle was the mine and counter-mine. In 1546, some enterprising person decided to try and take the castle by digging a tunnel under the defenses. The castle’s defenders were took a tactic I’ve never heard of before: they started digging a second mine to intercept the first. An excellent plan to insure you meet the enemy on your terms.

It sounds a little less genius when you see the remains of their first two attempts. It took them three tries to did the counter-mine, ant the first two holes are just sitting there, left open. Doesn’t make for very charming décor, really.

The third mine (which I’d call Harry, but I’ll be making enough obscure movie references in this post as it is) was a success and—more interestingly, in my opinion—is open to the public today. That’s right, in this Health and Safety-crazed country, they let you climb into a hole in the ground where you have to almost crawl for 25 yards or so before you reach a ladder down through an opening less than two feet across. At that point, you reach a cavern in which you can stand. A flight of stairs cut into the rock leads upwards, until they are blocked off by a modern wall.

I assume the larger cavern was the attacker’s tunnel, and that small hole was the point through which arrived a nasty surprise for anyone trying to take St. Andrew’s Castle.

You’d never be able to get away with leaving that experience open in the US. We’re less paranoid than the Brits, but oh the liability…

I remerged from the tunnel thinking there was nothing in St. Andrews that could be cooler than that.

I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.

Next up was the cathedral. Again, I expected a building. You know, a roof? Walls? Some sort of enclosed space?

Silly me.

It was, however, the one of the most beautiful man-made structure I’ve ever seen.

You can see the bases of columns that used to support the roof. This place was enormous!

The grounds around and in the ruins were used as a cemetery in the 18^th century, judging by the dates on the headstones. I was quite taken with this tasteful memorial.

The one remaining solid structure is actually the oldest. St. Rule (a.k.a. Regulus, if you’re interested)’s tower was built in the 11^th century to house the relics of St. Andrew.

If anyone else is looking at this picture and thinking what I was thinking, the answer is yes, this is just like the towers that would have stood in Acre in 1191. And here I swore off obscure references…

The tower’s walls are marked with its ancient history. You could see the scars of no less than three distinct roofs that this tower supported at different times.

The climb to reach the top is terrifying. Claustrophobia, acrophobia, bathmophobia, all rolled into one charming experience. Was it worth it? You tell me.

Okay, the pictures don’t do it justice. It was.

After an amazing Indian lunch, a stroll around St. Andrews University (where I was accepted after Glasgow), and a quick visit to the golf course…

…there was only one thing left on my to-do list. And it was a tall order.

Few people my age have seen the movie Chariots of Fire, which is really quite a shame. But nearly everyone has been exposed to the iconic seen from the start of the film when the main characters are running on a beach in slow(ish) motion while intensely 80’s music plays in the background. It’s the go-to music for slow-motion beach running. And if you think I’m making this up, go watch Madagascar. Actually, don’t. I wouldn’t wish that movie on anyone.

Here’s the proper scene. Gather round, children, and watch the cultural references fall into place.

That scene was filmed on the West Sands at St. Andrews. So when I got to the beach, there was only one thing to be done.

Yup, that’s me. Barefoot and coatless, at the North Sea in February. Running like a manic.

Loving every moment.

It was the same as climbing Arthur’s Seat. Life presented me with a challenge, and I knew I’d regret it forever if I walked away.

So challenge accepted, Scotland. Now someone find me some wool socks.

One of the biggest questions I got from Americans when they heard I was going to Scotland was, “Are you going to eat haggis?”

The second question was generally, “Do you know what it is?”

The answer to the second questions was always a quick yes, in the hopes that I wouldn’t have to hear about organs being stuffed in other organs, like some sort of Organception (yes, I went there). The answer to the first question was a bit more complicated. In the end, I got used to replying, “If someone offers me haggis, I’ll try it.” A diplomatic, culturally-sensitive answer that could easily save me from ever consuming the dish.

Or so I thought.

It turns out that I arrived in Scotland less than four weeks before Burns’ Night, the annual celebration of the national poet Robert Burns. His poetry is not very well-known in America, mostly—I believe—due to the fact that it is written in heavy, out-dated Scots. He’s regarded as the Scottish Shakespeare, but I find him even less comprehensible. Still, we’re all very familiar with at least one of his lines:

The best-laid schemes o’ mice and men

Gang aft agley

Translation: The best-laid plans of mice and men go often askew.

