I don’t think I left my computer for more than 4 hours at a time (and that was to sleep… when I was able to make time to sleep). My finals schedule was ridiculous and I am glad it is over. I’m officially a Dartmouth alumna. Hurrah!

Unfortunately, my birthday fell in the middle of Finals week, so I wasn’t able to do much outside of an impromptu dorm room dance party at 4 am and a delicious Italian dinner (for which I am very grateful).

Since I was living at a keyboard or inside of a stack of books, Sydney suggested I take a study break on Sunday and go to the Barras. The Barras is a large outdoor market where you can find any and everything you could possibly want. However, it is located in the East End of Glasgow which is not the safest part of the city. By the time Sydney was able to convince me to put down Herodotus’ The Histories, it was already 4 pm, meaning the Barras would only be open for another hour. It was now or never. The market is only open on the weekend and it was my last weekend in Glasgow. We made it by 4:30 to find the streets desolate. For some reason, the market had shut down early. Knowing that The Barras attracts a lot of tourists, I figured it was safe to take a photo before heading back to the West End of Glasgow. I was wrong. As soon as I took a shot, an older man approached me, rapidly and angrily.

Him: Are you a Russian spy?

Me: Uhh, no.

I shoved my camera into my bag and began to walk swiftly in the opposite direction.

Him: Then why are you taking pictures of me?!

I must have looked terrified because the man burst into laughter after I fumbled for a few words.

Him: I’m just joking.

With that, he grabbed my arm firmly. By this point, I was not only uncomfortable, but frightened. But why should I be? All he wanted to do was kiss my hand….which he did, prompting me to jerk away.

Me: (nervous laughter accompanied by a nervous smile) Thank you, sir.

Him: (back to being outraged, beating his chest) Sir?! SIR?! Don’t EVER call me SIR! It’s Wally! My name is Wally!!

And that’s the last I heard from him. We walked away as fast as we could, moving at a speed just short of an all-out sprint. Wally, little did you know that you’ve made my Glasgow experience complete.

Nostos, or Homecoming
My last final was on Monday morning. While I was looking forward to finishing it, the true light at the end of the tunnel was Middle Monday at Rio. This was my first time being a headline poet, which was exciting. The best part of the evening was spending time with talented writers and genuinely good people. The people of Rio made Glasgow feel like a second home. I’m already making plans to return to Glasgow in March for the Aye!Write festival.

I was very reluctant to leave Glasgow….so reluctant that I ended up missing my flight! My mom wasn’t too pleased about this, though I was fortunate enough to get on the next flight out of Glasgow to Amsterdam (then to Minneapolis, then to Denver). However, missing my initial flight meant I had nine additional hours in Glasgow. I watched Waltz with Bashir (highly recommend it!) and then took a nap before returning to the airport at 4 am.

This will be my last blog entry until I return to the UK, unless I think of a few humor anecdotes which were omitted earlier. Thanks for following!

–Brittany

In the gallery: Dance parties, a traditional Scottish breakfast, campus shots, and friends at Rio

Last week was Thanksgiving. Our professor arranged the event, hiring a catering company to set up a dinner of turkey, mashed potatoes and carrots. I made a white chocolate, hazelnut pumpkin cheesecake, which people really enjoyed. My mom sent a few of the ingredients to me. To my knowledge, the US is the only place that sells canned pumpkin. Also, since Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated here, it was difficult to find a few of the seasonal items. Being away from my family for Thanksgiving was strange, but I had time for reflection. I have so much to be grateful for. And though my family was thousands of miles away, I enjoyed the comfort of my Dartmouth/Scotland family. Thanksgiving was filled with all of the usual mayhem and laughs, though I had to excuse myself early to attend a poetry event. Mono (hosted by Wendy and Lorna) was holding their first year anniversary. I should have written her name down, but one of the feature poets is also a comedienne. She read some hilarious excerpts and was enjoyable to watch. As I mentioned previously, I can’t quite pinpoint the vibe of Mono, though I like it. It reminds me a bit of the vibe at the Mercury Cafe in Denver, but the atmosphere is very different.

On Friday, I had my first taste of Scottish whiskey. It tasted surprisingly smoky and rich. My friend, Piotr, insisted that I have some before leaving the country. Based on my facial expression after the first sip, he surmised that I didn’t like it, which isn’t completely true….ok, it is.

I spent the rest of Friday evening in the library since I knew I’d be out on Saturday.

On Saturday, Tawona’s event, Seeds of Thought, was held at the CCA. I’m really sorry I missed it the previous month because it was a wonderful event. The room had a proper stage, four mics and theater seats, so it was a little more formal than usual. I enjoyed the diversity of performances: musicians, singers, story tellers. Unfortunately, I had to leave early to catch my friend, Dave, perform. Dave’s band, Talking to Strangers, says they play “polite rock”. That description is pretty accurate. Their sound is reminiscent of The Killers. I really enjoyed their set; their style includes everything I love about good alternative rock: lots of feedback and distortion, bass runs, and drum solos. They just finished compiling a new CD, which will be available this weekend. I’m looking forward to picking up a copy.

