Pictures Speak a Thousand Words (And Take As Long to Edit)

I just got my camera today. These pictures are uploaded in larger sizes at this address: Scotland Picasa Album. My camera sucks in general, so I had to edit these pictures a lot. You might spot some of the artifacts, but this is a very casual look at my community, and merited only a casual editing.

This is the view from the entrance to my neighborhood. I'm the second house there.

This is what you see if you look southeast from my front yard. The tower is the city center in this case, though often these towers belong to churches. Towers nearly identical to this one mark the town centers of the old villages. About a half-mile from that steeple is the North Sea.

This is my backyard. All of the neighbors have elaborate landscaping. The Scots, like many Europeans, love gardening. Nearly every window in a Scottish house has flowers. That's my little Malibu on the right. If you look closely, you can see the fog light mounted underneath the bumper on the right side.

This is what I think is called a doucat (sp?). This is right across the street from me on the South side. Our community owns and shares this property. Though I'm not sure what it's used for now, this doucat once belonged to the monastery that owned these grounds. They kept doves inside to eat them during the winter. Yes, they consumed the international symbol of peace back then. But that's nothing compared to haggis (I'll describe that one when I talk about Scottish food). Just behind the fence is an open pasture where horses and cows graze. The picture I took of it came out terribly, so I'll post a better one later.

This is the view from the corner of the doucat looking into town. It was going to rain, otherwise I would have photographed some of the town for you also.

To get to the doucat you have to cross this little 17th century bridge. My house is just on the other side of the one you see in the top center of the frame. This little bridge is marked by the Fife Council for conservation, but it is still safe to cross. I would have photographed the little stream that runs beneath it, but I didn't want the neighbors to think I was photographing their house. I'm still the outsider here and the youngest by two generations. To be honest, the maturity and class of the people I live around is the best part of being here. There is no noise besides the occasional patter of rain or a hand hoe against moist dirt.

Below is a close up shot of the wall that runs around this little community. Rennyhill Gardens is a small community within Rennyhill. There are only six or seven houses on this little street, all designed by the same architect. If you look at the first picture, this part of the wall is just to the right of the "Rennyhill Gardens" sign. It runs around the community entirely. I've gathered that it's the old boundary of the monastery. If you squint at the picture, you can spot the number '1688.'

This is the directly across the street from me, facing east. This house is the Rennyhill Farm house. I'm not sure who lives there, but it used to be part of the rectory for the monastery and local parishes. I'm not sure if this is the same building that was used back then, but it is the same plot of land.

Well, that's all I've got to show you today. It seemed like it was going to rain, so I called it a day and went back inside. When I was driving home home from picking up my camera, you could see the fingers of God poking through the blanket of clouds. That's a neat effect I see all the time here. I'll do my best to catch it on camera.

Pimp My '97 Subaru Forrester

I dropped my car off at The Farm to have a fog light added and my headlamps rewired to meet British specifications. The Farm is an old barn converted into a car garage, but it looks mostly like a junkyard. To confound any attempt at classification, there's a propeller-less gyro-copter grounded in the front lawn. There are always cars on the elevators, but I've never seen another customer there.

They say The Farm is the best place to have work done on American cars. The head mechanic is Filipino but speaks English, supposedly. He asks me questions and I wait for Charlie to translate, but Charlie is more interested in passing along advice for shagging Scottish women. I told him I'm not interested and that I'd rather hear about my car. Then I told him that I was engaged, but Charlie spends a lot of time in the garage. The Filipino pops off the headlamps of my Malibu and traces the wiring into the engine. He is something of a legend in the world of Fife garage grease monkeys. Charlie defers to him.

I'm fairly certain that they're charging me more (roughly 250 pounds total) than I should be paying, but they are the only mechanics in the area experienced with wiring conversions like this. They also lent me a car for the next day or so and agreed to take the Malibu down for an MOT certification on my behalf. I've put too much into this relationship to back out now. "Watch out for those girls, lad! They'll work you over if you give them the chance," Charlie hollered at me as I left. I think of the bumper sticker I noticed yesterday, ["If You're Going to Ride My Ass, At Least Pull My Hair"], and wonder if there isn't a cultural lesson to be taken from this.