That line comes from one of his most famous poems, “To a Mouse,” which I was asked to read at a Chinese Burns Supper this past Friday.

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

My first Saturday in Scotland, I went to Google, searched “Church of Scotland” and found the closest one to my apartment. When I attended the church the following morning, I was (pleasantly) overwhelmed with how incredibly welcoming everyone was. At least five people invited me to the next meeting of the International Welcome Club, a group of foreigners and Glaswegians which meets in the church every Friday night. Curious, I went along. The club was preparing for their Burns’ Night Supper which was to be the following Friday. And since Burns’ Night was on the 25^th and Chinese New Year fell on the 23^rd, they decided to combine the two into one multi-national celebration. There would be Chinese poems interspersed with Burns’ work, traditional decorations for both celebrations, and—most intriguingly—haggis dumplings.

How could I say no to something like that?

At some point in the evening, I was recruited—along with seven or so other international students—to read part of a Burns poem on the big night. I volunteered to read the second verse of “To A Mouse,” which turned out to be the easiest verse of any of the poems because it had no Scots words. And of course, of all the international students, I was the only one whose first language was English.

We got together in The Crypt, a simple but nice café in the church basement for lunch on Wednesday to practice our pieces. My fellow Mouse readers were from Germany and Japan and had to have their lines explained to them word by word in more standardized English just so they could understand what they were saying. They assumed I, as a native English speaker, understood the poem as well as Grace, the Glaswegian woman teaching us. And there were some words that I could decipher. Years of Shakespeare and church hymns prepared me for words like e’e, wi’, thro’, strewin, and the like. The key in such cases is that it’s just a non-standard spelling; say it out loud and the meaning follows. But when we get to things like, “A daimen icker in a thrave,” I’m just as clueless as the non-native speakers. But we all muddled through and in the end I think it turned out quite nicely.

It helped that we had an actual Scotsman reading every other verse, so at least the Glaswegians knew what us foreigners were aiming for.

But you’re not reading this for poetry. You’re reading to hear about haggis. I’m getting there, don’t worry.

The supper was held in the Crypt, with tables crammed in where ever they would fit, and decorated with tartan table cloths and napkins. On every table was a bottle of Irn Bru (iron brew), a kind of soda that is the national drink of Scotland after whiskey. It is bright orange and tastes, to quote my mother, like liquid Juicyfruit gum.

Frankly, I’d rather have haggis.

Before the meal, a man from the church performed the traditional poem “To A Haggis,” which includes the ceremonial “killing” of the haggis.

Basically, the haggis is energetically and enthusiastically stabbed. Repeatedly.

I’m beginning to believe that Scotland is just inherently more fun.

My one Scottish flat mate, David, told me that his favorite part of every Burns’ Night party is the addressing of the haggis. And he was raised a vegetarian. I guess there’s something about a grown man dueling a dinner that everyone can appreciate.

Now, according to David, the haggis is a wild creature with three legs that runs around hills in the Highlands. The way to catch one is to run the other way around the hill. This causes the haggis to fall over, because it only has three legs. So kind of like a porcine Reliant Robin (Top Gear is very popular in my flat).

However, my friend Ciorstan from Aberdeen had a slightly different version of the tale. Haggis have four legs, but the legs on one side are slightly shorter than on the other. This makes it easier for them to run around those highland hills. Male and female haggises run in opposite directions around the hills so that they can meet in the middle and kiss.

Considering I was hearing this after seeing a haggis violently stabbed, Organception was honestly starting to sound more appetizing. But on to the food.  Haggis is traditionally served with tatties (mashed potatoes) and neeps (mashed turnips).

I challenge anyone to come up with a cuter name for a food than neeps. Anyone.

As anyone who spent sufficient time at church social events can tell you, church cooks are masters at serving complex foods in the simplest form as quickly as possible to huge numbers of people. It kind of like a school cafeteria, except the food is good. Consequently, the haggis, tatties, and neeps were served like shepherd’s pie. Which was probably what saved the whole thing for me, because the haggis looked vaguely like ground beef. “Ok,” I told myself. “I can handle this. It’s just like beef.”

Haggis, as it turns out, has very little in common with beef. It’s grainy, like ground beef, but the texture is not uniform. The meat is kind of squishy, while the oats mixed in are tougher.

As my friend Ciorstan from Aberdeen said, “There’s no dish you can’t make better by adding some oats.”

So. Scottish.

