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Road Diary JUNE 10, THURSDAY: The way to get to know a city is to walk it from one end to another, then criss-cross the streets back and forth until you've covered every section on foot and can later relate it to a mental map. In our previous visits to Edinburgh, we've probably walked the city more than most residents ever have, but not as extensively as we would have liked. Now when I read about something interesting and don't know the address, I look it up and make a note to include it on one of our hikes. The heart of Edinburgh is about six miles square, making it very walkable. Today, we set out on foot to explore an area below Toll Cross then circle around to Haymarket, up to Dean Town and back to the West End to explore art galleries -- a journey of about six miles. The more I explore this city, the more I love the architecture. In 1125, the settlement that would become Edinburgh was proclaimed a royal borough. Most of the buildings that make up Old Town were built between 1300 and the late 1600s. New Town was mapped out in 1766. Tara and I can't see enough of these granite structures with their crow-stepped gables, pepper-pot turrets and dormer windows. Neither can we conceive of tearing down buildings dating back to Medieval times to build concrete modern monstrosities. Princes Street is the worst example of this dichotomy. Georgian buildings stand beside minimalist contemporary structures ... and it doesn't work. The one thing I would most wish for Edinburgh, is for the city to rebuild, or at least reface the Princes Street buildings in a classic style. This is one of the most popular shopping streets this side of the Atlantic and should reflect the grandeur of the "Athens of the North." We have lunch at a walkup Piemaker shop. Tara has Cauliflower and Broccoli Pie, I choose Chicken and Mushroom and the kids both have Pizza Rolls. These are closed flaky pastries with the ingredients inside. They're warm on the shelves and served in a sack. Yum! With America being the fast food capital of the world, seems to me we should have at least one meal-pie franchise. Maybe someone tried and it didn't work. Or maybe it worked but only in Cleveland. But I for one would like to see a Piemaker between Taco Bell and Jack In The Box in Agoura Hills, California. Today, the temperature is in the mid-seventies and people fill the parks, eating their lunch sitting on the grass. Many males have taken off their shirts, which seems a bit of a stretch, but maybe it has mating implications. While wandering the back streets, we come upon a rubber stamp shop. Tara and Cheyenne are delighted. Hunter and I don't get it. We wander off to a newsstand and read all the magazines. Next, we look at the cars in a Ford dealership. A basic Ford Explorer costs almost $50,000 in Scotland. No wonder most of the people drive tiny cars. A very small automobile called a Ka can be purchased for about $12,000 If you can't find a parking place, just carry it up to your apartment. Hunter fantasizes driving a Chevy Suburban through the streets of Edinburgh. "The population would flee in terror," I say. "What about a Hummer?" he says. While my son mentally lays siege to Edinburgh with American vehicles, I find myself fascinated with the little posters that sit outside every newsstand. Someone, somewhere in the city, condenses the hottest news story down to a few words -- six, maybe seven at most. These news flashes are then printed and distributed to the stands to be placed in on-street A-frame holders. NUNS Probably a story about a drunk yelling obscenities as he passed the church. AMERICAN The hormonal additives thing again. When the girls finally reappear, they've purchased a sack full of Celtic stamps, embossing dust and other important things. "They gave us stamp lessons," Tara says. "You mean they taught you how to press the stamp on an ink pad and then upon a piece of paper?" I say. She ignores my sarcasm, says, "We learned how to make our own embossed stationary, envelopes, everything. I can even emboss you," she says. "Is it erotic?" "No." About the time our feet are giving out, Tara decides to stop in a cyber cafe. The kids and I go on to purchase tickets for a July 1st concert in Princes Street Gardens -- part