My loaner '97 Forrester is a right-seat drive manual transmission AWD station wagon. It took her a while to get up to top speed, especially with the parking brake on. By this time, I had already left the garage, but I still felt stupid. Sometimes you worry about the big things and forget the little ones. [By the way, Jolene, thank you for teaching me to drive stick.]

I really enjoy driving this car. Manual cars handle better on these roads. Sitting on the right-hand side, without Texas plates heralding my arrival, is also much less conspicuous. I'm no longer 'that American asshole,' but a a regular hard-working asshole who probably had a long day just trying to make an honest living. In general, the experience is less stressful this way, even though I haven't driven manual in a few years.

I went to St. Andrews today to 'matriculate,' or register as we would say. Thankfully, my West Point classmates streamlined my experience, guiding me to attendants that were familiar with our NATO status, etc.  I'm enrolled in the National Health Service as of early this afternoon. "NHS membership is mandatory," she snapped. "And free," she said, smiling.

My colleagues and I then went to an informational meeting for international students. In summary, you can't take a shit in the UK without the Home Office knowing about it. And dental care is prohibitively expensive, so good luck (the Americans laughed, but she still doesn't see the punchline). At the conclusion of the meeting there were brochures and informational memos to pick up at the front of the auditorium. Suddenly, there was chaos, as if the tri-fold leaflets were iPads or something. It felt like the Chinese Consulate all over again, if you get my meaning. The international post-graduate student body seems to be roughly 20% American, 60% Oriental, and 20% non-British European (mostly French, it seems). Each demographic advanced on the memos in their way.

West Point teaches you many things, but She never taught me to cook. This is to say, I eat one meal a day, maybe two. I would love to eat more, but 'no one does any cooking around here.' My chef is lazy and my nanny sleeps all day.

And so, the highlight of my day was finding a Subway restaurant on Market St. I love Subway, don't you? Everyone should love Subway- you'd be a fool not to. Come, live with me for a week, let me do all the cooking. You'll be beating down the doors to worship at the altar of Jared in a few days, tops.

When Scotland Doesn't Exist

When night falls, Scotland does not exist. 

Minutiae in refrain.

A Lazy Afternoon With Geniuses

After the hustle of this week, I decided to take the day easy: make a few phone calls, tidy up, etc. These tasks took no more than an hour or so, leaving me plenty of time with 'Lady Grey' Twinning's tea- a light citrus blend- and British daytime television.

I don't have many channels, certainly fewer than one would get with basic American cable. I think I have roughly twelve, but there could be more hidden on there somewhere. At any rate, I don't intend to pay for the full British experience, which, as you add more channels, begins to look increasingly like the full American experience: 24/7 sports, reality shows, bad movies, etc. -- less Glenn Beck. To the Mellas household: when I find his British likeness, you will be the first to know. At any rate, my British Telecom guide assures me that if your spirits are buoyed by misfortune, classlessness, and the wholesale liquidation of men's souls, these channels can be made available to you here just as anywhere else.

I do get, however, the BBC package. This consists of roughly six or seven channels, of which one is dedicated to Parliament and another world news. At certain times, Parliament can be quite a spectacle to watch, but I'll save this for my pending post on 'British politics,' due sometime later this year.

These notwithstanding, daytime British television at first seems designed to turn you into a computer, upgrade your RAM, and think in movements of 64-bits. See 'Countdown,' a popular and long-running game show. On this program, two people compete against each other in two types of tasks. In one, random letters are presented to the contestants and audience. The players have 30 seconds to rearrange as many letters as possible into a coherent word. A legitimate lexicographer oversees the event and validates the contestant's often obscure entries. (I won a round, by the way, 'PURLOINER' is a word of the maximum 9 characters.) In arithmetic games, players are presented with six numbers and and a target number. In 30 seconds, they have to arithmetically manipulate the numbers to reach the target. In one round, the target was 684, and the numbers were something like 75, 6, 2, 12 and 8. Both contestants reached 684 in a series of steps, but the precocious 12-year old won-- for the third episode in a row.