As for the flavor of haggis, there is a definite meaty taste that I couldn’t quite identify. I assume it’s something akin to pork. The primary flavor, however, is pepper, and some other seasonings. The tatties and neeps (I just love saying neeps) are more creamy and bland, so they cut down on the spiciness and compliment the haggis.

Maybe now’s the time to admit that I actually kind of like the stuff.

The texture takes some getting used to, but as far as the flavor goes, I could really come to enjoy haggis.

Haggis-flavored crisps are delicious. Just so you know.

Serves alongside the haggis pie were the Chinese haggis dumplings. While I liked them because you could relaly taste the haggis, Ciorstan didn’t know what to make of the texture.

“They’re really….” she said searching for the word.

“Squishy?” I offered.

“Yes, that’s it. Squishy.”

So squishy they were.

After the plates were cleared, trays of oatcakes, cheese, and shortbread were brought round to each table. And after that, they unveiled the Scottish dumpling, a kind of pudding not often prepared anymore. In the UK, pudding generally means dessert, and this pudding was something akin to a fruitcake, although very moist and tasty. Tea rounded off the meal, and by then I was ready to fall asleep on the spot. But the poetry readings were still to come.

Burns’ poems were alternated with Chinese poems and song. There was an open mic session during which people from all walks of life brought out their party pieces. People in the US talk about party pieces (or at least my mother does), but I didn’t know that a party piece was ever performed at parties.

The evening ended—as it should—with Auld Lang Syne. Unlike the gathering I wrote about before, we did it right this time. To do Auld Lang Syne properly, everyone has to stand in a circle holding hands. Then in the second verse you let go of the people next to you, cross your arms, and take their hands again, so that everyone is more closely connected.

So there you have it, my close encounter with haggis. My first close encounter, anyway. The following night (last night), Ciorstan invited me over to her flat for dinner with her and her American flat mate Alejandra. In honor of Burns’ Night, she made haggis, tatties, neeps, and sausages, and it was all amazing. I found myself taking three helpings of haggis. Alejandra, who is in her third year at Glasgow (fourth in the UK) said she likes haggis more every time she eats it, and I could see the same happening to me.

Consider yourself warned now.

“No,” I’d tell them, “because that’s where my mother went and I have to do my own thing.” Still, I wanted to see the place I’d heard so much about. I missed the trip my first weekend here because I was in Paris, so this week when my roommate said she was going and asked if I wanted to as well, I jumped at the chance and tagged along. Even though I was out until 2 a.m. last night and we were leaving at 8:15 a.m. Dragging myself out of bed, painful as it was at the time, paid off in the end.

The “Shining Castle on the Hill” as I always jokingly referred to Edinburgh while explaining my decision to go to Glasgow turned out to be just that.

And I was duly impressed.

I ended up—partially by happenstance and partially by choice—on my own for most of the day, but I’ve discovered I like it that way. I’m an extremely social person most of the time, but when I explore I’m often happiest flying solo.

After I waited in line for a half an hour in heavy wind and light rain, I got my ticket for Edinburgh Castle. The Castle offered a magnificent view of the city, and intereting glimpses into Scottish culture, both intentional and not. For example, the Honours of Scotland, or Scottish Crown Jewels, include the Stone of Destiny. Sounds pretty cool, right? It’s an impressive name for the most unassuming piece of rock you’re ever likely to come across. The stone was once a piece of the British coronation throne, before it was stolen in 1950 and taken to Scotland. Why would someone steal a slab of sandstone? Because it was originally the coronation stone of the kings of Scotland.

That’s right. Thrones are for English pansies. The Scots had the Stone of Destiny.

Still sound cool? Well here’s the problem: the stone is presented with no explanation as to what it’s doing in the same case with a shiny sword and fancy crown. In an effort to make more money, the Castle does not use any sort of placards to tell you what you’re looking at. You have to buy a guidebook at the gate if you want any useful information. So cheaper visitors (read: anyone remotely Scottish) will have no explanation for the random rock. Frankly, it looks like it’s the stand for some elaborate crown that just happened to be out at the polishers.

But if—like me (and other folks who saw The Stone of Destiny)—you know what it is, it’s actually incredibly cool to think you’re standing there so close to something that has meant so much for so long.

The wind was fierce, the cold was biting, and I hadn’t eaten in hours. I went from building to building in the castle complex in quiet desperation, seeking any sort of warmth.

