Articles by Brian Lum - Edinburgh, Scotland
January 2006
Having never been to Edinburgh before, I had cobbled together visions of a large and majestic wintry city, a chance to wear a peacoat and indulge in the urbane. I anticipated having to adapt to an entirely unfamiliar lifestyle (I admit that in my naïveté, I expected no less than the hustle and bustle of New York City) and to fantastically clichéd scenes of Big City Life. Like many others, I wanted to experience things a world apart from Davis’ small town, wide-open charm, to learn through challenge and immersion.
My romantic aspirations were stifled once I discovered that Scotland’s capital is more akin to an incredibly expansive town than a metropolis, albeit a town with big-city sophistication and significance. Soon dreams of high-rise towers gave way to images of the country’s dramatic sky, punctured by spires and steeples and a castle upon a mass of rock. It became clear that life in this thriving cultural epicenter was less about challenge than appreciation. Sure, I’d adjust to public transport and incessant cold and dark, but these were no mean streets, and there was nothing overwhelming to surmount. Instead I’ve found that there is a world of small things to discover that present themselves in time and in details. The first snow comes to mind. It’s hard to recount to others the feeling of wonder and the subtle pride this instilled in me, because the reward lies in the fact that I live here. It was my snow. As experiences like this accumulate I feel increasingly comfortable with the city as a home.
And what a home it is. Unique opportunities abound within and “outwith” (a Scottish term) the city limits (thanks in no small part to the ease of travel in Britain). First there are the obvious draws: at the forefront is the castle steeped in history and majesty, followed by all the statues and monuments that dot the city. My attraction of choice, however, lies a mile from the castle in Holyrood Park, a beautiful wild patch in the heart of the city. The park is home to small lochs, magnificent cliffs of columnar basalt, and best of all Arthur’s Seat, the city’s famous hill. It’s a simple climb to a spectacular view, from the peak the entire city lies in front of you: the frigid waters of the Firth of Forth, the stately New Town, the vibrant city center and beyond into outlying hills. It’s a landscape truly reflective of the culture here: a wonderfully healthy mix of the rugged and the elegant. I’ve found that this admirable quality extends far beyond Edinburgh. In fact I’ve encountered a very down-to-earth hospitality and graciousness wherever I’ve been in Scotland. Except Glasgow.
And so, at a university partial toward monolithic final exams, I owe all of my sanity to these things. Before I came, I looked forward to studying at such a prestigious school, home of modern geology (my major) and Charles Darwin and so on and so forth – but failed to realize the amount of work that entails. Fortunately I’ve been able to appease my academic apprehension by reverting to the now-familiar friends and places that, happily, have become personal and indispensable. Because, as in any home, familiarity breeds comfort (contempt comes later, let’s hope it’s after I’ve left). It allows me to relax or recover, and appreciate this city in all its singular brilliance.
February 2006
It's February and it's cold, but there is no way I'm staying inside today. The city is bathed in a wonderfully colorless pre-vernal light, a bright and welcome bleaching of the tired landscape. The sleep now out of the city's eyes, people walk around in rediscovery, with a look of genuine gladness.
True spring, however, is still a ways off. My breath still hangs in suspension and my coat is always on; I'm not letting one gorgeous day fool me. For all I know it may snow tomorrow, or gale force winds could make for a treacherous and long trek to class. No, today is just a postcard from the sun's awaited return, a reminder that high-latitude winters aren't as deathless as they seem. Indeed, in a few months' time the Scots will enjoy a summer of drawn-out days, a pleasure hard to imagine during the throes of a weary winter.
Unfortunately, this is a wonder which I'll have to miss. Instead of summer in the Shetlands, I'll be wasting away with my flatmate on his hometown beaches near Athens. Surely this will be a vacation to remember - from everything Markos has told me (and perhaps more importantly judging by his confoundingly upbeat character) my two weeks in Greece will be absurd. Sunshine and swimsuits, my dreams of carefree excursion finally realized.
Surely travel is one of the biggest draws of studying abroad. The prospect of jet-setting around Europe for next-to-nothing Easyjet fares is the gleam in the eye of every aspiring cultural type. I too once wished I could say, with that impressive smugness, “Paris is overrated,” or, “Krakow is the new Prague.” But the sad truth is I haven't even made it to England. Tight schedules, unforeseen academic challenges, and my own considerable apathy have restricted getaways to late-night intra-flat scheming and dreaming and a compulsory trip to Loch Ness (during which we found the monster).
Fortunately for me, when people expectantly ask about all the places I've been thus far, I can mask my shame by explaining that I've got a six-week spring break to look forward to (true!), when I plan to experience Italy, the Netherlands, perhaps France or maybe Brussels. And if they realize I've deferred they're question, I quickly interject with “Hey! Did I tell you that I FOUND Nessie?!”
Yet for all my self-deception, I'm happy to say in sincerity that Edinburgh still holds every bit of the wonder and appeal that it did the day I arrived. It's just that, in the clutches of my aforementioned apathy, it's easy to lose sight of this. I've only seen a fraction of the city- for the most part all obvious, relevant locales. It's because the omissions aren't glaring that this seems like everything. It takes a day like today, fresh and brimming with promise, to remind me of what's in store.