In fact, the show is famous for presenting freakishly talented adolescents that are better than you at anagrams. There is no reason for you to watch 'Countdown' except your desire to beat the smug little bastards on the show. In this, I was humbled, judged computationally unsound, and discouraged from ever seeking a prize copy of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Interestingly, between bouts, seemingly to allow the contestants to rest, the resident lexicographer posits theories about the origins of random words. For this, the crowd always claps thunderously, as if moved by the etymology of the phrase: 'hot dogs.' If she is to be trusted, Yale students first used 'hot dog' as a term of endearment for the oblong provisions a local vendor purveyed about campus, delicious but of dubious origin. 'Dubious origins' are her specialty, lending America's number one choking hazard ironic power over the life and death of hapless lexicographers.

A later show that appears on British prime-time is computational of a different sort. In this show, contestants have a few days to become subject matter experts in a field selected by the game show's producers. Their preparation is not part of the show, but I assume happens in their homes, perhaps after they get off work, a few days in advance. They are quizzed with difficult questions in rapid succession.

One candidate was tested as an expert of Leeds United during the [Insert Head Coach's Name Here] years. One question went something like this: "During the November 12 1985 game against West Ham, Donald Hart took a foul from Robert Nielson that bruised his left ankle and was carried off the pitch during which minute of play?" The player answered correctly without hesitation. The host continues immediately without congratulations. The questions are read incredibly fast to test the player's hearing ability, so it seems, and familiarity with the genre. Each question is copiously detailed to deny the contestant any claims of vagueness.

And so the characters rattle off every minute detail of their expertise. The show claims to educate its viewers, but the rate of information exchanged exceeds the bandwidth of a casual computer like myself.

I also watched the British version of 'Deal or No Deal.' The player was covered with burn scars and his mother, sitting in the front row of the audience, had a serious heart condition. As the game goes on you learn more about the unending misfortunes of the player. After the nth tragedy of the contestant's life is revealed, the host interjects to jest at the mother's heart palpitations. The burn victim catches the spirit, and in a matter of moments everyone is laughing over the possibility that the stresses of the game will kill his mother before he can win the money necessary to replace his eyebrows. 

Then the banker calls, but like the American version you can only overhear the host's half of the conversation. You gather that the banker's bra is uncomfortably tight and the likely cause of her recent rash of headaches. The bank and the host chat about the weather, the wankers that work down the hall, and other matters of no consequence whatsoever. After a minute or two, the game continues.

Ultimately, the player drew all the wrong boxes and came away with 5 pence. This game of chance kindled the hopes of a desperate man just long enough to dash them. He gambled the private dignity of his suffering for a coin not worth the effort required to pick up. 

Worst-case scenario, in a literal sense.

Then I realized why the host teased the mother and son when he did, the purpose of his jarring turn of humor. By his effort the characters laughed at themselves, and in the face of their personal agony- perhaps- triumphed in the realm of the spirit. This brief, light-hearted digression reinforced the qualities that make tragedy bearable and life worth living; in truth, it was a tangent with a sublime angle, one beyond the calculations of a pre-pubescent savant, but an approach to life that transcends vicissitude. The humor was clinical, perfectly timed in anticipation of the heartbreak that could later occur. What was the extended, absurd phone call with the banker but an implicit reminder that a game is only a game? I believe that the host of that show, by either design or sheer luck, brilliantly played his game. What a lesser man would say with fumbled and marketplace words, this host created in the substance of a moment.  

The last time I saw 'Deal or No Deal' in the US, the contestant, overcome with emotion, cried tears of joy or sadness after every box. She left with several thousand dollars and a trail of tears in her wake. This man, disfigured by poor luck, penniless, arm-in-arm with his suffering mother, exited the studio without a tear, head held high.

That is the difference between American and British television.

St. Andrews

I am not the only West Point graduate and scholarship winner at St. Andrews. Two of my classmates are here studying other subjects. We arranged to have dinner together in St. Andrews: my first foray to the mecca of golf, affectionately named the 'Old Course,' the burgh that invented golf and frequently hosts the British Open. Granted, it was getting late and I wasn't able to see the old 'royal burgh' in any great detail, but I can share with you some of the things that struck me immediately.