Sunday-Monday, I fell into a black hole. I had an essay due on Monday (about causation of the Second Persian War in Herodotus’ account), but it took me forever to sit down and write it. I don’t think I’ve gone to bed before 5 am these last four days, so I’m looking forward to a good night’s rest after the essay deadline of Dec 11th.

Monday night, after waking up from a quick nap, I went over the Rio Cafe. I was late and groggy, unfortunately missing Bryan O’s poetry. Robin arranged an incredible line up. Donny O’Rourke was the headline poet. He had a wonderful way of using humor to highlight the beauty in every day things. His work was very impressive, particularly when he spoke about his Irish background. Because Monday was St. Andrew’s Day, Donny decided to focus most of his work around Scotland. It was a strong set.

Dennis Oliver read poems from his newest publication, “Voices”. Marc Sherland, who is the chainman of the Federation of Scottish Writers, alternated reading pieces from “Voices”. He also did a poem of his own about his childhood, which was followed by a poem on the same topic by Dennis. Both poems had very different tones, but were equally well-crafted.

I also performed at Rio, but as I said, I was a bit groggy. My voice started to go in the middle of a poem (I wasn’t speaking above a normal level, but I’m fighting what wants to be a cold, but is more like a couple of coughs every now and then). Normally, I wouldn’t mind, but this time I was on film. Murphy’s Law.

As expected, I am back in the library, in a carrel, so that if people do decide to sit next to me and make out, I can’t really see them. I’ve swapped my Donne for Marvell this week. The poem below, which I was reading just before creating my blog name (hence the reference), is one of my favorite pieces of work. Not only is it very witty, but it’s elegantly crafted, especially when the message is simple: I’m young, you’re hot, let’s get together right now. Marvell is doing a lot more with the poem in his exaggeration of a common theme starting in the classical tradition of “carpe diem” or “this is our only opportunity to get together so let’s make the most of it” (despite the validity of that statement). I also heard that bits of the poem was used in the recent film, The Time Traveler’s Wife. As much as I love Eric Bana, I don’t know if I could bear to watch the movie. Or at least pay to watch it. If it’s playing on the flight back, I guess I could bother to stay awake. Anyway, that’s a glimpse into my current happenings.

To His Coy Mistress

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

In the gallery: The inside of Oran Mor (with a multilingual floor), some shots from Thanksgiving fun, Talking to Strangers concert, a group of singers at Seeds of Thought and Dennis reading at the Rio Cafe

I’ve finally finished the first of six 10 page papers due by Dec 11–this one looked into revenge tragedy, based on the classical tradition of Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Seneca’s Thyestes to the Renaissance plays: Hamlet, Jew of Malta and Titus Andronicus. It took me much longer to write because I was really interested in it and ended up doing more research than was actually needed for my paper. Also, I’m a bit of a perfectionist when I’m not procrastinating and saving work to the 11th hour. Anyway, if you’re having any trouble sleeping, it’s a great soporific.

On the subject of stress, I have really bad stage fright, which causes a great deal of anxiety when I’m asked to recite poetry, even though it’s something I love to do. Once I’m on stage, I’m usually okay. It’s just the queasiness for hours leading up to a performance–whether it be theater, poetry, or giving a public presentation in front of a large audience. When I was younger, I used to think about being an actress, which would have been a terrible idea based on having stage fright. When I was even younger, I wanted to be a mermaid. Now, this was impossible because I couldn’t swim. So I guess I’ve always liked challenges…. or I’m just delusional.

This weekend, I had my first 20 minute set at an intimate performance event called “Kevin’s Kitchen.” Some of it was filmed by Kate Harrodine, a film student who is making a documentary on the Edinburgh poetry scene. Graham recited his first slam poem (and went first too!). He was awesome–excellent rhymes and strong content. Colin entertained us with a few songs on his guitar, a couple of covers and some of his own. I love the timber of his voice, which richly complimented the chord progressions. Sophia, a poet who has lived all over (England, Russia, Uganda, to name a few) but left the US in 2003, was on fire. She’s last year’s VoxBox slam champion and it’s easy to see why. Living in DC, she picked up on the political climate, which she incorporates into her poetry. A lot of her work deals with issues of injustice ranging from the Jena 6 (remember that fiasco?) to the fluidity and freedom of sexuality. She’s a very talented performance poet. Go to her website and check out her work!

