this week in the odyssey
10.25.99 -- 11.1.99
edinburgh, scotland

Who Colonized Who?

Here on the Office Odyssey, we spend most of our days locked in timeless mortal combat with the forces of laziness and ennui. Every morning when we roll out of the Extreme Cave, we know that this could be the day where we finally succumb to a life more ordinary. Oh, we know the dangers all too well -- we could end up on the couch playing FreeCell, in Blockbuster renting compilations of old 'Friends' episodes, or even -- heaven help us -- in Pizza Hut ordering stuffed-crust pizza. We've seen the others fall, just like you have, those dimmed and unlucky souls now darkening the corner booths in Planet Hollywood, buying souvenirs at the Hard Rock Cafe', waiting in line outside the T.G.I. Friday's, doing their level best to pretend that Europe is little more than an American colony with funny languages and toilets that don't flush quite as well. What keeps us going? What sixth sense guides us through this perilous minefield of American attractions in a European world? What makes us scale volcanic mountains in gale force winds (like Kristanne just finished doing at right) when we could be digging in to another order of the Colonel's Extra Crispy Chicken Parts down at the KFC? What keeps us out of McDonald's and puts us in Hamish's House of Haggis?

It's you. Yes, you, the loyal Office Odyssey reader, safe in your warm home while we go about our daily toil of Keeping It Extreme. Whenever we feel our resolve begin to falter or our wills begin to wilt, all we need to do is conjure up a little mental image of you, naked, waiting patiently for our latest bulletin from the road. That's what keeps us going. That's what makes us strong. That's the fuel for our Office Odyssey tank. We only have two requests for you: (1) Could we please rent the 'Friends' tape? That Chandler guy is really funny; and, (2) Could you please put some clothes on? You're scaring Kristanne.

Our naked readership aside, events have rapidly drawn to a close here in Edinburgh. Somehow, while we weren't even watching, time slipped right past us, down the stairs and out into the street (probably bound for the Hard Rock Cafe', now that I think about it). Two months seems like such a long time when you first arrive in a city. Two months! You could write an entire symphony in two months! Wade through the first chapter of 'War and Peace' in two months! Memorize every note in the Cat Stevens album your wife plays over and over in two months!

Alas, working under our usual "why take your time doing today what you can rush through tomorrow?" philosophy, we only managed to memorize the Cat Stevens album (unless you count my version of the 'Nose Flute Polka' tantamount to writing a symphony). So, in our usual manic fashion, we sprinted into the street, ready to see what Scottish sights still remained to be seen, ready to put an exclamation point on our time here in Edinburgh, ready to eat deep-fried matter at the Clamshell one last greasy, succulent time.

Upon hitting the streets, however, we were amazed to discover that we had actually seen pretty much everything we wanted to see. Oh, sure, we sprinted through a few art museums doing the usual "yep, Monet, yep, Renoir, yep, Scottish portrait dude," thing, but in general we'd done a good job covering our bases. After a quick walk to the top of Calton Hill to check out the Nelson monument (where we snapped that photo looking down Princes Street towards the castle you see at left), we were pretty much, unbelievably, done.

Well, done with the sightseeing anyway. Since we were getting ready to head off into the wild, telephoneless great beyond, we had to take full advantage of our remaining connected time to get all my work copied over to network servers in California, check the sports scores on espnet.com, and make sure there weren't any killer new recipes for paprika meat balls in Kristanne's chat room for recipes. Oh, and pay the bills, too.

Someone somewhere probably wonders just how the heck we do manage to pay the bills. How do we manage to live a semi-normal life while remaining ever itinerant? For that one inquisitive person out there, this paragraph is for you, buddy! As for the rest of you, you might just want to scroll on down to the next paragraph, the one with the scintillating picture of me buying the newspaper. That paragraph's going to be a doozy, I can already tell. Now, where was I? Yes, the bills! The mail! The everyday details! How on earth do we do it? It's all in the miracle of the phone lines, I tell you. The phone lines and the online bill paying software with which my bank so kindly provides me. You see, almost each and every time I call my mom, I ask her to send us a big Federal Express envelope with all of our mail in it. My mom, being the kindhearted soul that she is, promptly forgets all about this for at least a week. Then, when I call her again to ask her where the heck my dang mail is, she makes up some lame excuse about helping needy orphans, or leading girl scouts, or working for justice in our inner cities, some sort of crap like that. Then, she sends it to us, using the handy Fed Ex account number I set up before we left. Pretty smart, eh? I thought so too, until I got my first statement and found out that my mom was shipping relief packages to starving African children using my account number. I mean, shoot, I'm all for helping the world, but do we have to do it with my Fed Ex account? Does Sally Struthers know about this?

