Loch Ness Blog

From Truly

Only a short time ago, I was wrapped up in ocean, taking blissful respite in Neptune’s playground after hiking, biking and exploring under Apollo’s unrelenting yellow eye. The Grecian sun is like no other; it thawed the Scottish chill that had settled in my bones, it bleached white stripes into my hair and made me press cold, sweating cans of Mythos beer to my tanned forehead and flushed cheeks. It was the first true warmth that I’d felt in a year and I nearly cried to feel it again; Scotland is grand, but don’t come here for the weather – when it’s not chilly, it’s damp and usually, it’s both. There is a reason why Brits flock to Greece for their holidays and for 15 days this August, Shaun and I joined them to fuel up on the glorious heat of the Mediterranean.

We spent five days on the isle of Crete before boarding the ferry to take us to Milos, an island in the Cyclades. After five days in Milos, we were on the ferry yet again to end our trip in Athens.

Our first full day on Crete found us hiring bikes for the day. We rode from village to village, experiencing the island’s mountains in a way that pushed our muscles to the limit, but that revealed more than a bus ride ever could. My memories of that ride are ground-level.

I remember a fat little boy in Spiderman underwear meandering out of his farm’s driveway on a rusty red bike, “Hello!” he shouted in English, his chubby arm waving. “Herete!” I shouted back in Greek. I remember a wiry, fedora-wearing old man at rest; he sat in a straight-backed chair beside his whitewashed home, sighing beneath trellises dripping with purple grapes. I remember stray cats and abandoned things. I remember the otherworldly feeling of Minoan ruins beneath my palms. I remember sun and heat and salt and thirst and the exact incline of the mountains. I remember red earth becoming pink dust.

These photos are from our day on bikes:

I saw this car and loved how it looked: the hulking, ruinous rust trimming the car’s prissy baby blue; the tragic, dour-faced grill.

Boat at Malia, a town that played host to the depressingly misguided Miss Wet T-Shirt Europa event earlier in 2007. There are people in this world who travel to this beautiful, history-rich island just to parade their boobs around in damp cotton. Could they not all leave a smaller carbon footprint and just put out a sprinkler at home? Sigh.

These snails are feelin’ the heat and seek comfort in the cool, moist hollows of the island’s spiky plants.

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This is the Malia Palace. It was the first ruin that we visited and everything - every little thing - was fresh to our eyes; it was incredible. The bronze age ruins at times look like incomprehensible rubble, only to transform into something so specific once you turn the next corner: a pillar, a massive urn, a fireplace, a bath. Standing in the palace court and facing the kingdom inspires a true feeling; you can feel the place pushing up before you, you become a queen commanding her army, the priestess conducting sacrifice. Echoes of history are underfoot, an unimaginable past becomes tangible.

A sacrifice alter. Bring in the bull!

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The beautiful village, Sissi.

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The sleepy village of Milatos.

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We rode on and on the whole day through, until our bikes were due back at 8pm. And then we were ready to shower up and go out for a slurp. Like any proper tourist to a warm, balmy island, we got drinks that looked like this:

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Shaun with drinks monkeys.

The only umbrella you’ll ever need in Crete.

The next day found us exploring an great, photo-inspiring family-run traditional Cretan museum by the sea called the Lychnostatis Heimat Museum.

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Day three, we rented a car and cruised the crazy roads of Crete. I got to drive on the right again and I remembered to stay on my side 99% of the time.

Over the course of the day, we drove around the Lassithi Plateau. Watching Crete unfold was incredible; on the winding mountain road, we passed impossibly ancient men and women, shrouded in black and astride sleepy eyed donkeys saddled with brittle bundles of hay. We bought honey, plums, and homemade wine from a hunkered bundle of grandma who’d set up shop along the side of the road. Everything was delicious and left us drenched in gratitude.

Our first true stop of the day was the village of Neapoli, where we were given a private tour of the town’s folk museum by an incredible 19-year old lassie named Helen, who was eager to practice her English and excited to meet Americans.

Helen’s excitement (as well as that of many other Greeks that we had the pleasure of meeting during our stay) over our nationality is a rarity in world travel and is caused by unfair stereotyping that just so happened to work in our favor. You see, it is typically young English people that visit Crete, and like many young misguided holiday makers to warm places, no matter what their nationality, loads of these Brits are only there to get warm, get wasted, and get laid. Thusly, instead of Greeks viewing us as citizens of the world are usually inclined to (just another pair of gun-toting American ignoramuses), our Midwestern accents simply meant, “thank God - they’re not British!” Sad, but true: it was the first time in a year that I didn’t cringe at the hard ‘a’ and brassy nasality of my own accent.

Anyhow, Helen’s hospitality was great and between all three of us fishing for the right word in English, the tour was magnificent. This is a photo of a Greek Orthodox relic in her museum. Greek Orthodox religious art is simply dripping with drama: I loved it! The rest of the relic photographed below depicted a crucified Christ, surrounded by beckoning, reaching angels from above and villainous fire, raging dragons, and wicked skulls below. Now that is drama!

Rar!

Our next stop was the Diktaean Cave, the cool hollow where Zeus was born and nursed to boyhood by a goat. We were excited to ride donkeys up the the steep trail leading the the cave’s mouth, but once we found out that a trip on the four-legged lovelies would cost us 15 euros, we decided just to pet the beasts and use our own muscle power to get to the cave. And I’m glad we did. The scrabble up the mountain was fun and not at all hard, save for the slippery bits; the trail is so well-traveled that the rocks have smoothed dangerously over the years. Plus, after working up a bit of sweat, the cool emanating from the mouth of the cave at hike’s end felt all the better.

The cave itself felt really sacred, like it was just wrong to take pictures of the earth’s insides. The damp, moss slicked walls exhaled calm, quiet thoughts. The earth’s moisture plipped and plopped from gnarled stalactites, scoring the underworld ballroom with contemplative song. In a shallow pool towards the back, Shaun and I left Zeus a two pence coin and asked for our transitions in life to be blessed. We also thanked the goat for all that time she spent nursing the god when he was a wean.

“Thank you goat!”

View from the cave.

After the cave, late afternoon found us in Karfi, where we pulled over to revel in the very campy Homo Sapiens Museum before taking a vigorous 1-hour hike straight up a mountain to see some more Minoan settlement ruins.

With a sign like this, how could we resist?

Man’s first dog. Ha!

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Where once Bronze Age Minoans took their last refuge from Mycenaeans, a rubble labyrinth now lays at Karfi. Goats and stray tourists like us trot through their old basements, trying to make sense of the baffling fact that someday our basements will be rummaged through in the same way probably. Well, the tourists try to make sense of that anyhow - I think the goats are just there for the grass.