I had a friend in high school tell me that I was probably going to die at 40 from a heart attack if I kept on stressing the way I do…and then, he revised his statement, saying that I laugh enough that it counterbalances the stress I put on my heart. It’s true, I am easily amused. I believe laughter is the best medicine and I’ll always choose smiles over tears. However, I think a healthy diet and regular exercise would be a better remedy for controlling stress. I try to lead a relatively healthy lifestyle, but I confess I’m addicted to candy. Last week, Sibyl introduced me to Minstrels, these chocolate covered creamy chocolate candies (superior to M&Ms), and I’m eating at least a pack a day now. This is in addition to the Haribo gummies, Skittles and diet Cokes I’ve been consuming (don’t worry, Mom! I supplement it with my GNC Women’s Ultra Mega Bone Density Multivitamins and a couple of fiber capsules). So, given my high candy consumption (a stage which most people grow out of), I’ve naturally become a bit worried about diabetes. After a quick Google search, I found that it’s primarily genetically linked, so I’ll let the Fates play out. I also found out that I do have a higher chance of being incarcerated, though I’m not sure if that really applies to me. If there’s one thing I’ve learned being a pre-med student, it’s that a racemic mixture results during SN1 reactions with an optically active reactant. I also learned the importance of delayed gratification. The library at 1 am on a Friday night (or rather Saturday morning) is the place to be. Recently, as I’ve cuddled up with my Donne poetry and Diet Cokes, I’ve had the pleasure of a live soap opera, which I’ve titled “Loving in the Library.” Don’t know what it is about old books and older computers that makes people get all hot and heavy but I’ve had my fair share of people making out next to me. I don’t even seek it out–it finds me (could it be that I induce romantic feelings in the people around me, like an oversized, unequipped Cupid?)! And yes, Bryan C, I’ll admit I’m a bit jealous.

Another stress relief (outside of drowning my sorrows in Minstrels–the poetry and the chocolate) is hanging out with interesting people. On Friday, Bryan O invited me to a play, a pie and a pint at the Oran Mor theater, which I’m told is a Scottish tradition. I really enjoyed the outing. The play was set in a hospital room and the three characters were a mom, a newborn (who was a grown man) and the male nurse. It provoked questions of the nature of dependency and the value of independence. The venue, a church-turned-bar, was incredible. I’ll have to return soon.

Although different cultures like to poke fun at each other, it’s always a bit uncomfortable to have people make fun of you to your face. It’s usually done lightheartedly, but it’s easy for the patriotism in your veins to push you to the defense of your homeland and customs (while laughing at the joke). Although I’ve had people say a plethora of things about Americans (usually focusing on our rude attitudes, how loud we are– often mistaken for confidence–, George W. Bush, capitalism, promiscuity, and Southern accents), I’m going to share my favorite anecdotes.

1) Americans don’t know geography.

I have tried to be polite as possible when people ask where I’m from. I usually say “New Hampshire” and explain its relative location to New York. I’ve only met two people who knew about New Hampshire. The first was into American politics and knew NH was the first in the primary elections. The other knew about it from watching West Wing (and then began humming the theme song).

I will confess that my geography is poor with the exact location of a few the Oceania islands and some of the Middle Eastern and African countries, but I certainly know the general location of most countries. Which is why I was offended when a man told me where England was.

Him: So, where are you from?
Me: I’m from the US. And you?
Him: Cool. I’m from England. You know, the country just south of here.

And he was being dead serious. I told him that I did indeed know where England was (given that we are on the SAME ISLAND!) and he said that he just wanted to make sure. Thanks, dude.

I can’t fault him completely. He cited Miss SC Teen USA as his impression of the American education system. Natasha told him that I was also a beauty queen and I could locate South Africa AND the Iraq on a map (which is true). So, not all pageant participants have trouble with that. But the ones who do get air time.

2) Americans have a very limited lexicon.

While practicing short monologues at an audition, a few of the people auditioning had questions about the vocabulary used. One asked for clarification on the word “laconic” and I added to the definition given by the person next to me. Another asked for the definition of the word “lasciviousness” and I gave a brief response, which was followed by a gasp from the person who had defined laconic.

Me: What?
Him: I’m being shown up on my vocabulary by an American!!
Me: (I laugh) So?
Him: Well, that’s just wrong.
Me: I’m an English major. I should know what these words mean.

That wasn’t good enough for him. Apparently, I could have written the entire dictionary myself and he still would not accept that people who enjoy reading tend to pick up words along the way–no matter what country they are from.

Speaking of words, I learned that “pants” in American English is not equivalent to the British word for it by surprising my stage manager. I told her that one of my actors runs onto stage without wearing pants. It wasn’t until then that I realized I should be using the word “trousers” because “pants” means “underwear” here. Whoops. A few friends left Facebook messages with other words to avoid, like suspenders (garter belt), elevator (lift), and steak and kidney pie (botulism–a Simpsons joke).

The Australian street performer in the previous post had a joke where he counts to three in various languages. Sensitive to the multicultural audience, he said the Spanish could go “uno, dos, tres”, the French, “un, deux, trois,” the German, “eins, zwei, drei” and the Americans “One…..(long pause to think)…one….”

Ouch. But I suppose, being #1 in the world, we don’t need to know any other numbers (or so we like to think).

3) Americans have terrible chocolate.
This is true.

Yesterday, before lecture began, a group of women sitting behind me were talking about candy and immediately started ragging on Hershey’s. I gave away my eavesdropping with an outburst of laughter, catching their attention.

Me: Sorry, it’s just I’m American and–

One of the ladies who just finished calling Hershey’s bland, powdered cardboard: Oh! I am soooo sorry. I just–

Me: No, you are absolutely right. Hershey’s is crap.