Then I realized I was being absurd, so I stopped in the Red Coat Café for a bowl of overpriced but tasty and above all warm soup. Things were much better after that. I took some pictures from the castle walls, and it quickly became clear what had caught my attention.

That’s Arthur’s Seat, once supposed to be the location of Camelot. It was formed by a volcanoe, the same as the castle hill on which Edinburagh Castle is built. The lower cliffs around the highest point are called the Salisbury crags. Now, when I was a kid, I was really fond of the song “Solsbury Hill.” That song is about a different hill outside a different town, but at some point in my childhood, my father once suggested the song referred to Arthur’s Seat. My mother quickly pointed out the spelling difference and we realized it was a different hill, but for whatever reason, the idea always stuck with me. All I knew was that there was a hill in Edinburgh and I wanted to climb it.

Then I saw the hill in question. It’s quite intimidating, in a beautiful way, as it looms over the city. As I looked at it from the castle walls, I told myself, “Someday, I’ll come back and do it. Hopefully. Maybe.”

I left the castle and started wandering down High Street, walking the Royal Mile from the castle to the palace. Edinburgh proved quickly to be…disconcerting. Every other shop along High Street boasted an array of kilts in every color imaginable. Trinkets and doodads and thingamabobs bearing clan names. Plush Nessies.

The entire street was a tourist trap.

Fortunately, I wandered within hearing distance of a tour guide just in time to hear him say, “….and the only place on Earth you’ll see a statue of an angel playing bagpipes.”

Angels with bagpipes. Why not? I poked my nose into the cathedrial the guide had indicated and started to look around.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize that I was in St. Giles’, the world’s only Presbyterian cathedral.

Well, Church of Scotland. But close enough.

Visitors had to pay to take pictures, so I kept my camera in my purse. The only thing I pay for in churches I visit is the donation for lighting a candle. I always light a candle when I go to cathedrals. This time was kind of special because it was my own denomination.

I didn’t see the angel playing bagpipes, but back on the street, I found the next best thing.

Thus began a small collection of pictures of strange street signs.

I was interrupted, however, by the appearance of a startlingly modern building. After the endless line of ancient shops, this came as quite as a surprise. It turned out to be the Scottish House of Parliament, which would be quite new. I was a bit disappointed it wasn’t apartments. I quite liked the windows.

In the background, Arthur’s Seat lurked. Again I promised myself that someday I would climb it.

Then I came to the end of the Royal Mile, and this was the sight that greeted me:

So what did I do?

I climbed it.

It took me less than five minutes to remember how much I hate climbing mountains.

The wind I’d encountered at the castle was nothing compared to this. It threatened to sweep my feet right out from under me as I climbed. I was just glad the wind was always directly behind or in front of me (it ping-ponged between the two at random) as I was walking along a cliff edge.

I was short on time and in less-than-ideal shoes, so I stayed on the path along the crags, not tackling the highest peak. Something for another visit, I suppose. Something to look forward too.

I looked out over Edinburgh, terribly proud of myself.

Eventually, I had to climb down. I crossed the city and went to the Scottish National Portrait Gallery, just to see their “Hot Scots” exhibit, featuring photos of James McAvoy, Karen Gillan, and David Tennant. I walked for 45 minutes straight down one giant hill and up another to see a picture of David Tennant.

© Zed Nelson

Yeah, worth it.

But the piece of today that will always stick with me was the moment I reached the top of that hill. I won’t bother with the symbolism of the whole thing, it should be blindingly obvious. Suffice it to say that wind and rain and snow and falling rocks aside…

…I felt amazing.

Most intriguingly, I’ve discovered my heritage. As an American whose family has been on the move for generations, I’ve never had a sense of being from somewhere. At Mount Holyoke, I tell people I’m from Minnesota, but in Minnesota they know I’m from the East Coast. You can go all the way back to my city of birth, Indianapolis, but I’ve really only ever been a tourist there.

It’s like a Death Cab for Cutie song or something.

After twenty-one years of a semi-nomadic existence, I came to Scotland. And discovered I do actually have roots.

My Facebook followers may have seen my post a few days ago about going to a museum and seeing a painting of the massacre of my family. When I was a kid, my dad told me we were from the MacDonald clan. I thought that was silly, first because our last name was Newswanger and second because we didn’t sell French fries. Before I came to Scotland, he told me again. “If anyone asks what clan you are, you’re a MacDonald. We’re descended from the MacDonalds of Glencoe, who were massacred by the Cambells.”