Eventually, though, the mail does get to us. Let me tell you, there's something really comforting about getting the mail, too. Just knowing that there are some fifty banks in the U.S. that want to give me a credit card really lets me know that I'm missed back home. Not to worry, fellas -- I'm still running up large chunks of rotating credit card debt that I can't really afford! Still doing my part as an American! Still waiting for those lottery numbers to hit! In the meantime, though, I'm also still dialing in to Bank of America and paying my bills online, hoping like heck that the Y2K thing doesn't drive the whole system completely higgledy-piggledy. If Federal Express' stock keeps rising, you'll know that the system's still working. I'm keeping those guys afloat all by my lonesome.

Once the bills were paid, though, it was time to head out and start the bittersweet process of saying our goodbyes. One of the really great things about living in Scotland has been that we sort of speak the language. Oh, sure, we only understand about one in three words they say, but they don't seem to mind. Anyway, it's certainly a better ratio than I've been able to maintain in Italy or Switzerland. So, with the language barrier at least partially out of our way, Kristanne and I were able to strike up friendships with several of the folks who worked and lived in our neighborhood. For example, there's the lady who runs the newspaper stand (pictured there at left). Every day, I'd come down to say howdy, pick up the daily news, and have a few snippets of conversation that I'm quite sure I almost would have understood if only I'd been listening more closely. Then, there was the Scottish Grocer (it's his official title -- that's why it's capitalized) and the Scottish Grocer's Daughter (much different from the 'Coal Miner's Daughter,' though Sissy Spacek could definitely play both roles), a friendly pair of faces only too happy to exchange pleasantries about the weather, the upcoming rugby match, or the nasty after-effects of my latest attempt at home haircutting. Oh, and the Indian Grocer, as well, a fellow who always appreciated the exact change I brought him to buy our diet cokes. At least I think that's what he was mumbling at me, his hands chock full of my carefully-counted pence coins as I left his store. What a guy!

Yes, leaving Edinburgh was not going to be easy with all these freshly-minted friendships popping up like, umm, freshly-minted things. Fortunately for me, though, at least we did not have to leave town on my birthday, a refreshing change. Perhaps you've not noticed this about me and Kristanne, but we tend to move around a lot. This is not a new phenomenon. From the very start of our relationship, we've moved in fairly regular six month cycles, changing apartments like other people change the batteries in their smoke detectors (and have you changed yours recently? Don't forget, Smokey says twice a year!). I don't have any problem with this; in fact, I rather like it. Still, I must confess that I would much prefer it if we hadn't locked in a cycle that had us moving every November 1st and every May 1st. We've managed to move on my birthday for four out of the last five years. Nothing like toting another box of books out to the U-Haul to let you know that you're getting older, I tell ya.

This year, it was not to be! Since we hadn't officially started our lease in Edinburgh until September 3d, we didn't have to be out until November 3d, leaving us ample time to celebrate my birthday in style. Being the usual great wife that she is, Kristanne surprised me when I first got up with that great sign you see pictured at right. Pretty cool, huh? I didn't have the heart to tell her that she got the number wrong -- I'm actually 17 years old. The highlight for that sign came later in the evening when I got to burst through it like the high school football player that I hope to be this year (I made J.V. last year). Maybe Kristanne will even go to prom with me?

After a little birthday cappuccino and pain au choc, we set out to conquer the last sight of Edinburgh that lay before us. The one sight that had so far eluded our grasp. Ignoring the gathering clouds, the steadily increasing rain, and the fact that we're not exactly Olympic-caliber athletes, we shouldered our backpacks and set about climbing to the top of Arthur's Seat. Lest you get the wrong idea about what exactly Kristanne and I consider "sights," let me hasten to add that Arthur's Seat is not, in fact, anybody's rear end. In fact, Arthur's Seat is the daunting tower of volcanic rock that looms ominously atop Edinburgh's Holyrood Park, a stony beacon guiding all weary travelers searching for nothing more than the warmth of an Edinburghian public house. This was our quest.