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After our hike, on our drive back to our hotel that evening, we stumbled across this mammoth tree in a no-name town just outside of Karfi. If you ever find yourself in that area of the world, try to seek it out. The tree canopied a tiny loving restaurant, which sat opposite of a still-operating aqueduct.

My beautiful husband.

Day four found us relaxing in the quiet fishing village of Mochlos after exploring Gournia, a famed archaeological site.

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Behind this chica in the cute swim suit (purchased on sale from www.figleaves.com - the bathing costume, not the chica), is the island of Mochlos. In Minoan times, this island was a part of an isthmus, but the water level was two meters lower then. Now, only the strongest swimmer could reach it through the ocean’s vicious waves, but you can plainly see the ruins from the fishing village, along with caves and sea salt crusted crags that shape the beautiful island.

We spent a good chunk of the day throwing ourselves into the waves at Mochlos, laughing and spitting out seawater, until Shaun sunk his hand into a sea urchin. Twice. Freaked by the realization that we were swimming with many spiky things (no wonder this beach was so empty!), we squealed our way back to shore to sprawl on the rocks like beached mer-folk. The shore was not sandy, but rather a landscape of smooth stones punctuated by large, jutting boulders. The ocean’s pulling and pushing of the stones, the clicking clanking lullaby, soothed us into what was the gentlest nap of my life.

Soon it was time to leave Crete and hop aboard a ferry to the isle of Milos. We were drawn to this island after reading that it was riddled with crazy rock formations, sculpted by volcanic activity on the island. I also liked the fact that the island is the birthplace of the famed sculpture Venus de Milo, before a sneaky Frenchmen stole it to gift to King Lois XVII (this is why I met the lovely Venus at the Louvre when we were in Paris earlier this year).

We spent our days in Milos hiking from crazy beach to crazy beach. The one below is called Papafrangos. Situated next to some rambling Dorian ruins, the beach is a deep ravine cut into the cliffs and filled with ocean; careful trying to scale the sandy, slippy path down!

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Our swim at Papafrangos was unforgettable. Venturing into the deep - and it got really deep really quick - we swam into a dark and haunted cave, where the tentacles of a 50 foot octopus awaited our nervous swimming ankles. We swam through rocky passageways, we floated on our backs, buoyant and salty and laughing at the killer octopus and other invented tales of the deep.

Aside from haunted sea caves, Milos is home to Roman theater ruins in the town of Tripiti. Standing in the theater center, a feeling washed over me, slicing through the heat of the day and sending a shock of goosebumps down my spine. The feeling was one of power, of ovation, of absolute dignity; the feeling was the soul of the theater, articulated here as best as language will allow. The most haunted of all the ruins we visited, the theater at Tripiti was both Shaun and my favorite ruin in Greece.

Tripiti is also home to some of the oldest Christian catacombs in the world. The hollows look nearly natural on this sulfuric island full of funky shapes and formations; the insides are cool and butter colored. The catacombs seem less a place of bodies and bones and more a place of cheerful sanctuary. I was happy to kick back in their shade after our sweaty day of hiking, letting my eyes and hands explore the rough smooth stones.

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Another incredible beach that we explored was at Sarakiniko. Here, the wind has whipped the sulfuric stone into petrified cliffs and valleys; if it weren’t for the scrubby green bushes admirably growing here and there, you might mistake Sarakiniko for the surface of the moon.

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Milos’ neighboring island, Kimolos, is just a cheap, 45 minute ferry ride away from the town we were staying at, Pollonia. We spent a day exploring the castle ruins and archaeological museum at Kimolos.

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Strangely, the modern buildings of Kimolos were built right on the site of the castle ruins, giving the place the depressing air of a war zone.

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The food at Milos was the best we were served in Greece. The local cheese was absolutely delectable (did you know feta could be so creamy?! To hell with those crap supermarket crumbles!) and the seafood was heaven. While we usually cooked our own meals in our self-catering lodgings to save money, we lived it up one evening and I devoured a fleshy crab smothered in local cheese with a side of briny spinach, washed down with a pint of icy cold lager. Savored outdoors, beneath glowing lanterns, accompanied by the ocean’s rhythmic swish and my husband’s loving gaze, it was easily the best meal I’ve ever had in my life.

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While all of my dining experiences in Milos were heaven, Shaun had a rather strange one when faced with eating this plate full of fish with eyes. Fish with EYES! We had a good laugh over it, but I’m not sure how hard Shaun was laughing when he had to deal with having a stomach full of fish with eyes on the ferry ride to Athens; he ate this watchful dish only an hour or two before boarding.

For those of you who were tuned into world events in August, you might have heard about the devastating fires that rip roared across Greece, devouring more than half the mainland and requiring fire fighters from all across the EU to fight it. We were in the middle of the ocean, aboard a ferry headed towards Athens, when the fires broke out on Friday, August 24. We watched them blazing from the ferry bar television; we choked on the quarter-sized chunks of ash when we docked at the capital city.

It is such a strange feeling to be in someone else’s country in the midst of their national emergency. You just feel so in the way and useless: I mean, how appropriate is it to check in about bus schedules to Delphi when the city is surrounded by flames? Not very. Armed guards marched through the city in riot gear, as many of the fires spreading across the country were a result of arson and the city was on high alert. By 4pm on Saturday, the sky was a mythical shade of purple, the sun an angry red squint. Despite the toxicity and sadness, we explored the city’s ruins which stood majestic and unphased by this blip in time, this puny human present.

We had an incredible time in Athens, nonetheless, soaking up as much of the place as our lungs could handle.

These are not the aforementioned armed guards tasked with protecting the streets of Athens from freakish arsonists. No - these dudes are all dressed up and guarding a tomb at Parliament. I dig their shoes.

Zeus’ temple.

Can’t you just imagine this as Shaun’s first book jacket photo?

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Neptune! We meet at last at the Acropolis!

Athena’s temple. Did you know that in addition to being strong and wise, Athena can turn into an owl? Fabulous!

More pillars should be ladies.

Saturday, we spent nearly the entire day wandering through the halls of Athens’ National Archaeological Museum, meeting massive statues of famed (and forgotten) gods and goddesses, pouring over gold death masks, beads, and tools. It was incredible.