I thought it sounded kind of cool, to be honest. A fun little fact from history involving my family. What I didn’t expect was to come face to face with an enormous painting of grieving MacDonalds looking back at the flaming remains of Glencoe. They’d fled in a hurry: at least one woman is barefoot even though there is snow on the ground. In the foreground, a man in a kilt (in the MacDonald tartan, of course) holds his crying daughter. The look on his face is one of disbelief, as if the world he knew just came crashing down around him. It was a similar expression to the crestfallen Scotsman in another painting as he watched his family leave on a boat to emigrate from Scotland. The expression of a man who has worked his whole life to build something only to see it come to naught.

I wasn’t really paying attention to that at the time, though. I was too busy wondering over the idea that I was looking at a (highly stylized) depiction of my ancestors. Distantly, vaguely, I began to get the sense that I belong here.

Then, on Sunday night, I attended a ceilidh, a traditional Scottish dance. It was for all international students at Glasgow University, so I went with my roommate, Ashley Rose, and our flatmates Rokas and Justas (pronounced Eustace), who are Lithuanian full-time students here. None of us had the vaguest idea what we were doing, so a good time was had by all. Before each dance, an eager young man holding a violin gave detailed instructions. We couldn’t hear a word, but we picked it up fast…sometimes. There was one dance which resembled something from the Pride and Prejudice miniseries that we never properly learned the steps to. Rokas decided which steps he liked best, so we sort of just skipped to those parts. I told him it was cheating, and he liked the sound of that. Lithuanians, from what I know of them, like cheating.

They’re also very, very good at it. Try to teach even a simple game like Spoons to Lithuanians (espiecally drunken male college student Lithuanians) and you will discover more ways of cheating than you ever imagined possible.

But I digress.

Beside that dancing—which was fun in spite of and possibly because of the chaotic confusion—what grabbed my attention was the music. They had a live band of string and woodwind instruments (no bagpipes) playing as we danced, and the first song of the night was “Mairi’s Wedding.” People who met me later in life wouldn’t know this, but before I discovered indie music, I mostly listened to Celtic music I got from my dad, and one of my favorites was “Mairi’s Wedding.” Instantly, I felt at home.

Many insanely Scottish things make me think of home. Ribena, Digestive Biscuits (with Nutella!), those nasty, saw-dusty crackers I’ve suddenly become fond of…All those things could be blamed on my mother, who felt the need to introduce me to Scottish food before I left the States. There are also more generally British things (BBC, for example) which I was exposed to through my family’s Anglophilia. I could be from anywhere, of any ethnicity, and feel familiarity with those things, provided I’d been introduced to them the same way.

But still there’s the feeling that there’s something more. The friendly, stingy, Presbyterian nature of the people reminds me of my upbringing. People here just love to talk. And talk and talk and talk. And drink. And then talk some more. I’m with them on the talking, at least.

It’s still a very foreign country. Everything is subtly different, even things you didn’t know could be different. Frosted Flakes and toilet paper and even basic words. Glaswegian actually qualifies as a separate language, called Scots. Most Scottish people don’t know that; they’re taught in school that the language they speak at home is just improper English, when actually it’s a branch of the language that wondered off several hundred years ago and never came back. The relation between English and Scots is roughly equivalent to Spanish and Portuguese. It’s understandable most of the time. Some of the time. Occasionally.

But amidst all the strangeness, I still feel like I can learn a lot about myself from being here. Where I came from, how that impacts me, why I am who I am.

And if I learn something academic on the side, so much the better.

I’ve always been of the opinion that you can’t tell a story properly until you know how it ends. One of many reasons I’ll never be a news reporter. So as I flew back from Paris yesterday, I knew that when I got back to my computer, I’d have one of two stories to tell: a story of final  success or of dismal failure. No middle ground. As my Facebook friends already know, the story ended in success. But what was the story?

On December 23^rd I got an email from another Mount Holyoke student, Katie, asking if I was flying through Dublin to get to Glasgow and , if so, how I was dealing with the visa problem.

Visa problem?

It turns out that Dublin counts as (basically) half in the UK, so I could get half my visa. As you could imagine, this was not good news to be getting a little over a week before I left for Scotland. And just as the University shut its doors for Christmas break. Neither Glasgow nor MHC would be contactable until January 4^th, the day I arrived. I needed a solution, fast.

