these weeks in the odyssey
9.20.99 -- 10.4.99
edinburgh, scotland

Workingman's Blues

Work sucks. I mean, let's face it -- unless you're Michael Jordan or a tournament bass fisherman, work pretty much just sucks. Oh, sure, I suppose you could be one of those namby-pamby "fulfilled" people you read about sometimes -- you know, the ones who read that "Do What You Love, The Money Will Follow" book and are now out there carving handsome duck decoys that cleverly double as toilet paper dispensers, selling them out of their RVs at craft festivals up and down the coast. Sadly, those people never saw the subtitle for that book: "Do What You Love, The Money Will Follow That Guy In The Suit On The Way To His Job At Salomon Brothers, Leaving You Penniless And Hungry And With No Toilet Paper To Put On Your Handsome Duck Decoys.. .Dumbass." The whole thing was actually just a giant prank orchestrated by Pat Buchanan as a way to exact revenge on hippies, democrats, and people who adopt new lifestyles based on catchy book titles. Old Pat tends to have a lot of time on his hands for vengeful pranks, given how well his presidential bids traditionally turn out.

The point of all this, however, was not to make fun of Pat Buchanan (noble cause though that may be). No. The point was that I've been working waaay too much during the last month, cramming each waking moment chock full of technical writing glee while the city of Edinburgh, with all its reputed charms, has been just sitting there, right outside my apartment window, just beyond my laptop screen, waiting patiently for me to cast off my employer's shackles and revel in all that it has to offer. Waiting for me to get on the open-topped tourist bus of life (pictured at right) as it were. That was the point. What, you mean you didn't get that from context?

Of course, it's not just the fair city of Edinburgh that's been waiting. There's also the fair wife known as Kristanne who has also been waiting. You see, even though Kristanne hasn't really been "working," per se, she's still been cooped up inside with me, rarely leaving the apartment. Of course, she would probably leave the apartment more often if I didn't explicitly forbid her from doing so. I guess I'm kind of a controlling husband that way. It's just that I can't stand for her to have fun if I can't. That's fair, right? Marriage is all about sharing the little experiences, after all. Don't you think?

So, while I've been working day and night, Kristanne has been "sharing the little experiences" by gradually going insane. Oh, to be sure, it started small -- the little sock puppet friend with whom she shares long, intimate conversations (named "Whistle Binkie," if you're curious) -- but has rapidly devolved into something much bigger, much more insidious, much more out and out frightening. Matters finally culminated in last week's prolonged episode of simmering psychotic rage wherein she spent an entire day repeatedly piercing Whistle Binkie with a paper clip whilst rocking slowly on her haunches and chanting, "Bad Binkie bye-bye...Bad Binkie bye-bye" in an eerie sing-song falsetto. Yikes.

In addition to plumbing the depths of madness, however, Kristanne has also been doing a lot of cooking. "Idle hands," as Kristanne likes to say, "are Whistle Binkie's personal rumpus room." (Note to Self -- Increase Kristanne's dosage until she stops saying that. Also, remember to buy stamps.) Insanity, as it turns out, has been nothing but good for Kristanne's cooking. Check out those delish-looking Meatball Faces On Rice over there at left...nice, eh? People who don't play with their food are really missing out on a lot.

Still, sometimes Kristanne escapes my icy clutches, slips her earthly bonds and heads out into the naked city, full of adventuresome zeal, ready to take on the world and all it has to offer. Off she goes, ready to drink in life at a single draught, ready to dance in the streets, sip absinthe with cafe' intellectuals, ready to, ummm...watch a marathon? Perhaps Kristanne needs a few basic lessons in "slipping her earthly bonds." Watching a marathon does not exactly put you in the quarterfinals of the "Wild at Heart" competition. Not like technical writing does, anyway.

Meatball faces? Marathon watching? Ritualized sock-puppet stabbings? The time was definitely drawing nigh for me to call a temporary halt to all this work nonsense and get Kristanne out into the world where she could breathe some air, see how real people live. So, after prying my hands from my laptop and reassuring Kristanne that bad things would not happen if we went outside, we did the unthinkable...we left the apartment, bound for the remains of Craigmillar Castle on the outskirts of Edinburgh.