Once outside, I intended to find a nice place to write this article, a park bench or some dry grass. Instead I found the Hermitage of Braid Nature Reserve, and ended up lost in exploration until sundown. This experience, as much as anything, renewed my perspective on living here. It's not long before Easter vacation rolls around, and until then I have no excuse to be bored, no reason to feel sorry for myself for not traveling more. It will come in time; soon enough I'll be on Hellenic beaches, adrift atop contentment's slow rollers.
April 2006
It's a warm and yellow Italian afternoon and I'm being driven to the Milan airport, watching the incredible flow and funnel of traffic at speed. There are no lanes on the city’s streets, a disquieting sight to these American eyes. The cars, ours included, weave and zoom in a foreign choreography, one which initially seems reckless and a little pointless. Wouldn’t lines on the pavement make things easier, safer, or at least more sensible? To me, yes, but that’s an incredibly selfish thought. I’m terrified because I don’t understand what’s happening, an ignorance which blinds me from the fact that, to the Italians, this makes perfect sense. I haven’t even seen the smallest fender-bender, so there’s no way I can argue the superiority of the orderly motorways I’m accustomed to.
When we go abroad, we’re prepared to appreciate – we’ve read the guidebooks, talked to knowledgeable friends, and otherwise thoroughly researched the foreign culture, thinking we know what we’re in for. However, some things are only revealed upon arrival and, what’s more, don’t seem worth appreciation (the berserk drivers are a good example). In reality, these are the very nuances that make going abroad thrilling, certainly just as much the stuffy attractions we’ve read about.
Another curiosity which could easily be written off as an annoyance was the lack of a queue in shops (perhaps the most interesting thing I learned is reflexive: Americans love organization). To me, the bakery customers seemed to have a mob mentality, talking loudly and trying to get to the counter. Of course, I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but that’s not the end of it. I didn’t really know what they were doing either, but if I had really looked I could at least see that it worked. Nobody was angry – in fact, the customers were all cheery, elderly women. We got our bread soon enough to wonder if a queue would have made any difference. Perhaps the mob style is a relic of a culture reliant on the mercato, a fair that lines the streets with vendors selling everything from socks (bought them) to pistachios (also bought them). Whatever its derivation, it remains significant as a unique part of the culture’s charm – something more to be appreciated.
I’ve been living in Edinburgh long enough to call it home, and long enough to realize that my initial gripes with British culture were similarly unfounded. I first took umbrage with store hours – how was it possible that this big city afforded less convenience than Davis? It turns out that the problem was me, or at least could easily be diminished with a little self-discipline. Really, getting errands done before 5:00 isn’t much to ask, and I’d certainly be hesitant to laud the advantages of a 24-hour culture.
On the convenience note, I should mention that I was used to grocery shopping every other week and stocking up (in what now seems like atomic-fallout mode). When the grocery store doesn’t even have carts, it takes a different mindset and a little motivation to shop multiple times a week. Looking beyond the inconvenience of trekking to Tesco, however, I’d say that shopping more often in smaller doses is actually a better idea. And aside from the argument of advantages, the opening hours and consumption methods are an essential part of British culture, something I’d never want to see changed. The differences are special, and give meaning to the word “foreign” (and if nothing was foreign, being abroad would hold no significance, etc.). So, let’s appreciate and enjoy the traffic and the mobs and the midday milk and bread runs, because they can teach us something - and we’ve much to learn.
May 2006
As of yesterday, my particularly hideous final exam period has ended, and with it my academic year abroad. Exiting the heat and tension of the gym which doubled as our testing room, I didn’t experience anything like what I expected: no little rushes, no sweet releases, and nobody waiting for me with beer in hand outside the building. I wasn’t upset though, and simply walked up the hill to my flat and into my room, looking normal as ever with papers on the floor and clothes hanging in the windows. And now I sit at my desk, everything as it’s supposed to be, and me waxing nostalgic for that which has hardly yet passed.
It doesn’t seem fair, to be honest, that I’m leaving now. This city, its wonders and stresses and nuances, has become ingrained in head and heart, enough to make fleeing seem like abandonment. To expound upon that previous heart line: this is a relationship which I won’t get to see to its proper finish. There’s an entire world opening up outside, a world of long days and fair weather, of merriment and appreciation. That said, I’ve known this day was coming for a long time now, and in the spirit of wrapping the year up I propose a list:
Top 5 Moments from Brian’s Year Abroad.
5. Discovering and domesticating an entirely new city.
4. Legally drinking, and my 20th birthday party.
3. Discovering that the Main Library is full of gorgeous people around exam time.
2. Travel.
1. Making singularly wonderful friends (aww). Bet you didn’t see that one coming.
And, for the sake of thoroughness and accuracy:
Top 5 Mistakes made on Brian’s Year Abroad.
5. Not wearing waterproofs to our field trip to the beach in November.
4. Not planning ahead on the London trip.
3. Throwing our kitchen's wooden spoons out the window one particularly destructive night.
2. Not planning ahead on the Europe trip, three months after the London trip.
1. Drinking Irn-Bru. It’s bright orange, and that should be enough warning.
Honestly, this has been the most spectacular year of my life, and it’s with a certain ambivalence that I leave. It’s saddening, certainly, but it also gives a wonderful sense of closure to the adventure, something I now can step back and admire. Farewell, Edinburgh.