of a huge celebration of the first Scottish parliament for almost 300 years. Scotland is determined to stage a spectacular show, because world attention will be centered on Edinburgh. Celebrations begin on the evening of June 30 with a free barbecue and live music atop Calton Hill. Then huge bonfires will be lit on Calton Hill, at Edinburgh Castle and on the Salisbury Crags. The following morning the Queen will attend the opening ceremony which will be broadcast on giant screens. Following the ceremony, a procession of 1,600 children, accompanied by pipers, drummers, and brass bands will march from the Royal Mile to the gardens. That night, two outdoor concerts are offered -- rock and opera. I'm sure this is far more than you wanted to know about the Scottish parliament festivities. But if you've read this far, you know I'm a little radical on this subject. Tara eventually meets us in the coffeeshop on the third floor of Waterstone's bookstore. We have tea while looking out the two-story windows at Edinburgh Castle glowing orange in the late afternoon sun. Bookstore and coffeeshop combos are one of the best ideas of modern man. I'm anxious to begin reading some Scottish fiction writers, so between conversations and staring at the castle, I peruse several titles. I'll begin with Alan Warner's These Demented Lands. Warner has been critically acclaimed for his dynamic prose. The cutting-edge Scottish writers are a trip into the twilight zone. I can't believe what they say and how they say it. The cabby who drives us back to the apartment says we're living "right on the edge of the 'gay village.'" His tone is negative. "They'll bring more artistic beauty to the area," Tara says. Just what he wanted to hear. Tara fixes a dinner of haggis, broccoli and cheese pies. Haggis is the national dish of Scotland -- minced heart, lung and liver from a sheep, mixed with oatmeal and pepper and cooked in a sheep's stomach. I know this probably sounds awful, but to my taste buds and to Hunter's taste buds, haggis is delicious. Tara eats a little, just to be a good sport. Cheyenne is horrified that the dish has been placed on the dining-room table. After dinner, Tara embosses paper, envelopes, paper, and more paper. "Do you have anymore paper?" she asks. I imagine her going through my whole ream of computer paper. "Nope." She looks at me suspiciously, raised hand holding a stamp. "Don't even think about it," I say.
JUNE 11, FRIDAY: Edinburgh offers more arts, entertainment and cultural events than cities ten times the size. Once the children's homework routine is complete, we'll be free to participate in more of these activities. Everything but movies. At ages 11 and 13, our children can't see 95-percent of the movies currently playing here. At home, kids can't see a PG or R-rated film without their parents. But here, even if the parents beg, the children don't get in. Today, out of all the films in Edinburgh, the kids would be allowed to see only two Walt Disney films or "Citizen Kane" starring Orson Welles. At the same time, prime-time TV parades full frontal nudity and naked men and women simulating sex. (I assume it's simulated, but maybe I'm naive). This week in the news, an English judge threw out a case against men who had filmed and duplicated video pornography, because he said, "I've seen worse on the telly." In summary, he asked the perpetrators, "Was this the best you could do?" To add to this silliness, when the five TV channels run out of soap operas, GayTime episodes and gardening extravaganzas, they show movies -- especially American movies, most of which are PG or R-rated and seemingly uncut. It is not logical, but again, it is what is. While the children swim, Tara and I set up our office in the cafe overlooking the swimming pool. The humidity is so high, we feel as if we too are swimming, and my newspaper tries to curl out of my hands. But we have our white tea and scones, comfortable chairs and screaming three-year olds to assure we remain awake. Tara quickly takes over the table with astrology papers. She is doing in-depth preparation for the psychic readings she'll provide for the people attending our Flight-to-Freedom Retreat in Lake Arrowhead, CA in August. The attendees have sent psychic touchstones and astrological data in