The ruins of the St. Andrews castle and cathedral are fascinating. As I've gathered from hearsay, St. Andrews was the 'centre' of the Scottish Catholic diocese that covers Fife. The church instigated the creation of the first college at St. Andrews, the third oldest college in the English-speaking world. But given that St. Andrews hosted many of the intellectuals of the Scottish Enlightenment, Reformation fever, ironically, resonated in her learned halls. The English Civil War and Reformation marked the city's decline, and, if it weren't for golf, the University might have even been moved. Maybe due to neglect arising from the Reformation and Civil War, the main cathedral of St. Andrews survives only in ruined pieces. Of course, this is what I've managed to piece together in the course of casual conversation; I haven't researched anything per se. 

Though I only drove by, the cathedral's dilapidation is what makes it so interesting. Against the backdrop of the ocean and setting sun, the place emanates a sense that I cannot accurately describe as peaceful, powerful, or mysterious; it confers all and none of these conflicting adjectives at the same time. It is in the category of things, of which we have all experienced, that humbles your vocabulary or photographic abilities. As Camus says, it is difficult to communicate the dramatic with language sterilized by common misuse in the marketplace of petty conversation. I won't dwell on it, although the glimpses I caught were the highlight of my day.

At any rate, St. Andrews is among the wealthiest communities in Scotland. In fact, most of West Fife is quite wealthy, whereas, I'm told, the East Fifers in 'coal country', some thirty miles away, are on the average below the national poverty line. In such a short distance, you go from dignified desperation to undignified trappings of class and distinction. St. Andrews is a kind of Cape Cod, and if my sources are to be trusted, certainly too few to comprise a just reading of the local sentiment, the University of St. Andrews is a school for kids from Cape Cod-- or rather the British equivalent, whatever it might be. As the home of the 'Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews,' the most prestigious golf club in the world, St. Andrews seems perfectly suited for the likes of Prince William (class of 04).

I am about 12 miles away from St. Andrews. The folk near me are well-to-do and retired, but not the type to flaunt it. My neighbors' posteriors are clear of any sticks, clubs, etc. I don't mean to imply anything negative about St. Andrews, by the way. The wealthy are attracted to it because it is a beautiful place, and it is a beautiful place because the wealthy invest in and preserve it. As soon as I get my camera, (why is that taking so long?) you can see for yourself.

I 'let,' as they say, this property site-unseen. It is in every way better than I could have expected. The landlord fully furnished it as promised and then some, complete with a three-in-one printer, broadband, some starter food, and other knick-knacks that one doesn't usually expect from a landlord. This, however, is not the lot of my classmates, who live in squalor. They were given wonderful but misleading pictures of a property that they decided to rent together. The landlord completely deceived them; where there should be sparkle, there is mold; where there should be a room, there is a locked door. A toilet, sink, and bed are broken. I have broken a toilet and a sink in my lifetime, but never a bed.

My classmates are resourceful and will undoubtedly correct the problem. But I serve this example to reiterate how fortunate I have been. At every turn, with the exception of one cantankerous call center woman, the Brits I have interacted with in the UK have been very helpful.

The Brits at the Consulate in LA, by contrast, are so entangled in bureaucracy as to be completely ineffective. Without a passport, I am a walking question mark. NATO travel orders allow me entry into the country, but they do not provide proof of identity for a bank account, university matriculation, or to purchase a glass of cheap wine from a grocery store. To summarize, it has been easier to clear customs and access secure radar facilities (RAF Menwith Hill) than buy toilet paper, crackers, and a pack of Bud Light from the local Tesco (items to be used separately).

Left-tenant

Yesterday was first my taste of US Army Europe bureaucracy. If it weren't for the helpfulness of the Brits, I can't image having pulled it off.