This put them at ease. Except then, they talked about Cadbury (which is only a half step up from Hershey’s in my book). The sad thing about Hershey’s is that you grow up thinking that is what chocolate is supposed to taste like…..until you go abroad…and then, you’re ruined. Ritter Sport is by far the best chocolate. Miles ahead of even the best British brand. It’s 100 grams of heaven, especially the marzipan kind. I need to find a German confectionery immediately.

As my Dartmouth professor said earlier in the term, “Remember, you are an ambassador for your country.” I’m doing my best to break preconceived notions of Americans. Most of the stereotypes are an ounce of truth with a bit of exaggeration. It’s all done in good fun, though.

In the gallery: the inside of the classroom for my Classics course and being silly with the ladies. I meant to take a few photos of my play, but I was too excited to remember at the time. It went well and I had a great time at the Student Arts Festival. Big thanks to everyone who has supported me along the way!!

I performed two newer poems, the first about fathers and sons, the second about my love for British men and their accents, which I present as comedy, but it’s 100% true. I was a bit apprehensive about performing the poem I used in the final round. It’s called “Black in America” and I wrote it a few months ago and have performed it once before at an event for prospective Dartmouth students from the inner cities. I’m never sure how slam poems look on the page (I used punctuation and line breaks to mark breathing patterns, not for sentence clarification), but I’m too lazy to record it now. Here it is:

Black in America

I’ve never known what it feels like to be 3/5th of a person
I was never promised 40 acres and mule,
never chased down by hounds, wading through the Mississippi under the moonlight,
never saw the symbol of sacrifice burned to send a message of hatred,
never feared for the loss of my brothers, my uncles, my fathers, my sons
their bodies contorted, strange fruit hanging from old branches
those trees know our story,

those trees harbored the wood for construction
of ships for the abduction, the generational journey, an auction block
where they were asked to show teeth as if there was something worth a smile,
the shackles, the chains, the same chains now demarcating where to Keep Off The Grass,
the structures we pass as we walk along cracked cement, looking for blossoms in the spaces between,
hoping we won’t hit our heads on the glass ceiling. Sweet chariot, swing low.

Grandmother, tell me the story of your sadness, your pain,
infectious as the men of Tuskeegee, our government
finding new ways to keep violence virulent,
to keep poor boys off the streets by putting them in jail,
to say that the president is black and prejudice is over when our women are still taken as bait,
our cities brimming with opiates, and they say we need to calm down.
They’ve never known what it’s like to be dangerous, to be criminal,
based solely on having brown skin. They see the world as bright
simply because they call us colored. They don’t see the black and white,
the wrong against right, a binary of zeroes and ones:
We learned how to survive by learning when to fight and when to run,
our skin contracting and condensing like raisins in the sun.
Tell me, how many dreams must be deferred until these voices are heard?
What in the world do we do when mammies and jezebels are
now seen as video girls? what do we do when actors with blackface are replaced
by stock characters with broken grammar from broken homes?
Someone recycles a story, meant to be a circus, meant to make us laugh, meant to shame.

This is my skin’s history
sketched in the laugh lines of old men’s faces.
They remember.
This is my skin’s history,
drawn between the lines of precocious women’s palms,
fingers folded into a fist
head high. swing low.

*****

On Saturday, we went as a Dartmouth group to see “Confessions of a Justified Sinner”, a novel-turned-play. The book, written by Scottish author James Hogg, deals with Calvinism and religious fanaticism, the latter being a salient topic, especially in today’s discussions on terrorism. The play, because it was based on a book, was very heavy on the monologues, which had a soporific effect on our group. In the middle of Act I, I turned to look at my row…and everyone was reclining, fast asleep. The play could have been better, sure, but the language (a mixture of Scots and English) was interesting as well as the set. To show the passage of time or movement from one scene to the next, there was a revolving piece in the middle of the stage. With lighting and fog effects, the stage crew could create the atmosphere of the mountains or the inside of a local bar. I was really impressed (as I’ve been with most of the plays we’ve seen) with the work that went into the set. Below, you’ll find pictures of our hearty British meals. Next to the burger is a small piece of haggis, which Natasha bravely consumed. I had my first order of fish and chips (and my arteries are all the more sorry for it). The food was delicious, though. Traditional and tasty. The new face in the picture is Claudia, Sydney’s friend from Georgia, who joined us for the weekend. She’s studying in France and Germany this year.

***
And now, a brief discourse on intertextuality, a.k.a my excuse for procrastinating

Last night, I was in the library until the wee hours, trying to write an essay for my Renaissance literature class. I’m looking at the relationship of parents and children in Marlowe’s Jew of Malta, Shakespeare’s Titus Andronicus, and Seneca’s Thyestes. In these plays, fathers kill children–and in two of the plays, the children are baked into a dish and fed to their parents. Gross, I know. Anyway, the trouble with re-visiting Shakespeare after taking a few Classics courses is that it feels like a completely different story. I don’t know how I was able to read Shakespeare before knowing the works of Homer, Ovid and Seneca. And, because I now understand many of the references, I find myself getting lost in the subtext, looking into the significance of each reference. Which is why it is taking me twice as long to read the plays (and even longer to write this darn essay).