This turned out to be an excellent move, even though Kristanne had some minor difficulties adjusting to the outside world at first. After successfully navigating our way through the trash-filled open spaces of Edinburgh to the castle, Kristanne proceeded to take refuge in that little alcove you see pictured there at left, refusing to come out until I promised to stop humming the tune to "It's a Small World After All" over and over again. Hmm. Perhaps Kristanne wasn't the only one having difficulty adjusting to life outside the apartment. It took me a while to convince her that (a) there was no TV in the wall she was facing and (b) "It's a Small World After All" is actually a really catchy tune, but I managed, finally overwhelming her resistance by promising to cook up a big dinner of Meatball Faces on Rice just as soon as we got home. Meatball Faces on Rice are sort of my marital get out of jail free card these days. There's really no problem they can't overcome.

Craigmillar Castle was amazing...just the antidote to the last month's constant working and sock puppet worshipping we needed. Since it was a weekday, we had the place nearly to ourselves. As we crept silently through the castle's darkened passageways and narrow spiral staircases, the morning stillness was broken only by the poignant song of the magpie standing sentry over our explorations. Well, that and the ever-so-slightly less poignant screeching of the cement saw and jackhammer of the workmen refinishing part of the castle's floor. Silently, we implored the magpie to steal their shiny objects and, if it wasn't too much trouble, also poop on their heads.

Alas, the magpie was having none of it and soon removed himself to safer environs as the castle cat sauntered into view. Unfortunately, the castle pigeons did not follow the magpie's lead and soon one of them found themselves in the thankless role of Castle Cat's Lunch, proving conclusively that magpies are smarter than pigeons. And so ends this episode of Mutual of Office Odyssey's Wild Kingdom. You know, life can be unpredictable for both pigeons and people...are your life insurance needs up to date? Call Mutual of Office Odyssey today for a free quote (sample quote, "We have nothing to fear but fear itself. Well, that and uninsured motorists. And five hundred dollar deductibles.").

Perhaps sensing the danger from the magpies that they narrowly averted, the workmen stopped jackhammering, cement sawing, and ruckusing almost as soon as we arrived, leaving us to poke through the nooks and crannies of Craigmillar free from sonic assault. As we clambered up rock staircases and crept down darkened hallways, we couldn't help but reflect that something like this just couldn't exist in the U.S. Of course, there are the obvious historical reasons -- this baby was first built back in the sixteenth century, and I think we all know what was going on in what would become the U.S. roundabout the sixteenth century. Yep -- Ice Age. And once the Ice Age receded in, like, September of 1642, the dinosaurs roamed the land for a good hundred years or so after that, making it very difficult to build castles. The last confirmed dinosaur was slain right around 1776 when God sailed over from Europe in the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria (he had a lot of luggage) and founded America, putting his ole John Hancock right there on the Declaration of Independence and Dead Dinosaurs for all to see, one nation, under God, dinosaur free and ready for y'all's manifest destiny. This all happened right after the Pleistocene Epoch in what is now known as the Cretinous Epoch.

NOTE -- The preceding has been a bold attempt to lose our 10th Grade Credential from the Study Web people who anointed us "educational" a few weeks back. That'll learn 'em.

Aside from historical reasons, Craigmillar could never exist in America in the same way it does in Scotland simply because insurance companies would never let it. The Scottish Historical Society runs Craigmillar in a way that suggests the unthinkable to many Americans -- you are responsible for your own actions. Bad things happen in life. Often they are no one's fault. This does not entitle you to ten bazillion dollars should you trip and skin your knee. So, instead of denying you access to the whole thing, the Scottish Historical Society puts up a warning sign here and there, but still lets you walk down dimly-lit, spiral-staircases built for the wee folk of the sixteenth century or climb up turrets like I'm doing at right. They do not, however, let you fire off the cannons at approaching tourists, so there are still some practical limits to the freedoms you enjoy, insurance companies or no. Also, I was kinda bumming about the whole "no suing" thing after I fell off that turret and broke my leg. Papa needs a brand new pair of shoes.