The short of it: I retrieved my car, got my license, registered it, applied for a VAT gas card, studied for/passed a driving test, attended a driving 'ride-along' with a British policeman, and drove 5 hours back to Scotland in one day. Bear in mind that the majority of those tasks had to be completed during normal business hours. According to the secretaries at the pass and registration office, I am the only person in the organization's history to accomplish this.  The secret is a nervous smile that, while friendly and inviting betrays a quiet helplessness. Puppy eyes, as it were. Perhaps it can be improvised, but I can only pull it off in moments of desperation, as was the case yesterday.

At any rate, bureaucracy is not the subject of this post. Driving in Britain is far more interesting.

To begin with, I've driven in five European countries and several big cities, European and American. With the exception of Prague, it's gone fairly well. Nevertheless, to a newcomer these sinuous 'carriageways,' as the Brits call them, are the most distressing.

The Left-Hand Side of the Road: This is what you expect to be the most confusing part of the experience. Indeed, it is, at first, nerve-racking. After a few minutes, however, you are accustomed to it. Occasionally, you might find yourself on the right-hand side of the implied lines of a parking lot, but you've anticipated this difference, so its easy to overcome. The hardest part is turning right onto a two-way carriageway; you have to look right first, then left (if you look to clear near-side traffic first). Your head will instinctively turn the wrong way every time, which nearly cost me my life this morning.

The Super-Roundabout- The roundabouts of Italy and Germany were fairly straightforward, or as straightforward as a roundabout can be. In Britain, however, the roundabouts are larger, three or four lanes is common (I can only imagine what London is like), and more frequent. Some even incorporate stoplights and marked lanes. The rule is, if I've got it right, that you're supposed to keep your right hand turn signal activated (as you are moving clockwise) just until you pass the exit before the exit you intend to take, at which point, you switch on your left turn signal. Roundabouts often come in rapid succession of each other, so after you leave one, you enter another in a hundred yards. It sounds easy, but it can easily overwhelm a fresh-off-the-boat American like myself.

Country Roads- However, by far, the most difficult parts of British driving for newbies happen along the country roads.  To illustrate, one road I took, maybe ten miles long, one lane in each direction, boasts a government warning sign that reads '137 Deaths on this Road in Last Five Years.' All the digits, including the hundreds place, were fastened by hand-removable screws, allowing government workers to easily update the number as appropriate. Most importantly, British country-roads are narrow. An 04 Chevy Malibu Classic only barely fits between the line and quintessentially British stone fence that boundaries the road and farmland. There is, of course, no shoulder; this is a luxury, and a sign foretelling your good fortune always precedes one. The speed limit on these roads is 60 mph and other drivers will expect you to keep that speed at least, sometimes even while turning. Since the roads follow erratic (maybe even several hundred year-old) property lines, many turns are razor sharp. The far side of the bend can't be seen, owing to the shrubbery and fencing. Drivers, it seems, go speeding around the corners blind. Today, an old lady was walking in the street (for there is neither shoulder nor 'footpath') just around a tight turn. I don't know how the drivers that pass me could have made that turn at their preferred speed without killing her. Fortunately, I drive slowly and had plenty of reaction time.

And Finally, Hamlets- Old Scottish villages have very narrow roads, but allow for street parking along the 'kerbs'. Usually, cars cannot come from both directions simultaneously without crashing. The Scots, and presumably the British also, devised a system to deal with this. If the parked cars constricting the traffic are on your side of the road, you yield to cars coming toward you, and vice versa. This is capped with a wave you give to the yielding driver as you pass. Surprisingly, this system is held to universally; I haven't seen anyone have to reverse out yet. 'Zebra,' 'Pelican,' and 'Puffin' crossings complicate the procedure, but I've already gone on enough about driving.

Needless to say, it's stressful to a novice. This is no fault of the British system, which appears to be working well enough for them.

Today, while lost in Cupar (the GPS is very hit-or-miss here), I turned into a British grocery store to relax and buy some snacks. They sell mostly groceries there, but along the back wall, to my astonishment, they have a section dedicated to motley. In little boxes, about a foot long by three inches thick, this grocery store sells 'Men's Dress Suits.' Literally, inside the little box is a full suit, folded and sized to the specifications written on the box, in different colors and with pin-stripes if so desired, for 19.99 pounds. In other boxes, of other sizes, you can buy shoes, shoe racks, dressers and end-tables (assembly required), winter coats and other things that you might happen to need but could never actually anticipate this store having. Even if you knew they sold random items, you could never know what random items they'd be selling, as the section was too small and too disorganized to be relied upon. It wasn't even a large grocery store, by American standards.