And, while I’m posting poetry, here’s a Keats poem which captures exactly how I feel (with measured lines and a very subtle rhyming pattern) about the enhancement of work through allusions to the classics:

On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer
—————————————
Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet never did I breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold.
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes
He star’d at the Pacific – and all his men
Look’d at each other with a wild surmise -
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

***
Side note: The funny thing is that Cortez did not discover Darien; it was discovered by Balboa. So, to end on a lighter note, a contemporary poem by Scottish poet Norman MacCaig:

Reality isn’t what it used to be,
I mutter gloomily
when I feel like Cortez on his peak in Darien
and then remember it wasn’t Cortez at all
and feel more like him than ever.

—————————
in the gallery: photos from my trip to Edinburgh, including a bearing-on-brash Australian street performer

Oh well. The essay was coherent enough to be turned in on time. One down, 5 more to go. And that’s just for this week. Fun.

Last week, I went to the final lecture in a series for Black History month, given by a visiting professor from the University of Edinburgh, David Howard. The topic was “From Leith to Jamaica: Scottish Migration in the West Indies” and it talked about Scotland’s role in the slave trade. I was surprised to learn that one-third of the population in Jamaica in 1774 was of Scottish descent. Although the Emancipation Act passed in 1834, affecting all places within the British empire (and some 30 odd years before it was passed in the US), the scepter of slavery wasn’t going to disappear overnight. Dr. Howard talked about the Morat Bay Rebellion in 1865. It took one hundred years after this incident for Jamaica to nominate seven national heroes, one being George William Gordon, the son of a black slave and a wealthy Scottish plantation owner. Apparently, there are still debates about Jamaica’s national heroes. Some people believe Bob Marley should also be recognized. Overall, interesting talk about Scotland’s hand in the slave trade, focusing on Jamaica.

As a Dartmouth group, we went to see a production of the Beggar’s Opera. I have to read the 1715 John Gay version for class, so I was interested in seeing this rendition. Unfortunately, it was a big let down. As with most of the productions we’ve seen here, they made it contemporary, setting it in the near future. The set, which was incredible, created the atmosphere of living underground, in the sewers, essentially. Here, all the corruption took place as people would travel to the wealthier “upperworld” and steal from the rich. I thought the whole “underworld” doom and gloom was a bit overkill. Also, the play culminated in some orgiastic love-fest, which was a bit bizarre. The acting was sub-par. They tried to breach the metaphorical “4th wall” a few times by speaking directly to the audience, which I enjoyed. However, at the end, they added another scene where the actors discuss how the ending should be different and there’s a short discourse between a news reporter and the main character about reality and truth and media. The one redeeming part of the show was the live rock band (as opposed to an orchestra in a regular opera). They were fantastic and even interacted with the actors in a few scenes. I thought that was a nice touch. I wouldn’t recommend the production, though.

I’ve been trying to expose myself to as much theater as possible, especially since it’s a week or so until my production of Family Affair. My cast and crew have been fantastic, but it’s becoming stressful now between coordinating rehearsals, figuring out tech things (things I didn’t have to think about as an actress, ugh), wondering how to create an atmosphere that will highlight certain ideas to the audience, but not to the point where it becomes banal….. As an absurd/farcical play, I run the risk of the play becoming a 20 minute waste of time. Theater, which should be entertaining, should also be thought provoking and I’m concerned that the jokes will get across (with any luck), but the undertones will get lost in the “empty” or cyclical language of the play. We’ll see. I guess if people laugh at it (or with it), then that’s worth something.

Friday, I went to a drop in session for basketball. Of the 35 or so people who showed up, I was the only woman. It was a little intimidating at first–I worried if anyone would ever pass me the ball–but eventually, it worked out just fine. My teammates trusted me (enough to let me dribble, which tall, awkward people should not do) and I had a few good plays. Some of the guys wouldn’t play defense against me, for whatever reason (didn’t want to push me around, i had bad b.o., thought i wasn’t a threat), and it left me with a few wide open shots. I also met some awesome people from the Hellenic society. I don’t speak a word of Greek–the best I can do is transliterate. However, they were really friendly and it was great to hang out with them on and off the basketball court.

Saturday was Halloween. Earlier in the day, I went to the Britannia Panopticon to watch a Haunted Halloween show, in which Robin and Chris had a part. The Panopticon was an old theater that was used in the late 1800s to provide entertainment for those who couldn’t afford the opera. It used to house everything from a zoo to a “freak show” to singing quartets. It closed down in 1934 due to lack of patronage. Now, they hold small shows there, trying to raise awareness (and donation money) to preserve the space in hope of one day renovating it and using it regularly as a performing space again.

As I mentioned on Facebook, I was going as a cat (I found ears and a tail for 5 pounds). Ben, Hillary, Frosty and I went to a club downtown. We saw some really interesting costumes. My favorite of the night was Barbie. Ben has a picture of this and it’s great. Not only was she a Barbie doll complete with a pink outfit and bright blonde hair, but she was in the packaging as well. It must have been a nuisance to carry around a box all night, but it looked fantastic.