The next day, a call to the immigration office at the Glasgow Airport (and a man who was incredibly nice given the trouble I was causing him on Christmas Eve) yielded the answer, and what an answer it was. Katie and I would have to leave the UK and re-enter. Hit the reset button and try again. And thus the Paris trip came about.

While my mother checked budget airlines, my father got on the phone with his sister-in-law who had a friend in Paris. Despite the insanity of the whole veture, within three days I had a ticket and a place to say. And no idea of what was going to happen.

What happened was a two-day adventure. Katie and I arrived in Paris around noon on Friday the 7^th. We took a train and then a bus, (past the French Hunger Games posters) until we reached the home of Sabrina and Conan, and their two children, Tiber and Sapphire. Their home was amazing, a two-bedroom apartment which had been extensively modified to suit exactly the family’s needs. Everyone had custom made bunkbeds up high near the ceiling to free up as much floor space as possible. The dining room/kitchen, a converted sunroom, had a loft on which Katie spent the night, and was lined with thin shelves bearing Conan’s collection of beer bottles and an impressive array of Rubik’s cubes. Katie at one point remarked how she was amazed nothing fell. Everything sat on the shelf as if its tiny space has been custom-fitted to hold it and only it.

Although the living room was fairly small, a wood-frame wall between the room and the corridor to the front door and bedrooms gave everything a feeling of openness. I asked Conan if the wood wall was original and he said yes, it was actually supporting the three stories above our heads. A little intimidating, since—as Conan pointed out—the wood was definitely showing signs of rot. The rest of the room was lined with bookshelves. Oh those bookshelves. If I’d let myself, I would have grabbed every last book. Such interesting titles, none of which I remember now, of course. In the end, I allowed myself only Memoirs of a Geisha, because I began reading it in high school and never finished (and because it was easy to reach) and Inheritance, the last Eragon book. But I think my feelings there are better suited for a different blog. You’re here to hear about Paris.

Conan drew maps for Katie and I while Tiber looked on.

“We’re a very talented family!” Tiber declared.

“And very modest too,” Conan said, laughing. “The most modest family in the world! You won’t find anyone as humble as us. We’re also not at all competitive. Least competitive folks anywhere.”

The maps quickly led to two distinct plans for our days in Paris. The first day: The Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, and Champs-Elysees. We took the Metro to the Arc de Triomphe and tried to get to the arch.

Just a note for anyone who has never been: the Arc de Triomphe is surrounded by a swirling vortex of death. Twelve roads meet at the arch and a four (or so) lane roundabout encircles the monument. The only way across is underground. I led Katir to the tunnel, remember how I’d crossed with my father on our trip years before. Sadly, commericlaism had kicked in. You now need to pay to climb up under the arch. So we continued on our way.

Around about the time Katie began to suggest the Eiffel Tower was all a French hoax (nothing like Paris to bring out the conspiracy theories), the tower came into view. It doesn’t look like much from far away. We’ve all seen pictures, after all. We know what it looks like. But when I got up close, I felt the same awe that I did when I was 15. First, there is the size, which is far larger than pictures would have you believe. Second, in my mind, is the metal work of the main arch, which is in a distinctly art-deco style.

That arch always reminds me how old the whole structure is. There are countless metal towers in the world, holding electric cables or boosting phone reception. This one is art. Art with a history. And although it is just over 110 years old, something about it feels eternal. Like it’s the hub the city turns around.

Nothing like Paris to bring out the dramatics, either.

As Katie and I walked back to the train station, we and the Parisians around us ran straight into a police barricade. Several blocks around the Arc de Triomphe were blocked off, including half the roundabout. Soldiers with guns stood watch in the orange lamplight. Although my current interests may have predisposed me to the thought, I don’t think I was alone in believing I was catching a glimpse of post-apocalyptic Paris. That’s how we’ll know the end, folks: when you can walk to the Arc de Triomphe.

A Frenchman with a Smartphone informed us that a suspicious parcel had been located. An explosion pieced the unnatural quiet. The soldiers and policeman seemed unconcerned, and let traffic reenter the street. Bad news for the brave souls attempting to beat the system and cross to the Arc de Triomphe free of charge. Katie and I laughed as they scurried quickly out of the way of irate cab drivers, and after a breife walk along the Champs-Elysees, we went back to Sabrina and Conan’s house.

My only other observation from that day is that French hard cider may be the only alcoholic drink worth drinking.

The next day took us to Notre Dame. My first reaction upon seeing the building:

“You could totally climb that.”