Overdoing it a tad, aren't we? Yes, I do believe so. Still, we headed out and up, enjoying the pastoral pleasures of Holyrood Park, a genuine oasis amidst the urban hustle and bustle of Edinburgh. Ten minutes into our walk, the pleasant sprinkling that had accompanied our departure from our apartment had turned into a slightly less than pleasant steady rain. Twenty minutes later, the unpleasant steady rain had turned into a miserable driving rain and the sky was as dark as evening. Thirty sopping wet minutes later, our goal was reached and we stood high atop Arthur's Seat, taking in what little of the panoramic view the rain clouds afforded us. As you can probably tell from that picture at left (and the one at the top of this page), the wind at the top was really rather amazing, blowing with a force roughly equivalent to that achieved by Rush Limbaugh mid-tirade. Somehow, we managed to hold on to our hats and make it back down, the scope of our achievement only slightly diminished by the fact that on our way down we passed two old ladies in street shoes and light jackets, briskly clambering up the scree slope we had just labored our way up in hiking boots and gore-tex. They probably started much higher up than we did.

Soaked to the bone, we made our way into the nearest pub for a warming cup of hot chocolate and then back to our place for a shower and - oboy - presents! Fully aware of my close, personal relationship with Michael Jordan as she is (I don't like to brag, but it was me who convinced him that playing baseball was a good idea), Kristanne was thoughtful enough to give Mike our address so he could send me a little token of his affection. Thanks, M.J.! The championship ring fits just great!

After a strange dinner of sushi (have you ever had sushi made out of frozen fish?), we headed for what, to me, was to be the pinnacle of the entire birthday experience. First, some background. Across the street from out apartment is the nicest little pub you could ever hope to find. It's called 'The Waverley,' and it features the a great cast of characters, straight out of 'Cheers'. First, there's Arantxa, the Spanish bartender, always ready to greet you with a smile. Then there's Jerome, Arantxa's French boyfriend who usually rolls in around 11:30 for a pint before he and Arantxa leave at midnight. That's when Ean (the owner of the bar) takes over, moving behind the bar from his usual perch at the corner, where he tends to sit doing the crossword, or gently correcting patrons when they err in some some small factual matter (like mistaking latitude for longitude). Moving to our left, there's Mark, the kind, young chap who, while appearing outwardly normal, insists on such bizarre behavior as ordering half-pints instead of full pints and carousing in some after hours establishment known only as 'The Bongo Club.' If you stay late enough, one stool down is Stuart, drinking his usual Holsten Pils and arguing vehemently with Ean until he eventually steams out, righteously angered again (you can set a watch by him). Then, finally, there's Tom, the well-dressed fellow with the pipe who is only too happy to talk about anything and everything, so long as it has something to do with the fact that the Scottish Nationalist Party has the only true path for Scotland.

That's the Waverley. And, if it seems like we spent an awful lot of time in there...well, we did spend some time, but it doesn't take that long to get a good feel for the scene. There's something very constant about it, right down to the stools you sit on. Well, the stools the regulars sit on, anyway. We'd never dared sit at the bar. Not wanting to overstep our bounds, we usually opted to play it cool and sit at a table against the wall. Which is why it came as such a great surprise when we were finally not just allowed, but actually invited to sit up at the bar with the rest of the crew, sharing in their stories and good times. It was great! They even remembered Kristanne mentioning something about my birthday being today and got me a little card and a Kinder-Egg toy to celebrate with! What a great crew!

We didn't want to say goodbye, but we finally did, going our separate ways off into the night. Someday, we'll return again...so long, Edinburgh!

That's all for this week of the Odyssey! Be sure to check back in a few days as we come back at you with tales of our return to the European continent, complete with sausage indulgence, marathon driving, and a full inquiry into just why, exactly, Dresden gets three stars in the Michelin Guide (we should have it figured out by then). See you next time on the Odyssey!

Last Week's Front Page Picture

As for that picture at left, that's Kristanne on a blustery fall day in an old cemetery at the foot of Calton Hill in Edinburgh. It really is. At this point, you're probably thinking that I should make some lame joke at the expense of the dead, right? Forget about it -- I learned my lesson the last time I tried making light of Adam Smith and his damn invisible hands. Take it from those of us here on the Office Odyssey who know -- just say no when it comes to mocking the dead.