advance. The Scotsman is Scotland's quality national newspaper. Today, they're reporting yet another sex survey, this one conducted for Men's Health magazine. Evidently over half the British respondents believe they're overweight and bad in bed. Of this percentage, 83 percent said they were not very good at sex and 56 percent were not satisfied with their sex lives. The men blamed the strain of modern life and claimed work was the number-one strain. Every paper continues to make snide remarks about a particular American televangelist, who is probably the most hated man in Scotland these days. For karmic reasons, I won't even mention his name and I try not to find too much glee in this state of affairs. After swimming, the children are famished, so we search for a restaurant in the central Leith area. This is Jazz Festival weekend and the community is decked out with huge blue banners. Dozens of jazz bands will be playing in the local bars. In one of the bars, I ask if they're serving food. The bar woman tells me, "Oh no, we'll barely be able to keep up with drink demands." The bar is nearly empty. A sign in the window says, "During festival only, we'll be serving drinks in plastic cups." Hope someone shows up. Although it feels like a very unScottish thing to do, we eventually settle upon an Italian restaurant that claims to be "children friendly." They don't lie. The place is filled with kids. The waiters take the children into the kitchen. They return wearing hats saying, "I made my own pizza at Giuliano's On The Shore." For the birthday party at the table next to us, the restaurant plays a tape over the sound system -- very loud, very long -- an animal dialogue and sing along that eventually ends with "Happy Birthday." Hope there aren't too many more birthdays. Were my pasta dish less than excellent, I might leave thinking this place is a tad too children friendly. But I don't want to be torn-faced on the subject. At home, when it's time to shop for groceries, Tara goes to Costco and fills her Jeep with enough food and supplies to last for weeks. And that's that. Here, we shop for groceries every two or three days, primarily because our refrigerator is the size of a toaster. I do, however, enjoy this process of grocery shopping, something I rarely do. While Tara scurries around the store, the kids read magazines and I study the single-malt Scotch whisky availabilities. "Hmmm, haven't tried that one. Judging from the package, this one looks wonderful." Smooth and peaty with a lingering after taste. I realize I've forgotten almost everything I learned about the subtleties of Scotch whiskey on my previous visits. Maybe it's time to return for another round of sampling at the distillery center. Of course, I've never forgotten how much I like Glenlivet. "Gee, look what's on sale here in the grocery store." Tara thinks food is a little cheaper in Scotland than in California. If true, food is one of the few exceptions. I know a very small container of the ice cream we covet would be $7 US. And in reading labels, I've found a few tricks I'm not familiar with at home. The breaded turkey cutlets are 38 percent turkey, the rest textured vegetable protein. To me, TVP is a survival-food staple, but hardly what I want mixed with my turkey prior to Armageddon. Temptation is part of a grocery-shopping mentality. In London, I purchased a big box of Tetley Tea -- hundreds of bags for £1.99. Delicious tea. But somehow it never occurred to me that we would each have to drink 12 cups a day to use it up during our stay. Now, I'm tempted by what is called "Scottish Blend" in a pyramid bag that works like a teapot. The box claims that it is "specially blended for the soft waters of Scotland." This sounds important. After all, we've become quite serious about tea drinking. "Tara, we've been using the wrong kind of tea for Scottish water," I say. "Nah," she says, which is her way of shining me on. She adds, "We already have a two-year supply of tea, Richard." I have to try it, so I purchase the smallest package -- 40 bags. Back at the apartment, I anxiously open the box, examine the pyramid bags that work like a teapot. And I brew us some tea. "What do you think?" Tara asks after a couple sips. "I think the first brand worked just fine in Scottish water."