And who is this sexy, pouting young man? Why it’s Antinoüs, of course! The Roman Emporer Hadrien (you know - the dude who’s got the wall between England and Scotland and various monuments all over the Europe) fell in head over heels in love with him; the two were best friends and lovers until poor Antinoüs met his fate in the river Nilus. Grief struck, Hadrien had sculptures of his lover erected throughout Athens. True love never dies. Especially not when you’ve got the world’s sculptors at your command to commemorate it.

Zeus rockin’ the toga, getting ready to toss someone a lightening bolt.

The clear, beautiful face of Athena.

Ever wondered what the hand of God actually looks like? Well, here’s Zeus’. Big and…manicured! Cleanliness is Godliness!

Out of all the amazing things in the National Archaeological Museum, this little bronze deer statue was my favorite. I like the ferocity with which such a stout little animal is depicted; the deer’s brows are furrowed and its nostrils are flared. I just don’t think I’ve ever seen an angry deer in art before. Were deers possibly bigger and badder back in Mycenean times? Did they just stand around and scowl? I wonder how our depictions of life on earth will look to our planet’s inhabitants 3,600 years into the future; what scary things to us will have tamed over time for them?

During our stay in Athens, we also took in an incredible exhibition of contemporary photography and video art, Her(his)tory, at the Museum of Cycladic Art. The exhibition was curated with such thought and precision, integrating modern mediums seamlessly into the neoclassical space of the museum. Work by contemporary video art regulars such as Bruce Nauman, Doug Aitken and Aernout Mik were featured, but it was the work of an artist who was new to me that I found truly arresting. Isaac Julien’s 2006 video True North left me breathless.

The film was a stunning short narrative about the first man who made it to the north pole, an African American named Matthew Henson, but who never got the accolades he was due on account of his race. The brutality of the landscape made the Arctic a character onto itself and the casting of Matthew Henson’s character as a woman threw all sorts of subversive questions about inequality into the mix, as well as comments about the parallels between gender politics and racial discrimination.

I only throw this little mini-review in here, not just because experiencing this exhibition was how we spent one of my favorite mornings in Greece, but because Her(his)tory is touring, so if you are lucky enough to have it come to a contemporary art museum near you: go see it. Even if you think, “oh, contemporary art is weird,” or more probably, “what the hell is contemporary art, anyhow?”, just go see it. You will leave feeling alive with thought, you will leave it asking questions, sparking conversations. You will like it - promise.

As amazing as Greece was, at the end of our journey, we were as ready as we’d ever be to come home. Real home this time. We say our goodbyes to Scotland this week, and by Sunday, September 23 we’ll be stateside once again. Adio, Greece; See yis later, Scotland. It’s been real.

One of the biggest surprises of this year abroad for me has been the discovery that Shaun and I have people who are willing to journey all the way across the ocean just to see us. It’s not that I am surprised that we have friends and family who love with unabashed warmth and openness, but neither is it lost on me that hardworking, middle class families throwing monstrously expensive exchange rates to the wind to travel to the UK is a huge sacrifice, a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.

We are flattered, grateful, and keenly aware of our luck in having families who chose to share this journey with us, who chose to create a family history, and who chose to author stories that we will tell for a lifetime. To Grandma and Grandpa Jaggers; Squee; Mary, Deb, and Tessa; Tony and Cheryl; Mom, Rick, and Juje: thank you, sincerely and truly. Three cheers to our next adventure together.

Members of my family have been the most recent to visit, but in his entry about his family’s visit in May, Shaun neglected to post one of the most beautiful pictures of him and his mom ever, and I cannot just let it go unpublished.

Shaun and Mary at St. Andrews. Gorgeous, eh?

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June was for Tony and his new companion Cheryl. I wish we saw more of them, but the time we had together was amazing, dispite my having contracted a hideous and crippling bundle of shingles during their stay. (Gross, I know.) Together, we ate loads of delicious Scottish fare, toured Edinburgh and Glasgow, and took an amazing trip to a Scottish Red Kite nature sanctuary. We talked about the family, the future, the past and all the interesting bits in the middle. It felt so good to spend time with my dad.

Getting rained on in Glasgow.

The castle cannon in Edinburgh.

With our sculptures at the Lighthouse.

July was for my mom, her fiance Rick, and Juje. Over the last two weeks, we kicked it in Glasgow and took a day trip to the Isle of Bute before embarking on an incredible road trip together. The road trip took us to a hike up Ben Lomond, a few days on the Isle of Mull, a tour of the Urquhart Castle, a good gawk at Nessy, a hike up a portion of the Great Glen Way, a visit to the Scottish Crannog Centre, and a exploration of a creepy hermitage. We listened to Rick play guitar and Shaun read from his novel, we debated intellectual property laws, read, listened, asked, laughed, took crazy pictures, and felt home.

Tourists are us.

Juje and Shaun resting on Ben Lomond.

Trail snail.

Happy hikers return to dine in town. Some canoodle.

I am a giddy freak.

On the ferry to the Isle of Mull.

Mom and me looking especially cute.

Urquhart Castle.

More castle!

Julian is a Viking.

He is also the only person who has ever truly seen Nessy.

A waterfall on our walk near Pitlochary.

Me pretending to be the scary hermit in the scary hermitage. Rar.

Juje unleashes his inner monkey.

While all parts of the road trip were grand, our stay on the Isle of Mull was incredible. People are scarce on this beautiful island. Gorges burst forth from the land and caves burrow themselves deep into rock. Green hills bubble up at every turn and cars slow on the winding, one-track roads to avoid the goats and sheep who take naps on the warm pavement. Seals flop on the rocky shore and birds of prey swoop through the sky. Little brown mice scurry underfoot and wild cats haunt the castle ruins. Mull is peace. My bones softened there. I opened up to the world and to the simple comfort of the people around me in a way that had been inaccessible in me for a bit, buried by the harried frenzy of work, of city life.

As pure as Mull was, the tranquility of the place in no way prevented us from having a barking mad adventure. With a group as up for anything as we are, no place can really stop us from that. Upon our arrival, I thought we’d all go for a soothing, short walk along the beach to Mackinnon’s Cave. As the path seemed short and relatively straight forward, I also forwent purchasing the OS map that accompanies this little walk. And this is where things get interesting.

Many walking paths in Scotland that intersect with private property are not as well maintained as the paths in national parks. There is no park ranger; there is only the courtesy of the land owner and the footsteps of those who walked before you. So I didn’t think it too terribly strange when we chose to scale a massively steep hill and walk along a staggering, sheer cliff in pursuit of a “spiraling downward path” to the waterfall and cave below. After all, the hike description promised “increasingly dramatic views.” And we were having so much fun that I’d forgotten that the hike was supposed to be short and soothing. Juje remembered though.