Last night, I went to Sammy’s open mic, where Chris was the feature poet. He performed one of my favorite slam poem of all time, “Poetry’s Lamb”, which I’ll upload to Facebook as soon as I get a chance. The overall talent at Sammy’s was really good. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the names of most of the poets, though I saw a couple of familiar faces. The restaurant/bar itself, although in the middle of nowhere, was also nice. I liked the stage area: an intimate setting in the back of the bar..the whole low lighting, wooden framed type of place. All you needed was some jazz music in the background and it would be the perfect poetry setting you see in the movies.

Food adventures:
I tried Weetabix. It said it was high in fiber on the box and it seemed really British (though I learned it was originally an Australian product), so I figured “How bad could it be?” (Famous last words). I’m adding this to the list on inedible products they sell at supermarkets. It was horrid. Like eating cardboard. Flaky cardboard. I put a picture below, just so you can see how disappointing it looks. Now, imagine how bad it tastes.

However, I found the most delicious condiment. I bought a few cans of tuna and wanted some sweet relish to go with it. Unfortunately, the only relish on the shelf was Heinz Tomato and Pepper Relish. My previous post explains my sentiments about peppers, but it was my only chance to have relish. I’ve never seen this product in the US (if you have, please let me know!), which is a shame because now I have to use one of my suitcases to transport as many bottles of this relish as possible. It was delicious. I ate it right out of the jar. Such good stuff.

In the photo collage: Halloween pictures. There’s Chris in his Frankenstein costume for the Halloween show at the Panopticon. The Teletubbies, although cute, were very naughty. Details available upon request. Ben went as himself (boring!) and Hillary created a fairy costume, leaving a bit of glitter on everything she touched. I squeezed in a picture with Susan Boyle. Didn’t get him to sing for me, however. The guys in orange are from a Scottish cartoon which I was unfamiliar with. However, the shorter guy did propose to me. Although flattered, I turned him down (wearing a cat costume should not be enough reason to want to marry someone), but I really should have taken him up on his offer so I could become a British citizen. Hindsight…always 20/20

My trip to Edinburgh would be summarized in one word: alcohol. Not on the behalf of my own actions or that of my party. However, the first and last people I interacted with in Edinburgh were drunk out of their minds. Maybe it’s a weekend thing here? I had a wonderful time with Ally and Li Nah, even though the weather didn’t want to hold up. When I arrived on Friday evening, Ally and I went out to catch up over dinner. Being a sensitive host, she asked if there’s anything I don’t like to eat. “Green peppers,” I replied. Outside of that, I eat anything”. Ally joked if I had anything against yellow or red peppers or if it was just green. Given that I’m not a picky eater, we left for a nearby Malaysian restaurant. I decided on a beef and noodle dish and to my surprise, it was covered in green peppers. Ally mentioned that she’s eaten at the restaurant several times and had never come across a dish with green peppers. Oh well. It’s my luck. We also had the fortune of sitting next to a older man who was pretty wasted. Fortunately, he was entertaining the table to the other side of him for most of the night, but he turned his attention our way when I picked up a Cosmo magazine from a nearby counter. Ally and I were commenting on how Cosmo offers some of the worst advice…and he decided to comment on the models. We left shortly after to join Li Nah’s celebration at a different restaurant/bar. A bunch of Li Nah’s co-workers were there. They were such a great bunch. We talked about everything from Question Time to the East Coast (of the US) to weather in Scotland. It was really chill.

The next day, after an amazing traditional Scottish breakfast, we went for a walk through Edinburgh. The weather wasn’t the best, but we had a great view of the city. Later, we went to a reading event at the Scottish Poetry Library. It was a tribute to poet/activist Adrian Mitchell. Alan Riach mentioned the event to me. Liz Lochhead and Kevin Cadwallender were also in attendance–it was great to hear them read. At the bus station, Ally mentioned she was reading a book about sex slaves/prostitution rings in Asia. While on the topic, I said that there’s research being conducted on ways to help women who aren’t in the social position to demand condom use….a topic which caught the attention of two drunken teenage boys. And unfortunately, they decided to sit close enough to me so that my 1.5 hour bus ride was interrupted by a raucous medley of “the wheels on the bus go round and round…round and round…round and round…everybody!” and “I’ve had a little too much to drink tonight. If you want me to shut up, just say it. But I just want to talk to you. You seem like a cool person…” and so on.

Today, I just hung out (read: did not do my work). I just got back from a great open mic night at Rio Cafe. Some of my favorites were there: Monica, Anne (the glasgow slam champion!), Chris. Robin, the MC, read a few hilarious poems. Alan did a wonderful poem about a showdown between himself and Robin in Rio. I met a poet who recently returned from a tour around the US, Bryan Owen. He spent a good amount of time in Colorado Springs and had an interesting (and accurate) perspective on the lifestyle in the US. There was a feature poet from Iceland, who incorporated a song in her native tongue (which I will assume was Icelandic, but I’m not sure). I’m partial to poems with songs in them. There was also a poet, a young guy, all the way from Alaska! I asked him if he was hanging around, but he said he was only going to be in Glasgow for another 36 hours. I was able to squeeze two of my own poems in as well. Can’t wait for the next Rio.