After sampling the wonders of Craigmillar Castle, neither Kristanne nor I could think of any better way to top it off than with a half hour wait for the bus in the steadily increasing rain. Just when we thought things could not possibly get any better, the bus came, taking us on an exciting 45 minute, three mile (hey, that's fifteen minutes a mile!) bus ride down to Leith. Our interminable ride was accompanied quite nicely by a chorus of seven year olds singing the "Cha-na-na-na, Choo Choo Choo" song, a song whose only lyric is, in fact, "Cha-na-na-na, Choo Choo Choo." It's almost exactly as entertaining as it sounds.

Leith is the dock district of Edinburgh, an up-and-coming area that features chief among its highlights the decommissioned Royal Yacht Britannia. Unfortunately, "up-and-coming" in this instance translates exactly to "often pretty darn crappy." We hadn't anticipated the bus ride from Craigmillar to Leith taking so long (or being so darn musical), so we soon found ourselves staring straight down the business end of a rapidly approaching closing time. Last boarding for the Britannia was scheduled for 4:30. Fortunately, the bus dropped us off at about 4:15. Unfortunately, it dropped us off about 3/4 of a mile from the Britannia, placing us square in the middle of a minor time crunch. By this point, Kristanne was back to her usual Top Tourist Form, so my standard time crunch suggestion of, "Hey, why don't we get a beer and just forget about it?" was met with an icy glare and a brandished Michelin Guide. "Pick it up, Heaton," she barked and was off, head bent to the bitter sub-arctic winds of Scotland, pushing bravely through the warehouse wastelands of Leith, bound for the Britannia.

Little did I know that Kristanne's newfound vigor had less to do with a renewed commitment to tourism than it did with a fixation (nay, an infatuation) with, as she put it, "that hunky Prince William." Despite my earnest reminders that Prince William was about two years old, Kristanne persisted in pestering all the tour guides with questions like, "Did Hunky Prince William sleep in this bedroom?" and "Isn't that Hunky Prince William just adorable?" and "Is there a tradition of polygamy in the Royal Family?" I was beginning to get uncomfortable with Kristanne's line of questioning.

The Britannia was really quite impressive, a glowing testimonial to royal privilege and power. We pictured Diana and Charles on their honeymoon, the Queen entertaining visiting heads of state, George Bush throwing up over the poop deck, that kind of thing. We stopped short of picturing Fergie and Andrew on their honeymoon. The Office Odyssey is, after all, still a a bastion of good taste and decorum. Or at least it was until Kristanne started to strike derisory buck-toothed poses in front of the Britannia's ship's bell, openly mocking the dental difficulties of the royal family (see that pic at right). That's my girl!

At the outset of the Britannia tour, they give you one of those handy audio guides that you carry around the site, punching in the numbers posted on signs so that you can hear a little vignette about what the heck you're looking at (that's me modeling one at left). At least that's the idea. However, in this case, "vignette" really meant "epic poem, phrased intermittently in iambic pentameter, accompanied by the London Philharmonic playing Wagner's Ring Cycle." Given that neither of us had eaten for six hours, we gave up on the audio guides right about the time it used a reenactment of "Merchant of Venice" as a means to describe what life on the Britannia was really like for its crew. However, before we switched them off, we did hear the crucial statistic of how many rolls of toilet paper would typically be packed on the Britannia for a six month voyage. The answer, for all you enquiring minds out there, is 2,200. Just wanted to make sure we brought everything back on down to the least common denominator before we finished with the Britannia. It's a hobby, y'know?

The Britannia was all very interesting, but our bodies were beginning to shut down crucial systems, conserving energy in the face of an utter lack of nourishment. Our bodies were even beginning to consume their stored fat reserves in a last-ditch effort to stave off starvation. Fortunately, I've got plenty of these to go around, so soon Kristanne and I were both feasting on my stored fat reserves as we walked back through the lunar wastescape of Leith to catch a bus back to the Royal Mile and an eventual restaurant.

It was on this very walk that we got a sneak peek at the identity of the soon-to-be-announced newest Spice Girl. Many of you may not know (nor even care), but the Spice Girls lost a member not too long ago. I forget which one it was -- Portly Spice? Surly Spice? Tacoma Spice? -- but they definitely lost one, whether it was to pregnancy, good taste, or a bizarre gardening accident no one is really quite sure. In the meantime, all of the U.K. has been positively abuzz about the search for the new Spice Girl. Where would she come from? What would her Spice Moniker be? Well, if you promise not to leak this to the London tabloids, we can let you in on our little secret....it's Britannia Spice! Yep, that picture at right says it all. Apparently, she's as big as a boat, has big ole buck teeth, and uses 2,200 rolls of toilet paper every six months. Let's give a big Office Odyssey welcome to Britannia Spice!