“This is definitely the wrong way.”
“Juje, there is no right or wrong way. There is just this, what we’re doing.”
“I’m going back.”
“No you’re not.”
“We should have turned right back there.”
“The hike isn’t about the destination. You’re there already.”

Soon enough, Juje relented and enjoyed the scenary along with the rest of us. All was going well when suddenly, inexplicably, we found ourselves face down, bodies pressed to the earth, clutching for our lives to tufts of grasses growing on the sheer, vertical face of a cliff. This was not the “spiraling downward path” I had in mind.

“Julian, go in front of me so that if you fall, you’ll land on me and I’ll die instead.”
“No. Things seem to be going pretty good for you right now.”
“But you haven’t even gotten a chance to really live yet.”
“I live.”
“Okay. Just be sly. Everybody: acknowledge your will to live.”

Thusly, we scooted our way across the bluff, landing on horizontal land after more than a few sweaty, horrifying moments. Panting, and dusting ourselves off, we couldn’t help but laugh. Juje was right. We almost died. It was hilarious.

Making our way back down to safety, we had to cut through cow fields where evil cows stared us down, sized us up and made us wonder if we’d survived scaling the width of a sheer cliff just to experience death by bovine. Lucky for us, the cows seemed content with their grass.

When we were possibly less than a quarter mile from the car, hours later, with empty water bottles and shaking legs, we saw a sign that made us laugh until our sides hurt. CAVE, it read. An arrow pointed dumbly.

“We have to finish this properly,” I declared.

Following the arrow, we made our way along the rocky beach, alive with sea creatures and craggy rock scrambles. The cave rose from the beach about a half mile down, its great howling mouth opening to the sea.

I was so excited about the cave, the haunted wetness of it, the undulating echo, that I forgot to take any pictures at all. I was 12 again, racing around with my brother, shouting into the cave, feeling the moss on its sides, imagining a giant, pinching crab was about to leap from the shadows of the cave’s belly and devour us whole. It was amazing. I will remember it even when I’m old and rotting. I will remember it when I need to remember happiness in its purest, cleanest, most worth while form.

“This isn’t right.”

Rick takes a break.

This does no justice to the drama of it all. We were much higher up than it looks - it’s hard to capture depth when the drop offs are so sheer.

Mom and Rick strike a pose.

Julian with his pet goat skull - mom spied it along the trail. It currently lives on our window sill.

I give my best cave woman impersonation at the sign that we should have followed the whole time.

My family left Friday morning, and strangely, I was not sad. Our time together was a riot - I can’t remember the last time we all let loose and had so much fun together (Shaun and I’s wedding?), but our road trip was a blast. We did so much and all of it was so good, that I couldn’t be sad to see them go; I was only excited for our next adventure.

My mom and Rick will wed on Macinac Island when Shaun and I return stateside this October. I’m happy to welcome him into our big, beautiful and very strange family; he’s proven himself to be just as happily insane as all of us are. So surely, the future is full of more family adventure, is brimming with stories waiting to be told.

Yesterday, while Glasgow airport was panicked and aflame, I was watching Scottish Red Kites cut through the sky. Their massive wings and their forked tail feathers were warm, pumping them through impressive dives for food. With meats in their talon clutches, Red Kites eat in the sky, bringing claws to jaws. They sleep on the wing too; in some ways, I suspect we all do.

Our Red Kite guide took us – me, Shaun, my dad Tony, his lady friend Cheryl, and Cheryl’s cousin Iain - hiking through the farm and thick wood, pointing out different types of nests, orchids, and animals along the way. With our binoculars, we spied a red squirrel, rare and pretty. We met a retired milk cow who was lovingly nursing two orphaned calves, smitten with their nuzzling and warmth after a career spent hooked to a cold, metal milking machine. We were covered by forest so thick that it suffocated the afternoon light and sprouted long, thick, and hilariously phallic mushrooms from its spongy moss. We photographed uprooted stumps that looked like monsters. We scooped up frogs and poked at pellets. We looked for tawny owls in the topmost branches, close to the trunk. Mud squished beneath our boots and birdcalls, rustling, and wind bloomed in the precious space of our silence.

At the end of the day, Iain drove Shaun and I back to the train station and took Tony and Cheryl farther north, to catch a different train that would take them farther north still, to where they are staying. Our ride back home was a sleepy one. Walking home from the station, I noticed that Crow Road was bumper-to-bumper.

“Look at the traffic! Do you think there is a parade or something on? They must have shut off a road for it to be so congested here.”

Shaun shrugged, but some charge in the air told us that the commotion wasn’t over a parade.

Once home, Shaun logged onto BBC to find out what had happened: somebody crashed a car into Glasgow International Airport. A flaming car. On purpose. All the roads around the airport were closed down; people were flooding into the city.

We found comfort in the action taken by civilians during the attack. People like Mr. Crosby and Stephen Clarkson helped diffuse the situation, aiding the police, ensuring the safety of those around them. A year in this friendly city has taught me that these people are not heroes: they are simply Glaswegians. This is not to say that what these people did is not courageous, or that their concern for others, their eagerness to help, their generosity and spirit is going unnoticed. It is only to say that I notice it all the time in Glasgow; these soulful qualities are not reserved for times of crisis, they are employed always. It’s just how they are.

Shaun and I really like this show called Spooks; it’s a spy drama about Britain’s MI-5 (this is like the FBI in the States). We watch episodes of it on our computer. This season’s focus is on terrorism in Britain, how it destroys people, mostly from how it is exploited politically.

We have a new prime minister, Gordon Brown. He moved in to 10 Downing Street on Thursday, when Blair packed the last of his things. So far, his handling of the flaming car in Glasgow and the two un-detonated car bombs in London has been fairly even headed. His official public statement did not contain grand, sweeping generalizations or alarmist suggestions that we are “at war” or “under attack.” I hope it stays that way; alarmist leadership does more harm than good, and it doesn’t take an episode of Spooks to tell you that.

Tony and Cheryl fly home to Michigan next Saturday. My mom, Rick and Julian will be in town the following Sunday. The airport is stepping up security measures, but we all know how shallow and tinny those feel when actually at the airport. I hope my family can take comfort in flying to a city whose inhabitants care so fiercely about each other. That’s all we can do, really. That, and try to be as fiercely caring as they are.

by Shaun

A couple weeks back, my mom, sister Tessa, and aunt Debbie visited Truly and I in Glasgow for a wee tour around our city and a bit of a look at some Scottish sites. We took a walk around my school and down the River Kelvin, hopped a train to Edinburgh to ride a bus up and down history, and eventually made our way out to Loch Lomond to take in the bonnie banks. Ah yes, there was also a string of charity shops, a good deal of good food, and a big art opening celebrating Scottish designers. It was a big, busy week, and it was great to see family that we’d been missing since September. We hope that they enjoyed their visit as much as we enjoyed having them.