Over the past week or so, I realized I really love it here. Like, really, really love it. And I kind of want to stay–I’ll look into ways to make that happen. It’s not just the poetry and arts scene, although that is a strong attraction. It’s something about the people, the culture, the mentality. The Scots have a great sense of humor as well as a sharp attitude of “telling it like it is”. I really appreciate it. And, though I’m hyper-conscious of my American-ness, I always feel welcomed. It’s great.

In the photo gallery: Advice on the wall of the bathroom stall (don’t knock it….you can find wisdom in the most unlikely spaces), Sydney with a man dressed as Oscar Wilde in celebration of Oscar Wilde’s birthday, a few photos of Ben and our softball superstar Hillary practicing in a park, and the rest are shots from my journey with Ally and Li Nah. The Parthenon replica looks incomplete because it is. They ran out of money half way through the project and had to leave the structure unfinished.

Two Fridays ago (the 9th), I found my new favorite spot in Glasgow: Tchai Ovna. It reminds me a lot of Burlington,VT or Boulder, CO. Hidden down this cobblestone alleyway, adjacent to a used book store (called Voltaire and Rousseau), Tchai Ovna is a cozy, rustic oasis. They serve teas from around the world and often host open mic nights. I mentioned Burlington and Boulder because it has a 1960s counterculture feel to it. And there’s barely enough room for more than 20 people to sit inside. Yet it’s a great place to relax and start up a conversation with anyone who walks in.

The week of the 12th, I watched the “Freshers Show”, which was a play festival for new talent (which they put together in only 2 weeks!). I was also told that I play I wrote was accepted to be performed as part of the Student Arts Festival mid-November. My play, called “Family Affair”, centers around Mother, Father, Teresa the daughter, and Andrew the landscaper. Given the title, most people can figure out what the play is about. It’s a little more complicated than “Desperate Housewives”, however. By taking themes from the theater of the absurd, I was able to play around with the concept of love, family and romance. As the playwright, I am also the director. I have an incredible cast who is helping me construct staging ideas.Three weeks until showtime. I’m usually on the other side of the production table as an actress and I’m discovering (much to the frazzling of my nerves) it’s a fair amount of work to be a director.

On Thursday, Oct 15, I went to Mono, where Chris was the feature poet. At Mono (a bar, not to be confused with mononucleosis), Wendy and Lorna host an open mic called “Monosyllabic”. It brings a motley group of poets together monthly. Mono itself has a strong post-modern feel to it. I’m trying to think of a way to describe it, but I can only think of aluminum. The place is spacious, full of hardwood floors and metal tables. It has a sort of sterility to it…perhaps that creates a good contrast? I don’t know.

On Friday, I tried to donate blood, but was turned away after failing the hematocrit test. I’m not anemic. Their cut off was 12.5 and I was at 12.4. However, just in case my brain was turned off that day, they sent me a letter via snail-mail a few days later reminding me that I failed (their word, not mine) and a pamphlet on what I should be eating. Thanks, NHS.

Later that evening, I went with Sibyl to the Michell Theatre to listen to Scottish poets Jackie Kay and Liz Lochhead read as part of the Mental Health Week here at Uni. This event, entitled “The Trick is to Keep Writing”, encouraged others to work through hard times through introspection and creative writing. I had heard of Liz Lochhead prior to attending, so I was looking forward to her work. Jackie Kay was also phenomenal. She touched on subjects ranging from historical Scottish sites to Maw Broon’s Vagina to being Black in Scotland. Speaking of which, it is Black History month here. I’m going to attend a talk next week about Scottish migration to the West Indies, but I missed the talk I wanted to hear about Scotland’s part of the slave trade. Although there aren’t many Black people in Scotland, I’ve learned from talking to locals that the wealth of the colonies influenced the prosperity of Scottish cities like Glasgow and Edinburgh. I don’t know why I was under the impression that it was an exclusively English thing. There are a few exhibits on the history of Blacks in Scotland that I’ll try to check out before the month is over.

While on the subject of race, I was a bit surprised by the way people still use the words “negro” and “colored” to describe Blacks here. It isn’t done maliciously. Yet for me, those words were used prior to the Civil Rights movement and hold strongly negative connotations. I can’t fault the Scottish; I just use the word Black whenever race is called into question.

This week, I went to Radio Ga Gong with the ladies at the Tron. This event was a modified open mic mixed with a talent show. Basically, a performer had three minutes to impress the audience. If the audience grew bored, they could yell for the gong, which would be hit by Miss Lady Gong and the performer would have the leave the stage. Brutal. As part of the audience, I had a good time. There will be another event next month, called Merry Berry Holly Jolly Gong. I’m not feeling brave enough to perform, but I’ll probably attend to support others.