JUNE 12, SATURDAY: A dark rainy morning. I'm quite content sitting by the heater at the dining room table, pecking away on my laptop and glancing up every now and then to see people in raincoats walking their dogs in the park. The weather inspires Tara to cook a six-course Brit breakfast of eggs, baked beans, back bacon, fresh peaches, French cheese and toast, with tea. The Spanish peaches are the most flavorful we've ever tasted. Now ... rain or no rain, we need to walk a lot of miles. After some daydreaming and more laptop pecking, it's almost 1 PM -- time for the parade. Never mind that it's pouring. You can't plan your activities around the weather in this country. According to posters around town, a parade to celebrate the Leith Jazz Festival will begin in the park by our apartment. I want to check it out in hopes of hearing bagpipers. I have no idea why anyone would include bagpipes in a homage to jazz, but neither can I imagine a Scottish parade without pipers. Happily, there are a few pipers, plus a brass band, and several flatbed trucks filled with kids from different local schools -- each echoing a historic theme. The floats appear to have been created by the children, which makes them special. By the time the parade is almost over, I've seen nothing relating to jazz. The last and loudest flatbed promotes The Edinburgh Samba School. Attractive people in form-fitting outfits shake their bums at those of us watching from beneath umbrellas. (I don't believe I just wrote bums instead of butts or asses. Not that this, in itself, is any big deal, but I've only been in the UK three weeks, with seven to go. At this rate, by the time I go home, no one will be able to understand me.) 9:30 PM -- Nobel's Bar is our first jazz-festival destination. The sidewalks are crowded with people carrying umbrellas. A half block before we reach the venue, we hear the strains of Dixieland jazz. But there is literally no way to squeeze into the bar. I'm reminded of college kids who try to fit 37 people in a phone booth. We stand outside in the rain, listening awhile before moving on to the next bar. After passing up two more packed venues, we arrive at a place supposedly offering jazz, but hear a rock band playing Steve Earle alt-country. "Copperhead Road" sucks us right in the door. There is no way to get near the bar, but we do manage standing room, because I'm getting the hang of this. It doesn't matter that there is no room. Wiggle your way in anyway. At one point, I realize three people beside my wife are jammed against my body. My arm is around Tara and the woman standing next to my wife is resting one of her ample breasts on the back of my hand. Okay. In a nearby harbor bar without entertainment, we manage to make it to the bar. I order two glasses of wine. The patrons are primarily local Scots, and their happy voices are music to our ears. Back at Nobel's, the band is on break and the crowd thin enough to wiggle our way in. We're soon standing six feet from the bandstand and listening to foot-stomping Dixieland jazz. Although I enjoy chanteuse jazz singers, I've never been a fan of Dixieland. After "Saints Go Marching In" and "Muskrat Ramble" seems to me you've heard it all. But tonight, the band plays neither and we enjoy everything they perform. At 11 PM, the sky is light blue with a splash of pink -- light enough to silhouette a Medieval church steeple ascending above the jagged skyline of 18th century tenements. I don't like to bandy about cliché words like "surreal," but surreal is the only appropriate word for this moment in my life. We hold hands and say "Ah-h-h-h" at the same time. It is still raining -- spitty rain, the same all day -- just enough to put up an umbrella, or pull up the hood on my sailing jacket. Four times since our arrival, when we've walked past South Leith Parish Church, Tara has experienced a disturbing physical reaction. "The minute I'm within range of this place, I start feeling like I have a huge lump in my throat," she says. "I don't even realize I'm near here, but about a block away the feeling starts and continues to intensify until we get here. Then as we move away, it begins to dissipate." "Maybe you're perceiving the energy of the place," I say. "Maybe." Tonight, we peer over the wall, through iron bars, to see grave monuments, the church and tower, all black against the pastel sky. A skeletal tree completes the Stephen King image. A little sign says the church was erected in 1483. "Why not ask Abenda?" Tara nods, rubs her throat. The next morning, she tells me she dreamed of being on the church grounds at night. She was dressed in a dark woolen robe, holding a candle, leading several women dressed in white robes. She heard the name "Sisters of Purity."