Showing off our ‘design’ work at the Scottish Show.

Us posing with the dour St Andrew himself.

A lush garden near Glasgow’s Burrell collection.

A sheep and goats we saw on our way back from Loch Lomond.

Truly with the sheep’s friend, an owl named Furby.

From Truly

My stepdad Tony wasn’t (and isn’t) a “you should” type of dad. He’s more a master of tickle torcher, a wintertime sled ramp builder, a street hockey player and a leaf pile jumper. Tony imparted his values of active living, honesty, and hard work through deed rather than words; he didn’t just tell us kids to play outside, he raced us to the door to play along with us. In my life, my stepdad has given me advice exactly twice. Both times the words of wisdom landed with such a curious thud that they are impossible for me to forget.

The first time I was six and he was showing me how to stuff rolls of coins to take to the bank. After we stuffed all the loose change in his jar, he tried to give me a roll of change for being a good helper. For some weird reason, I’ve never been good at accepting money or favors; I blushed and said, “No thank you.” Tony’s voice was grave, his face stern. “Never say no when someone wants to give you money. Always make sure to take what you earned.” Thusly I was introduced to capitalism and later the habit of scrutinizing my pay stubs for error.

The second time Tony gave me advice happened the day before my wedding. Many people feel the need to give advice to people engaged to be married. Especially when the bride is a 19-year old dreamer and the groom a lad just two weeks out of college with aspirations to be a fiction writer. By the eve of the wedding I thought I might explode if one more person said one more sentence to me that included the word “should.” But that night after dinner with my family, when a family member lightheartedly asked Tony if he had any words of wisdom for his daughter, I had to smile. In the same heavy tone he’d used when I was six, Tony blurted these awkward words in a forceful staccato: “Work hard. Play hard.” No shoulds. No doubts. Just his basic philosophy for me to take into adult life. And to some extent, I have.

Work has been manic. The Festival I’m marketing launches its main period on 17 May and dozens of exhibitions, workshops and talks have been trickling in since mid-April. It’s a kind of mania I thrive on; I can work with focus, dedication and relentless stamina on projects for the public. I like that I am serving my community here (six actually–the Festival is nationwide in six cities), and in a way, leaving this place better than I found it. The Festival I work for isn’t only aimed at cultivating cultural enthusiasm, but also contains a whole slew of initiatives geared at stimulating economic growth and making Scotland competitive in a global marketplace. I’ve had a blast discovering that Scotland is more than haggis, tartan, and bagpipes; it makes me happy to be able to share that with the world through the work I do. This country has treated us well, with so much kindness and generosity; it’s an honor to have a job that lets me give back to it.

So, in accordance to Tony’s advice: I’m working hard. But I’m playing hard too.

Last Saturday while Shaun was at work, I went with friends Dan, Bryony, and Susie to Ayr, a beachside town on the west coast of Scotland. We ate ice cream with flake, built sandcastles, played Frisbee and mini golf, and walked along the shore. (Bryony had the camera for the day, so we have no pictures of her, which is a shame.)

The shore of Ayr contains a curious creature that lives beneath the sand in the wet pools left behind on the beach after the tide goes out. At first glance, it looks like the bottom of these shallow beach pools are covered in coils of slithery worms; I jumped and splashed like a mad woman when I first realized that I was surrounded by them. But my friends explained to me that they weren’t worms, but rather evidence of wormy creatures wiggling deep beneath the sand. When the earthworms move, air is pushed up and causes the coils that appear in the pools. Weird, huh?

Makin’ the Castle

Our Castle-o-Love

This weekend is a long one, as Monday is a bank holiday in Scotland. While Scotts can be as workaholic as Americans, they observe bank holidays with reverence; nobody works on a bank holiday.

On Friday Shaun and I went to a dinner party at our Icelandic friend Saulka’s house, where she dished up some of the best homemade pizza I’ve ever had and introduced us to the glorious world that is Icelandic rock music. We also played a few rounds of Jenga. I love it when the tower falls!

Early Saturday morning, Shaun hopped on a bus to attend a weeklong Writers Retreat in the Highlands and I hopped on a train to attend to my hankering for a good long mountain hike.

I took the train to Adrossan and then the ferry to the Isle of Arran. My colleagues have been recommending Arran to me for a while, calling it “Scotland in Miniature,” because the geography of this small island matches the geography of the mainland: monroes (Scotts for mountains) in the north and gentle plains in the south. I took a bus to the north to sweat it out on a 7-mile circuit to the highest peak on the island: Goatfell.

The guidebooks promote Goatfell hardcore, claiming that you can see the entire island from its peak. If it weren’t in Scotland, perhaps that would be true. As it stood, the only thing you could see at the peak was a thick wall of white mist. But the boulder scrambling was intense; it’s been a while since I pulled myself up over a boulder, gripping at cool moss to steady myself against the victorious wind. The trail was pretty busy, but I was kind of counting on that since the idea of hiking completely alone in the wilderness sort of freaks me out. I kept pace with a man and his Dalmatian. Both were friendly companions. It was a great climb.

The Atlantic from the Arran Shore

The Trailhead

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Looks like a deformed asparagus, dosn’t it?

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The fence is put up by the forestry service-something to do with maintaining biodiversity. The ladder was also put up by them; how fun and thoughtful!

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At a certain point, the climb was too intense to take photos; hauling yourself over boulders and adjusting apature is not a good idea.

At the top. Just look at the amazing veiw…of mist!

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The last leg of the trail, at the foot of the mountain, had some obligatory Scottish sheep. No walk in Scotland is complete without them.

End of Trail Self Portrait: Tired, sweaty, happy.

Near the end of the Goatfell trail is the Brodick Castle, where I took in a quick tour (which was the same as all the other castle interiors I’ve seen so far: stag heads, stag heads, stag heads) and some well-earned Arran-brewed beer.

If the weather holds, tomorrow I’m off to walk Ben Lomond. I’ve wanted to do this climb for a while, but I’ve had to wait for summer to come since that’s the only time the ferry runs. (Ben Lomond is on the opposite side of the loch than my bus stop, so I need a boat to get to it without a car.) I can’t wait to feel the wind in my hair, hear the crunch of rock underfoot, and breathe deep that delicious, mysterious Scottish mist.

