The Middle Path

Walking down the street is a dangerous business here.

Not only do you have to dodge homicidal cars that are driving on the other side of the road (notice I didn't say the wrong side-- I'm getting better), you also have to navigate the sidewalks. They are often more narrow than their American and Canadian equivalents, because Edinburgh wasn't planned to have perfectly measured sidewalks and roads. They are also teeming with tourists-- particularly Princes Street, North/South Bridge, and the Royal Mile.

You can spot a non-British tourist immediately by which side of the sidewalk they gravitate towards. I noticed this when I first got here, and immediately vowed never to walk on the non-British side of the sidewalk again. Interestingly, though, I was still walking into people all the time. Not just tourists, either. After a careful inspection of the natives, to use the British phrase, I think I've sussed it.

Edinburghians (is that what they're called?) have a zen-like-- hell, almost Taoist method for walking down the street. They walk down the middle of the sidewalk, letting tourists stream past on the left, and fellow Brits stream past on the right. If they spot another Scot doing the same thing, each will make a split-second decision, while still about 10 (or 20, if space permits) feet away. This way, you avoid all the awkward shuffling that nearly walking into someone entails, and you never have to make eye contact (which is often really infuriating, but that's another story.)

So, as a now confidant j-walker and sidewalk traipser on the streets of Edinburgh, I have adopted the Middle Path, the Way.

Hopefully, I'll no longer be perceived as an outsider. That's very interesting too: I have such a strong desire to belong. This need to fit in, to be perceived as an unobtrusive part of the whole is incredibly powerful, and almost everyone who moves to a new place feels it. But actually fitting in is an organic, subconscious process, and, at least in my experience, you don't realize you've started to fit in until you meet someone who's even more of an outsider than you to compare yourself with. But what a fascinating human desire!

The Magical World of Harry Potter

Here's my massive dorkiness for Harry Potter coming out.

I had an interesting thought last week, as I was accidentally riding the wrong bus for an hour and a half. I was riding the number 29, and I kept riding past shop names and street signs that reminded me of Harry Potter, and I still wonder whether it was purely coincidence. I started writing them down, and here's the result:

Pettigrew's Close (a close is the Scottish word for an alleyway or narrow street)
The Hog's Head (may have been a costume shop?)
a town called Peebles
Dobbie's Gardenworld
Dumbiedykes Road
and of course, the famous Potterow, the student union of the university. Could JK Rowling have haunted my very bus route?

After reading the entire biography of Ms. Rowling on Wikipedia, it turns out that she could very well have. She lived in Edinburgh during much of her early Potter-writing years, and frequented cafes near the university, inluding the Elephant House, which I later went to. Plus, Saint Mungo is the patron saint of Glasgow, and Edinburgh Castle and Teviot (the student union building) are said to be the inspiration for Hogwarts. This is all fascinating. Edinburgh is full of history (real or imagined), hidden staircases and obscure, off-the-beaten-path gems (not to mention mysterious unicorns and lions all over). It's not hard to think of it as the place that inspired JK Rowling. My next question is, was her decision to use the names of her surroundings a conscious one, or did each name just float around in her subconscious until it surfaced for the right character?

ok, ok, I know I've been here for weeks already...

But I've been dragging my heels about writing this blog. I'm not quite sure why. I keep on having small tidbits of blog float in one ear and out the other-- brilliant revelations, witty comments, evidence of my newfound expertise. But alas, I usually forget them before I have a chance to write anything down.

I think this blog is going to be like a somewhat lengthy twitter account, as much as I hate twitter. I will try my best not to bore you with "So today, I decided that anyone who wears the color beige has no soul" and hopefully give you a little bit of the flavor of Edinburgh.

Today, Edinburgh smelled like burnt corn on the cob, iron, and cinnamon.
- Burnt corn on the cob because that's what it always smells like. Perhaps the smell of a whiskey distillery nearby?

- Iron because I've joined a bell-ringing society, and today I got to go up into the belfry of one of the very old churches we practice at, and I saw the massive bells, with beautiful engravings and incredibly thick shells. I had to go up 5 different staircases and ladders to get to the top, but when I did, it was so wonderful. The belfry was tiny and cramped with bells and wheels and stays and ropes everywhere. I could have climbed still higher if I wanted to see the steeple. Everything smelled of dust and metal and strong, old wood. The bells are truly beautiful. More on my newfound bell-ringing skills later.

- And cinnamon because it's one of the five spices I've bought so far, and I have it every morning on my porridge. I didn't appreciate until now how wonderful the smell of cinnamon is to wake up to.