JUNE 13, SUNDAY: We're off to a jousting tournament at a castle near North Berwick. Billed as a "historic event," a notice says, "Spectacular jousting and Medieval entertainment. The Knights of Royal England, the top jousting company in Europe, will excite and entertain. All horses and knights are colourfully costumed, and fully armoured. The arena is set within the grounds of magnificent Tantallon Castle. Tickets, £5 adults, £3 children." We take the 10:37 AM train from Edinburgh Waverly Station. The cars look like they've traveled a few million miles, and derive their power from an electrical cable running above the train. The trip takes 33 minutes. When it's time to exit, there is a moment of panic because we can't figure out how to open the door located next to our seats. Tara watches someone else open the window, reach outside, twist the handle and exit. And that's how it's done. The whole process somehow feels like an old black and white European movie. North Berwick is an "unmanned" train station. A woman selling candy bars and newspapers is the only person available to ask questions. "Excuse me, do you know if there are any buses or cabs to take us to Tantallon Castle?" "No buses on Sunday, but I'll write down the cab company numbers for you," she says. I thank her and ask the distance to the castle. "Four or five miles," she says. Tara whips out our cell phone and starts calling cabs. No one answers. "How far is it to Tantallon Castle?" I ask a couple of fathers who are helping their children learn to ride bicycles in the train-station parking lot. "Oh, just two miles out Dunbar Road," says one, pointing the direction. The other man nods in agreement. "Two miles. Let's just hike," I say. Tara agrees. Hunter and Cheyenne balk. They don't think it will be two miles. More likely, twenty miles, and we'll have to hike back in the rain. "We're hiking," Tara says. We initially walk through an immaculate neighborhood of individual homes, all with blooming flower gardens. Forty minutes later, the houses give way to woods, then green fields that drop down to the mouth of the Firth of Forth. Atop a hill leading down steep trails to a sandy beach are four Shetland ponies. Tara and Cheyenne call out to them and all four come trotting to us. The girls pet them and offer grass from our side of the fence. This alone makes the hike a positive experience for Cheyenne. It takes over 90 minutes of straight-ahead hiking to reach the castle. "Five miles," Tara and I agree. The castle is built above the cliffs at the mouth of the Firth of Forth. Beyond is the North Sea and if you could see that far, Denmark. Sir Walter Scott wrote of Tantallon Castle: "... Tantallon vast, Once the stronghold of Clan Douglas, the castle, with its 50 feet high outer wall, was built in 1350 by William Douglas. Mary Queen of Scots stayed here in 1566. Over the centuries, this fortress withstood frequent sieges by English forces. But in 1651 Oliver Cromwell's Roundheads managed to capture and destroy most of the structure. The rain is becoming a determined drizzle by the time we enter the grounds. We've worked up an appetite, so food has first priority. Donning raincoats, we try to eat while holding umbrellas and balancing food trays. Two or three hundred people are in attendance. The only accents I hear are Scottish. The tournament is like nothing we've ever seen. Mock battles precede the main events. The four men, playing the roles of competing knights, are master horsemen who gallop at each other with lances extended. Most of the encounters end with the ball-headed lances bouncing off angled shields. But occasionally, a knight is flung from his horse to land in the dirt, which is rapidly becoming mud. I assume this is choreographed. Very impressive. The crowd is appropriately horrified when one of the knights attacks another man and throws a big gunny sack over him. The bag has a rope attached. The knight mounts his horse and proceeds to drag the man, at full gallop, all over the jousting grounds. "Ow-w-w!" Tara's eyes are wide, her expression one of shock. The tournament over, we explore Tantallon Castle, which is build entirely of red sandstone. We're glad to be inside out of the rain. Tired from hiking and a couple hours of standing, the four of us sit awhile in an archer's niche in an upper hallway. The long vertical slit in the wall allowed the archer to shoot at invaders, while making it very difficult for the enemy to retaliate. Hunter and Cheyenne are delighted with the way the day turned out, but my daughter claims she would rather live in this ruined castle forever than hike five miles back to town in the rain. I ask a kindly man behind the desk in the visitor center if he could get a cab to come to the castle. "Of course, glad to," he says. "Bless you."
JUNE 14, MONDAY: Tara has taken to fixing Broccoli for breakfast, which is probably somehow related to the weird BBC television shows she watches. The children and I do not want broccoli for breakfast. The discovery of broccoli upon my dinner plate is never something to celebrate, but I eat it because I know it's good for me. But for breakfast? "I crave it," Tara says. "Why?" "I have a broccoli thing here." "Maybe it's that South Parish church. We need to stay away from there." This is a day of work and homework. Tara goes to a computer center late in the afternoon. A couple hours later, I finish my work, save it to disc, and join my wife. She is just finishing her communications. With a few keystrokes and clicks of the mouse, my work has been transferred to our California office. We decide to have tea and a "huge" bowl of vegetarian nachos. "Whew!" Back at the apartment, the kids have finished their homework and are anxious to join friends. "Go," I say. They're delighted to have other kids their age to play with. One of Cheyenne's friends told her, "Everything in America is cool." "Did you tell him we think everything in Scotland is cool?" I ask. The Scottish kids talk the same language as our own. It's called Nintendo 64 speak and GameBoy speak -- a language no adult is capable of fully understanding.