I’m not sure if the “Work Hard, Play Hard” philosophy as a wholly sustainable principal for anyone to live by forever (I think Buddha called dibs on that one with the “Middle Way”), but I think it is a perfectly reasonable idea to guide us at this point in our lives, in this year abroad. We are discovering, exploring, and figuring out just what this green and blue spinning ball that we’re living on has to offer.
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What’s your favorite piece of advice and who gave it to you?

PS
Thanks to all who sent such loving feedback on Shaun’s BBC story. I’m so proud of him and I know you are to. He has been working so hard lately to hone his craft and your love and support go farther than you know. Special thanks to my brother Anthony for accidentally setting the fondue pot on fire that horrible Christmas not so long ago and inspiring Shaun to incororate flaming table cloths into his work.

In case you missed the BBC link to the story while it was live, a perminent link to the radio reading is up on Shaun’s site: www.shaunmanning.com. Click on the “Publications” section. The story is Yuki and Cyrus Take on the World. Many thaks to Rick for his enthusiasm and talents with making temporary BBC links into magical MP3s. Enjoy ladies and gents!

by Shaun

My short story, ‘Yuki and Cyrus Take on the World’, was broadcast today on BBC Radio 4. I can’t tell you how excited I am. And it turned out rather well. Here’s a link:

Yuki and Cyrus Take on the World

That should work for about a week, I’m working on getting something more permanent set up. Hope you like it.

Caveat for those less familiar with my writing: yes, this is a bit dark; no, that doesn’t mean I’m depressed.

From Truly 

I’ve always really liked the phrase “In like a lion, out like a lamb,” but growing up in Michigan, where March tends to be a sullen slop of rust and slush, I never really found it very applicable. But as the ever-growling clouds in Glasgow parted this week, revealing a gentle warm sun, I smiled and said “Baaaa.” Springtime is here.

Yesterday, the first truly warm day of the year, I spent the afternoon walking and taking photos. I started my journey on our favorite hill in the city: The Big Hill. There are surely larger hills in Glasgow, but this one cracks us up because it has a sidewalk going up it and you can see hearty Scottish people doing everyday things on it–pushing a pram, carrying bags of groceries–while wimpy Midwestern flatlanders like Shaun and I huff and puff just to drag our scrawny asses up the darn thing. The Big Hill has been a part of our evening walk since we moved here, so we’re no longer panting like dogs by the time we reach the top, but its still not a route I’d lug a rolling suitcase up.

The Big Hill is so big and twisted that it takes three shots just to document the whole thing.

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After an 90-year old man, a baby just learning to crawl, and a dog with one leg passed me on the way up (and I go running for a sweaty hour most mornings!), I reached the top of The Big Hill and continued en route through the West End and into Kelvingrove Park, where spring was in full bloom.

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Pretty flowers aside, Kelvingrove Park is also home to one of my favorite graffiti’s in the city: Ghost Baby. There are actually many ghost babies painted all around the city. Sometimes the city cleans them away, but just around the corner, a new ghost baby will appear.

As I carried on downtown to meet Shaun at the end of his shift at work, I found another Ghost Baby peeking out from an ally.

While I was in city centre, I thought I should take some shots of the urban bustle; I think my photos create a misleading image of Glasgow. My camera lens consistently drifts to quiet small bits to offer respite from the constant barrage of cramped bodies, the pressing smells, the smashed fries on the sidewalk, the drunks vomiting their liquid lunch onto building sides and walkways. This is a city, after all. It’s not all pretty. But on a spring day, even the crowds look good, don’t they?

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Has spring sprung where you are?

With love, from Truly

I came home from work Friday night exhausted. A week of ten-hour workdays, void of lunch breaks and cheer, will do that to a person. Collapsing on the sofa, my right eye twitching from countless hours of proofreading (aka: re-writing), formatting, and acquiring image rights for the collateral that will market the nation-wide design festival that I bust ass for Monday–Friday (plus some unsavory weekend hours), I was almost too drained to lift my fish-filled fork at dinner.

“Are we still going hiking for your birthday this weekend?” Shaun innocently asked. The effort of laughing was too much to bear. I snorted. “Me no know. So sleepy.”

After dinner, Shaun left to work a night shift for a special event at the Centre for Contemporary Arts; he’s a part-time gallery staff person there. After the clatter and clang of washing the dishes was done, I plopped back on the couch and closed my eyes. I sighed. This inertia, this real-life crabbiness, this relentless barrage of task mastering: this is not what my year in Scotland was supposed to be about.

I remembered when Shaun first came home from a meeting with a post-graduate advisor at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, where he studied for free as a student-at-large while he worked in the publications department at the Art Institute. After explaining some of his ongoing writing projects (which included a historical fiction about the real Macbeth of Scotland) and what he wanted from a masters program (a selective admissions policy; a renown curriculum containing both lectures and workshops; opportunities for editorial experience as well as quality writing critiques; ample exposure to visiting publishers and business contacts), his advisor recommended the University of Glasgow in Scotland. Shaun was elated. He came home buzzing with excitement and before I could even kiss his cold, pink cheeks, he grabbed me ’round the waist and asked, “want to move to Scotland?” I laughed. “Why not? I could hike there!”

While in Chicago, Scotland seemed like a giant vacation: a year of unbridled learning and exploring. And in many ways, it has been. Shaun’s program has exceeded his expectations. And since he sucks at bragging about himself and I make a living in marketing arts and culture, I’ll happily do the job for him: he finished his first semester with the best marks in the course. When he read his work aloud at a pub reading last week, he was given the most generous introduction and applause of anyone who read that evening. His work is thriving here; he’s writing amazing things and he’s continuing to work in an editorial capacity as the editor of the course literary magazine. And best of all, he’s still Shaun: no ego, lots of friends. He’s still the quiet, cheerful guy who cracks jokes that, if you are paying attention, you’ll find are the funniest at the table.

While I don’t spend my days pursuing my passion and picking the brains of some of the most respected and creative people in the literary business, I too am growing by leaps and bounds. Living abroad has made me learn so much about myself; I am constantly discovering things that I’d otherwise never have any reason to discover. Living in Scotland has made me come to terms with what it means to be an American, what makes a person an American, and how the entire concept of nationality is simultaneously mutable and fixed. I am learning how to rise to the challenges of a particularly difficult job with particularly difficult office politics. I am learning how to let go, how to take things less seriously, how to make friends in every place I go. I now drive on the left side of the road. My calculations are in metrics.