Assassin’s Creed has given me bad reactions when faced with a historical monument. Disney also lied to us. The building was not adorned with singing gargoyles. But it was stunning. I particularly liked the statue of Joan of Arc. If Mount Holyoke had a patron saint, it would be her.

After that, we continued on the Louvre. Or tried to. The road we took was lined with pet shops, and the call of adorable puppies was too great to resist. When we finally reached the museum, I admitted I was hungry and generally—when traveling—that is the sign I need food fast before my mood turns unpleasant. We turned back and hit a small café where I got a ham-and-cheese crepe and Katie got a hot dog (really two hotdogs in a baguette smothered in cheese).

Finally, we got to the museum. My first priority was Leo. Leo all the way. (Leonard da Vinci to you.) The Italian art wing did prove very distracting, however. For those who don’t know, I took a class in Italian Renaissance Art this last semester and completely feel in love with it. To the point where, when we got to the room holding the Mona Lisa, I was actually more interested in Veronese’s Feast in Cana painting on the opposite wall. Curse the Louvre for only having the signs in French, and for not giving enough details. What I want to know is how such a massive painting was ever moved from a small island in Venice to a palace in France. If anyone knows, please tell me!

Then we faced the lady herself.

I don’t remember being particularly thrilled by the Mona Lisa the last time I saw her, and nothing really stirred in me on this visit either, at least not at first. If there’s an image we’ve all seen more than the Eiffel Tower, it’s the Mona Lisa. That poor lady has been the subject of all manner of parody and mimicry. The thoughts running through my head were more about the painting as an object rather than a work of art. How people complain about it being small, but it’s a reasonable size for a portrait. How it’s such a shame we have to stand so far away from it. How I would go about stealing it if I had to. You know, the usual things.

Then I remembered what I’d learned in my art class. Leonardo da Vinci kept started the Mona Lisa as a commissioned portrait of a Florentine woman. The painting would never reach its intended owner, however. Leonardo kept the painting with him, bringing it to France with him, working on it up until his death. Whatever questions we may still have about him, Leonard was definitely a genius. And the Mona Lisa was the project he chose—consciously or no—to obsess over in his final years. I guess it’s no wonder people have desperately searched for hidden meaning in the painting. What was Leonardo trying to tell us? As I looked at the painting, the sense I got was something entirely different. I got the feeling it made him happy.

Now, maybe I was just influenced by this video, I don’t know. But as a person who becomes enthralled by projects, I can only imagine how much stronger those feelings would be for a genius and his final work. There were days it drove him mad, I’m sure. When he wanted to toss the panel out his workshop window and get a stiff drink. But I think there were also days, long hard days when he returned to his beloved painting and just touching up a tree in the background brought him peace of mind. We don’t need to look for any deeper meaning in this painting beyond the human struggle for perfection and the joys and sorrows that journey brings.

But I could just be projecting.

While we failed to see the other Leonardo painting I wanted to see (it’s in London now, of course…), we did see the statue of Nike I mocked last time I was in the Louvre.

Something about the statue grabbed my attention this time. I would have starred at it for a while if it weren’t for the mobs of people trying to get past to see the Mona Lisa.

We returned to Sabrina and Conan’s, I bought a baguette, we took the bus, then the metro back to the airport. The French airport was bewildering. They had us go through security at our gate. Consequently, I went through security with several items I wanted to mail from France. I left them in the custody of an EasyJet employee, who said he would mail them after his shift. Trusting soul that I am, I left them with him. We’ll see if they ever reached their destination.

I reached mine. After a bit of confusion (what’s a little more chaos after this mess?) I got my stamp and entered the UK as a Student Visitor. Six months, no extensions and no work. And thus ended the trip to Paris. And officially began my studies in Glasgow.

I wonder how THAT story will end…

Most importantly, I bought a massive bottle of Ribena (blackcurrant juice concentrate). I had to go to two different grocery stores, but I found it. A good thing I did too, because I only know two grocery stores!

A huge adventure happens tomorrow, but I won’t be able to write about it for a while. I have to leave and re-enter the UK to get my visa sorted out, so I’ll be spending 36 hours in Paris. Hopefully I will return with pictures and stories!

On another note: I have to cook for myself this semester and I have limited culinary experience. Also, I’m on a strict budget of less than $10 a day, and  not every ingredient we’re familiar with is available in the UK. Keeping all that in mind, does anyone have suggestions for things I could try to cook?