JUNE 15, TUESDAY: This morning we airmail the last of the children's homework back to their schools. I think I'm more relieved than they are. At the west end of Princes Street Gardens is The Parish Church of St. Cuthbert. We've walked by dozens of times, and once in awhile have taken a shortcut through the ancient graveyard. Today, while waiting for several rolls of film to be developed, we decide to explore the graveyard. As you enter, a sign says, "Christian worship has been celebrated on this site for 13 centuries." Some of the gravestones could make you cry, because so many of the children died young. Other markers are confusing. As an example: Here lies I get that John and John are buried here. But what about "said" Janet? Maybe John and John had something going and Janet didn't want any part of a threesome. "Let it go, Richard," Tara says. I'm fascinated with a 12-foot monument with a huge skull and cross bones carved in relief. Assuming the man lying beneath it to be a pirate, I read: Achibald Megget Ebenzer Mill's tombstone points out he was "NOT SLOTHFUL IN BUSINESS and FERVENT IN SPIRIT." Jacobina Carter's memorial leaves an inspiring message: "Hark from the Tomb a Solemn sound, Not to soon, one would hope. While having lunch in a Lothian Road cafe, I sip Scrumpy Jack Premium English Cider, which has half the alcohol content of wine. America needs Scrumpy Jack. We watch double-decker tourist buses roll past. People sit in the open-air top deck listening to a recorded tour guide on headphones. "Choose From Seven Languages" it says on the side of the bus. In watching this parade, I realize I don't feel like a tourist anymore. Knowing our way around, knowing how things work and having our own apartment allows one to feel like a resident. When we hop a bus I say, "Two adults, two kids, two pounds forty." I drop the proper change into the coin slot. The driver nods, punches some buttons and an 18-inch receipt clicks out of a little red box. Feels like a resident thing to do. It is easiest to jump on a bus going into town, easiest to hail a cab coming home. After accomplishing our chores, I suggest we return to the Museum of Scotland, which is linked to the Royal Museum. On Tuesdays, admission is free and hours extended until 8 PM. This place, which opened last year, is a treasure. When you enter through the Museum of Scotland entrance you are greeted by two of my favorite quotes from the Declaration of Arbroath, which was sent to the Pope on behalf of Robert the Bruce in the year 1320. On your right, in large, beautiful script: "As long as only one hundred of us remain alive we will never on any conditions be brought under English rule." On your left in matching script: "For we fight not for glory, nor riches, nor honours, but for Freedom alone, which no good man gives up except with his life." Tonight, in the sixth-floor theater, we watch two films -- one about the Scottish fishing industry in 1935 and another about the British coal-mining industry in 1938. After seeing how these men worked, I feel like a wimp making my living as a writer. Hunter and Cheyenne don't believe they're trapped in a tiny theater watching flickering black and white documentaries. "But you're in a Scottish museum, watching Scottish documentaries," I say. They look at me with blank looks. No response. After the films, we follow the Scots Folk Choir through the museum. A dozen people sing ancient Scottish folk songs corresponding to particular displays. Tara and I are enchanted. The children tell us that rather than listen to this, they'll happily go back and watch more documentaries. In all fairness, I must point out that both Hunter and Cheyenne have viewed the fascinating displays for hours without complaint. The view of the city from the seventh floor roof top would be reason enough to visit the Museum of Scotland. In one breathtaking sweep you can take in Edinburgh Castle, the Old Town skyline highlighted by the spire of St. Gile's Cathedral, Calton Hill, Salisbury Crags, and Arthurs Seat. Even a torn-faced numpty would be filled with awe. To be continued ... |
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