So what was I doing loafing on the couch, work-whipped on a Friday night? I am young, I am brave, I am in Scotland! Banishing my lethargy, I got online and found the perfect highlands hike: The Pass of Killiecrankie.

Aside from having a promising name (in my mind, Killiecrankie = “kill crankiness”), the trailhead was only 1.5 hours outside of Glasgow in the quiet village of Pitlochry, in Perthshire. A ten-mile (16 km) circuit that includes a salmon run, loch-side trekking, and the Faskally Woods, The Pass of Killiecrankie was scheduled to have most important thing that a hike in the Scottish highlands can have: good weather. I booked a B&B, rented a car, packed our bags, and sent Shaun a text message. “YES to hiking tomorrow.”

Saturday was heaven. Far away from the grit of the city, miles from the ever-present smell of industrial-strength gravy (a scent that is actually emitted by two huge distilleries on the outskirts of Glasgow), I was completely at one with the world. Mud squished and slopped beneath my boots, bark was cool and rough beneath my palms, the air was sweet and the only sound was that of sheep. We walked at a peaceful gait, stopping only for lunch at a loch in the wood and a fun scrabble on some rocks near some refreshing rapids; I can’t wait until summertime, when the sun doesn’t set until 10.30 pm here and we can linger as long as we want along the trail. During the winter, you are always aware of the time, aware of the sun slipping, setting over the hills. At five o’clock, muddy and sweaty, limbs tingling and tired, we clamored back into the car, ready for a shower at the B&B and a huge meal.

As a special birthday treat (I turn 25 on Tuesday), I took the liberty of booking us in at a really nice B&B. Usually, we go for budget stays, where the rooms are icy and the mattresses are little more than a pile of rusty springs. But this time, at the Craigtin House B&B, we had a massive six foot-wide bed and a fancy soaps scented with invigorating ginger and soothing algae.

After washing up, we walked into town for our evening meal at The Strathgarry. Ravenous, Shaun devoured a mammoth cheeseburger and I a massive cut of slow roasted lamb with leeks. Pushing our plates away from our full bellies, I smiled at my happy partner. “Groovy is a stupid word, but it is the only thing I can think of that describes how I feel right now.” He smiled. “I wish I could feel like this everyday, find a way to make it last. You know?”
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Perhaps that is my new goal for this 25th year of my life. I spent the first half of my twenties finding growth while in hot pursuit of experiencing everything the world had to offer, of devouring life (and really, for only being 25, I think I have done quite a bit). But perhaps now I’m finding more growth from quieter moments, from writing letters to friends, from learning new German swear words from my brother Juje when I call home. This is not to say that my appetite for adventure is dwindling, but rather to say that lately I’m finding that the experiences that amaze me the most are the simple ones: a long phone call to an old friend, reaching for my partner’s comforting hand, mud squishing beneath my boots, and simply, feeling groovy.

Some photos from our hike:

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From Truly

Morning over Paris sighed and was pink and soft and buttery. The city blushed with the kind of beauty that makes everyone in and around it feel pretty. Last weekend was my first time in Paris and also the first time an urban space has ever made me feel lovely.

While I love many things about city living–the culture, the art, the diversity, and the sense that the whole world is right outside your doorstep–there are more than a few aspects of city living that deeply affect me.

For starters, there’s the dog shit, pigeon shit, human shit, vomit. Broken glass, dragging ass, drunk piss-pants-ed homeless. Gum gunk, reeking junk, rats in the alley. There’s roaches in the basement, silverfish in the drain. Leaking pipes, landlord gripes, lease hopping hopeless. There’s used rubbers on the shoreline, needles in the sand, bikes with stolen tires, keys laced and ready in your hand.

And worst of all: spat-out sunflower seed shells. There are actually people in the cities of this world who consume bags of sunflower seeds on public busses, and like vile animals, they spit the black shells directly onto the bus floor. As if everyone didn’t have enough disgusting things to contend with.

I’ve learned to look beyond these more gruesome aspects of city life and most days I do a pretty good job of it. But visiting Paris, a city that didn’t have anything disgusting to look beyond, was shocking. Inspirational, even.

You know when you get a new sweater and you really love it and you take great care to follow the washing instructions with utmost precision? That’s the type of pride that Parisians have in their city. People do not litter. They do not shove on the escalators of the metro. They refrain from eating or drinking anything on public busses. Cigarette butts are snubbed and binned. Packs of people are not roaring drunk in the streets. Nothing stinks. And out of all the millions of statues I came across while wandering the city, not one of them was coated in a crust of pigeon shit. People do not graffiti parks. Paris is clean and fresh and lovingly tended to by its inhabitants. It is by far the most civilized urban place I’ve ever been to.

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Anyhow, the reason why we were in Paris last weekend was that Shaun was on assignment to write up The Angoulême International Comics Festival for an online magazine that he is a contributing writer to from time to time. I just went along to see a city that I’ve always wanted to see; if money was being spent on a hotel room anyway, I figured that I might as well get in on the action.

While I was enjoying my Saturday in the cleanest city on earth, here’s what Shaun was working on:

• A review of the festival.
• An interview with the amazing Alison Bechdel, an amazing author/artist who created one of the best books I’ve read all winter: Fun Home.
• An interview with Peter Kuper, a regular contributor to MAD Magazine’s “Spy vs. Spy, as well as illustrations for The New Yorker, Newsweek, and Mother Jones.

Friday evening, we checked into our sparse but cozy hotel near the Porte d’ Orleans metro, had a nice meal at a neighboring restaurant, and slept soundly on our two twin beds pushed together in European style.

Saturday, Shaun took the train into Angoulême and I took the metro to Raspail, where I read about a delicious Saturday morning farmer’s market near Edgar Quinet Blvd.

On the way, I stopped at Cimetiere du Montparnasse and saw a pair of Japanese tourists reading Satre aloud to each other at the dead author’s grave.

The graveyard was cluttered and crammed full, a city of dead people. Creepy.

After walking a little while longer, I came to the farmer’s market. Actually, I smelt it before I saw it. Glorious rows of roasting chickens rotated on spits, filling the air with the most mouthwatering smells. Every type of vegetable was on display, including massive slices of pumpkin. Sharp cheeses mingled with ripe green grapes and apple tarts snuggled against walnut raisin breads. All sorts of meats and fish were for sale, both cooked and raw. I even saw a whole pigs head for purchase! For my lunch, I bought a small stick of bread with little dots of ham baked inside, olives, a soft goats cheese, a Clementine with its leaves still attached, and a pear tart.