Until you can buy suits in boxes from Wal-Mart, the United States is far from bringing the illusion of class to the poor.

To RAF Menwith Hill

A car is almost essential in Fife, so I mustered the energy to take public transportation 8 hours across the border to RAF Menwith Hill to retrieve my trusty Chevy Malibu. For the record, I'm not at Menwith Hill yet, but just across the street, at pub & inn seemingly pulled from the Canterbury Tales called 'Queen's Head.' Dealing with British bureaucracy is tomorrow's challenge.

The journey was fraught with confusion and poorly prepared from the outset. If there's one thing you absolutely require in Scotland, it's an umbrella. I didn't have one, so I decided to wait out the rain. After an hour or so of waiting, I realized it wasn't going to end, and if I was ever going to get out of the house and get going, I'd need to borrow an umbrella. My neighbors kindly lent me one, nice and large, though each panel is a different color of the rainbow. Needless to say, I look like an errant "pride" poster blowing in the wind. Somewhat emasculating, to be honest.

The bus to Edinburgh follows the southern coast of Fife. It's a very pleasant ride, about 2 hours total. The coasts around Fife are gradually sloped, unlike the rock cliffs that drop to the ocean further south (near the Scotland/England border).  When you get into the more modern towns, although still quaint by any cosmopolitan standards, the clientèle gets noticeably rougher. Some fellas sport a mean face and baggy pants, haircuts like Wayne Rooney or 80's punkers. But by and large the area is dominated by old-folk, always dressed like its Sunday and ambling down the street at a pace that compliments the wonderful landscape that surrounds them in their twilight years. Scotland wants you to walk slow and breathe it in.

Edinburgh looks like a massive stone building separated by a few streets, monolithic but without any of the negative connotation. The buildings are long and identical, sometimes spanning several blocks. Edinburgh seems to be only one color, gray, and in that sense reminds me of West Point. It is beautiful in its authenticity, however. Situated on a hill overlooking the city, Edinburgh Castle is breath-taking from a distance. I wasn't able to visit it today but I'll make a point to come back.

A train ticket to Harrogate (nearest station to Menwith Hill) will put you back about 100 pounds. That's roughly $130. I couldn't believe it; that even makes Germany seem cheap. I had a moment of crisis when the machine rejected my card. Thank God I travel with two, always, just in case. The train followed the coast, passing field after field of sheep. I even spotted dairy cattle blithely galloping across the open pastures. Some even braved to scale the cliffs near the coast, presumably to chomp at the fresh windswept grass that outlines the ruins of old watchtowers, churches and castles. Happy cows from California, to quote the stateside advertisement, have nothing on happy cows from Scotland. To my shock, there was a random 'trailer park,' in the standard American sense of word, though cleaner, placed right along the cliff face. I can't imagine that property is cheap, but it doesn't seem to be desirable property either; I noticed no pricey mansions or luxury property there. Then again, who wants to live near the railroad tracks anyway?

By around 2200 I had arrived at Harrogate. The taxi driver was very affable and helpful. Perhaps because I look so young, everyone seems surprised that I'm in the military and traveling abroad by myself. It surprises them that I've gotten around without anyone making arrangements for me, maybe because they expect that someone would arrange to receive military persons. The novelty owes to my curious double-status, of course, that of junior officer and philosophy student. Like my landlord, people wonder what to make of that, if it's a good thing, common, etc. I would tell them, but I haven't figured most of it out yet, other than that Scotland is remarkable, that I like being here and am blessed by the opportunity, but, naturally, wish someone were here with me to share it with. And that I'm getting paid to do this.

At any rate, Lisa has become absorbed by her new Droid X, the unending novelty (apps for every curiosity), and I think our Skype conversation is coming to an end. And with that, this post as well.