Miraculously, though, the day managed to redeem itself! International Student Orientation began today so I started to meet more and more people. It’s a strange thing, suddenly being an international student. To suddenly be on the same footing with students from China, Australia, Finland, and France. To have something that connects me with people from around the world. And they are some lovely people.

A few of us took a walk around the campus in the dark (about 5 p.m.). The university is up on a hill, so we could see the city lights and the illuminated cathedral. The main school building was also lit up and looked just beautiful. I’d tell you it looks like Hogwarts, and you’d just nod and say, “Of course it does.” But here’s a fact: Warner Bros. wanted to use Glasgow University as Hogwarts in the Harry Potter movies. The only reason it didn’t happen was because the university wanted too much money.

There are three activities included in orientations beyond just meetings: a social event, a bus tour of Glasgow, and a bus trip to Edinburgh. I can’t got to Edinburgh because I’ll be in France, and I can’t tour Glasgow because I have a meeting with my English Lit professor (I’m excited about that class because I think I’m the only study abroad student taking it). But I was able to attend the social event. There was free food and everyone got a free drink, so all the study abroad/exchange students showed up. There were a lot of drink options, but most of us went with beer or hard cider. I took the cider myself, a good choice considering I hadn’t eaten much during the day and they didn’t give us food until we’d been there for a while.

It was a fantastic time. There was a pop quiz on Scotland, Glasgow, and the Glaswegian dialect. All in good fun, of course, nothing serious because most of us were buzzed by then. We took the test in teams. My team didn’t get all the questions right (we knew Gordon Brown wasn’t Prime Minister anymore but had no idea who the new guy is) but we won a box of chocolates for having the best team name: Team Number Ultraviolet Awesome.

Music played and several of the French students did dances none of us recognized, but we applauded enthusiastically all the same. People exchanged names to find each other on Facebook because a good number of us still don’t have phones. At some point a girl from a student group that works to welcome international students and show them Glasgow came to our table to ask if we wanted to go to “acoustic night” at a nearby flat. Some people had other commitments, but a few of us tagged along.

A ceilidh (pronounced like “kaylee”) is a Scottish dance. One of the Glasgow students tonight said “it’s like a barn dance, except not awkward and everyone has a good time.” But originally the term just meant a get-together where people played music, sang songs, read poems, and basically shared their talents to make a good evening for everyone. Tonight, I found myself in that sort of ceilidh. Local students played guitar, a Finnish study abroad student played a song he wrote, a Middle Eastern full-time student told a funny story that had us all laughing. One Glasgow student sang a hymn, another played hymns in a flute duet, the girl who had invited us read a poem in Gaelic, another read a humorous short story demonstrating a variety of Scottish accents. Between performances, we passed around snacks and talked to Glasgow students. I finally got a definitive answer on the difference between lemonade (what we’d know as lemon-lime soda), homemade lemonade (what we’d call lemonade), and lemon squash (juice concentrate that doesn’t even pretend to contain real lemons). We were also told one or two words we should never say. My only concern is I knew them both beforehand, so I wonder what social faux pas still lurk in my future…

The best part of the evening was when they passed around copies of “Auld Lang Syne,” with translation. Before I left Minnesota, my parents told me a ceilidh always ends with everyone singing “Auld Lang Syne.” So when we sat there, forty or so people cramed into a tiny flat, all singing this song, I realized for about the thousandth time, “I have arrived.”

I’ve seen a man in a kilt. I’ve heard bagpipes (and I’m seriously considering taking them up). I’ve seen phone booths, post boxes, cars on the wrong side of the road. I’ve even met someone who spent a day with Daniel Radcliffe. Every moment, there’s a new reminder of where I am. And every time, I’m still surprised. How did I get here? It still blows my mind, and will for some time. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over it.

Yes, some things are difficult. It’s not easy to make such a major adjustment to your life. But right now? I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

Since I have yet to meet my roommate or flatmates, I’ll hold off on talking about my apartment for now. It’s not at all what I expected, but I’m already kind of getting fond of it. Maybe it’s the cool staircase. Or the feeling of going to the kitchen to make my own food (I ordered pots and pans, etc. ahead of time and they all arrived!). Or maybe it’s the fact that, after approximately 24 hours without sleep, I entered my room to find a made bed. It’s the little things in life.

There’s still a lot to do, of course. My next task is to buy a new cell phone. Or maybe just finish this sandwich.