Yesterday, with the Dartmouth group, I went to see my first opera, The Italian Girl in Algiers. As with most of the performances we’ve seen here, it was contemporary adaptation, to the point where it was comic, but almost unsettling. The set was a TV studio, complete with everyone who is usually on set–director, stage hands, software engineers– and an enormous green screen. I appreciated the awareness the actors had of the ridiculousness of it all: at one point, men dressed from head to toe in all green pick up props and move them around the set. This was “supposed” to be surreptitiously executed, since the men blend in with the image projected on the green screen, and the objects are humorously “floating” in the background. Overall, I enjoyed myself, but I’d love to go to a traditional opera.

Tomorrow, I leave to visit Ally in Edinburgh (and thank you, Tina, for all your suggestions of places to visit!). I did see Edinburgh two years ago on a day trip. I’m glad to see it now for a longer length of time and with a good friend. I’ll return with stories that aren’t as journal-like as this post. I just wanted to give an update on what I’ve been doing.

–brit

Over the last few days, I’ve continued my exploration of Glasgow. We found a bar which serves tea in which you watch a bud bloom. The waiter/waitress brings you a glass of hot water with a closed bud and over the course of a few minutes, it opens and you can then enjoy your tea. I’ve never seen this anywhere else, so in my “i’m-a-tourist-and-i-don’t-care-who-knows-it” mode, I took a picture of it (see below).

With Hillary, I visited the Kelvingrove Museum. They have some wonderful paintings–a few Monets, a Van Gogh portrait of a Glaswegian man (his former roommate),
a Salvador Dali
and a remarkably moving Titian:

With a few of the Dartmouth students, I went to the Rio Cafe and took place in the Glasgow Slam Championship. I had a wonderful time and met some talented and fun poets. The Rio Cafe is modeled after a 1950s American style cafe, complete with old-fashioned candy. I plan on being a regular at their open mics, which are the last Monday of the month. I was also invited to be a feature poet in December. I’m honored and excited to perform.

In the gallery below, there’s Brisbane and Nattie Lite looking sexy for the International Students Dance, there are a few shots of the Kelvingrove Museum, and the writing on the wall, so to speak, inside the museum. I also included a picture of British currency, which is an utterly perplexing combination of denominations and sizes. The photo shows British coins in ascending order of value, starting with 1 pence and moving to a 1 pound coin. Why is the 2 pence larger than the pound? Why is the 20 pence smaller than the 10p? If the American dollar was not worthless now, I would dare say that I miss my own money. I mean, who needs a 2 pence coin?

After ceilidh dancing, they switched to pop music, which made the evening a little more tolerable. While waiting by the door for my friends at the end of the evening, a man (who, earlier in the evening, had tried to give one of my friends an impromptu dance lesson, complete with dipping–yes, to pop music) stood beside me and went into model stance (feet forming a “T”).

“I like the way you stand,” he said as he imitated my foot position.

“Thanks.” I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or truly complimenting me, but he had an accent (which I later found out was Lithuanian), so I let it pass.

“You know, you are very beautiful. Very tall.”

“Thanks.” I took a moment to look at him. He was about six inches shorter than I was.

“I’ve never danced with a woman taller than me before.” And he wasn’t going to get to do that tonight. Since I couldn’t respond “thanks” to this, I just kept silent. As my momma says, if you can’t say anything nice…

“Would you like to….come with me?” This was said suggestively and I did not care to find out where/who/what/when he wanted to go. The answer was no.

So I excused myself from the conversation. Unfortunately, he was not the last person to comment on my height. However, even without heels on, I still would have been taller than 90% of the guys in the room. If they’re intimidated by not being the “bigger person”, then that’s their issue. And, just in case there’s any doubt, mentioning the obvious does not count as a pick-up line. I’ve never seen anyone swept off their feet by a person saying “Hey, you have brown hair.” or “Wow, you’re currently studying in the library, drinking tea.” That just doesn’t work. Unless you’re Eric Bana. In which case, fine, you could mention the obvious and I’d let it slide.

***

On a positive note, I saw the most incredible production I’ve seen in a long time. As a Dartmouth group, we went back to the Citizens Theater to see “The Pillowman” and I can’t say enough positive things about the production. It’s a black comedy with a complicated, provoking plot. The actors were amazing–plenty of strong non-verbal communication and energy between actors. The stage crew came up with creative ways to transition between scenes. The room itself fit the play perfectly: a very intimate room, no larger than 20X20 feet. We lounged on pillows to watch the show, which tied back into the plot of the play. I am so glad we went to see this production. It was incredible.

Tomorrow is a Scottish holiday, so we don’t have any lectures. I’ve been spending most of my time reading and perfecting my baking skills. It’s beginning to get cold here, so I haven’t been spending much time outside. I am performing in a slam on Sunday (for the title of Glasgow Slam Champion haha), so much of this week will be spent memorizing poems. Nothing too exciting going on right now, which is pretty nice and relaxing.

*name changed not for privacy reasons, but because I can’t remember what he said. Between a thick brogue and slurring, I wasn’t able to catch his name. Even after asking him to repeat it. Three times.