After a meal of what was theoretically Mexican food, Kristanne and I returned to our apartment, sated, no longer convinced that the world ended at our apartment walls. It was a good feeling. The feeling from the "Mexican" food, on the other hand, was not so good. In retrospect, Kristanne kinda lucked out -- the chicken in her tacos steadfastly resisted any attempts at penetration possible with a mere knife and fork (an acetylene torch mighta done the trick now that I think about it), so she had been unable to eat much of anything at all. I was not so lucky, having managed to persevere and eat darn near everything they put down in front of me. Bleah. Here's a little advice from the Things Everyone Else Just Seems To Know department -- don't eat Mexican food in the U.K. It won't be good.

One day of Scottish touring really just whets your appetite for more. So, the next day we set out to conquer the Royal Mile, the stretch of road leading from Edinburgh Castle down to Holyroodhouse Palace (a stretch, not coincidentally, that measures about a mile in length). Refusing to be stymied by the gale-force winds and sub-arctic temperatures that awaited us, we pressed out of our cozy, warm, heated apartment and into the teeth of the storm. Upon reflection, we can see now that there is a good reason why tourist season sort of officially ends here on October 1st. It's cold here in October. Real cold. The kind of cold that gives you a noogie, kicks you in the shins, and makes fun of your haircut. That kind of cold. Still, the Odyssey is about nothing if not the overcoming of immense obstacles through hard work and strong character. Well, that and hot chocolate. We both really like hot chocolate.

Up to the castle we went, reveling in the views, the majesty, the icy rain whipping off our faces. It didn't really help our self-esteem much that we were shivering in heavy jackets while everyone else seemed to be in tank-tops and t-shirts, applying liberal amounts of sunscreen and generally behaving as if they couldn't imagine a balmier day. The British are very different from you and me. Edinburgh Castle was fantastic, combining elements old and new in a brilliant panoply of pomp (whatever that is...I just wanted to say "panoply of pomp"). There have been settlements on its site ever since 850 BC and the shape of the castle has changed through the years, adding bits here and having bits subtracted by protracted sieges there. That picture at left is of the castle's old prison, a dismal set of 16 slightly subterranean solitary confinement cells guaranteed to break even the hardiest prisoner's constitution. Contributing to this effect is the goofy hat they made the prisoners wear, modeled nicely by yours truly . That'll wear you down faster than you can say, "Nice lid, Sherlock Holmes-face."

After a couple hours exploring the castle (and our bodies' resistance to hypothermia), we headed back down to the Royal Mile to check out Gladstone's Land (a lovingly restored seventeenth century Old Town townhouse), the Writers Museum (plenty of thrills there, let me tell ya!), and St. Giles Cathedral (parts of which date to the 11th century, a time in America when the Big Bang had not yet even occurred. Will those Study Web people ever leave?). It was all getting to be a big tourist blur, though, so we stopped in for a bite of fish and chips and headed off to the local for a pint and some relaxation.

And that was the weeks that were! In keeping with the somewhat scatological bent of this particular episode, though, we thought we'd close with a picture of the Superloo, a place where you can go to the bathroom like a superhero. You do not, however, have to wear a cape. Ten pence is the price, in case you're wondering, and you can find this particular model in the Waverley Mall, just off Princes Street. Tell 'em Sid sent you! Actually, on second thought, please don't. I get enough weird looks here as it is.

Last Week's Front Page Picture

As for that picture over there at left, that's Kristanne casting her spell on the unsuspecting masses from her perch high atop Edinburgh Castle. It's not a very nefarious spell, though. Rather than force people to cluck like chickens, crawl on their bellies like vipers, or listen to an Al Gore campaign speech, Kristanne gets by with making people go home to their loved ones and share a delicious afternoon snack of fresh, oven-baked scones with butter and jam. The Wicked Witch of the West, she ain't...well, unless you don't like scones.