Walking a few miles further, snapping photos along the way, I found myself in a park called Jardin du Luxembourg. Runners and joggers and families and readers and sketchers and journal writers filled the gorgeous park. After walking around a while, I sat next to an Asian girl around my age that was reading a Japanese book. We smiled at each other but sensed conversation was pointless–language barriers. Our bench was near a fountain pond with frozen edges and we watched a little boy chip away at the frozen bits with a stick. An older brother (18 or 19) counted as his kid sister (12 or 13) jumped rope. An old married couple paused to kiss at the edge of the walkway. I ate my lunch and have never tasted anything so good.

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After lunch, I walked a few more miles to the Louvre. I can’t describe the rush of emotion that flooded me upon walking into the courtyard at the Louvre. Surrounded by massive buildings, containing countless works of art was incredible. You could almost hear the muses giggling in the shadows.

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At the Louvre, I fell in love with Botticelli’s A Young Man is Greeted by the Liberal Arts. Actually, the entire Italian renaissance left me breathless. So much so that after seeing so many beautiful men and women offering themselves with passion and energy, stumbling upon the Mona Lisa was more than a little anti-climactic.

The Mona Lisa is small, surrounded by massive crowds, and the entire wall it is exhibited on is covered in bullet-proof glass. An Australian man next to me turned to his partner and remarked, “it’s so much smaller than everything else here. What’s the big deal over this one little painting?”
I spent five luxurious hours getting lost in the Louvre and I didn’t even see a quarter of it.

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When the closing bell sounded, I was sad; I never wanted to leave. I wanted to cuddle up in the patch of afternoon sun flooding the Roman bath and fall asleep there.

I walked a few miles further to the posh shopping districts, where I went into a chemists to buy a tube of toothpaste (we were out) and was appalled to see the price was 9 euros! Posh indeed. Soon after, my tired feet were on a bus back to our hotel.

I ate my evening meal at the same restaurant that Shaun and I dined at Friday, relishing a refreshing 1/2 bottle of Riesling, a really yummy avocado, corn, and crab salad, and a fantastic book called Enduring Love that I finished right there at the dinner table. For dessert, I went to a crepe stand and ordered a fresh Nutella and banana crepe, otherwise known as a bundle of steaming hot glory.

After his late train ride back into the city, Shaun needed a good sleep-in on Sunday morning. But soon enough, we were munching fresh croissants and sipping heavenly coffee and on our way to explore the city together. We fully intended to go to the Musée d’Orsay, but after walking there, we found that we just weren’t in the mood. Instead, we found ourselves stepping into a fancy restaurant with Art Nouveau flourishes crawling over every nook and cranny.

Unfortunately the food was not a pretty as the decor. Shaun’s dish was okay, but I somehow ordered a cold slice of eggplant soaked in vinegar and plopped in the centre of a gigantic and otherwise barren plate. It was really funny and all too stereotypical. We decided that a “lunch: take 2″ at a nearby cafe was in order.

Lunch: take 2 was a delight. I ordered a slice of spectacular French bread smothered in ham and cheese. Shaun got a cheese crepe. We shared a 1/2 bottle of house white. We had a brilliant time at half the price that my shivery eggplant cost.

With most places in Paris closed on Sunday, we had little to do but wonder the city, marveling at its beauty. After a few hours, we found ourselves at the Eiffel Tower. I never knew it was in a park!

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At 10.30 Sunday night, we were back on a plane to Glasgow. It took a while to get used to a regular city, with regular city grime again. But we are adjusting. The weather has been cooperative and the sun is starting to stick around longer. No matter how lovely Paris is, at least for now, Glasgow is home.

by Truly

When I’m really scared I feel like something is going to sneak up behind me and chop my head off, so I frantically pull my collar up to protect my little neck. I’ve been waiting to write about the forthcoming spooky topic until the very thought it of ceased to make me want to change into a protective turtleneck.

So here it goes…

Two Good People, Up For a Spot of Fun
My friend Squee came to visit me last week. When she moved to Michigan from England in our junior year of high school, we were immediate friends: we walked together at our high school graduation, we lived in Chicago at the same time for a while, she is babysitting our cat for us this year–she is one of the smartest, most interesting, interested people I know in this world. Seeing her made everything right in me again. Each morsel of homesickness and every ounce of discontent was expelled from me, as only hours of talking to a true, longtime girlfriend can do. We had a great time walking through Glasgow, eating Scotch Eggs, and hunting for Nessy. On the last full day of Squee’s visit, the two of us took the train into Edinburgh.

After looking around the National Galleries, we came across a sign advertising haunted tours. Always up for a campy thrill, we giddily signed up for something called The Underground Tour. We were the only ones who showed for the tour–it was a Monday night, after all. The guide was a girl that was roughly our age. She sounded like she was from Russia or Poland (or possibly Germany?), but had learned English with a Scottish accent. She put on no airs. She was honest. She was scared.

“Are you sure you want to go just the two of you?” She asked.
“Yeah–why?”
She looked sincerely uneasy, “I just have the creepiest experiences when its only a group of two.”
But of course, instead of deterring us, this news made us all the more excited. Silly girls…

Setting the Stage
The city of Edinburgh is built into massive hills. Many buildings are built on bridges that are hidden by slopes and for the most part, are unidentifiable to the causal observer as actual bridges. For little ole American me, the jumbled nooks, ancient crannies, hidden spaces, and cobbled alleys make Edinburgh a nearly incomprehensible place; it feels more like walking through an illustration in a Dr. Seuss book than walking through an actual city. It’s magic.

According to our tour guide, in centuries past, a bustling network of underground streets wove beneath the hills and bridges of Edinburgh. The underground streets had vaults in them that were used as workspaces by merchants and craftsmen, although this soon proved impractical–a few hours after it rained above ground, the water would seep through the earth and it would rain below ground as well. The underground spaces were then used as storage space, although the damp still made them less than ideal. Eventually, the underground spaces became refuge for urchins, and were eventually forgotten about. Especially when really creepy things happened in them and the city went to great lengths to make sure they were forgotten…

The Story
In the 1970s, a student living in an Edinburgh dormitory heard a hollow sound coming from the wall of his second floor apartment. He asked the landlord what was behind the wall. The landlord wasn’t aware that there was anything behind the wall, except of course the slope of a hill that the building was flush against. But what then, was that hollow sound? Inquires were made to the council to see if they knew anything. They did not.

With curiosity (and probably a few drinks) goading him on, the student broke through the wall one night, expecting to find an extra room, or perhaps a closet.

Imagine his surprise when he unearthed a passage into a long forgotten underground street.

These days, the underground street is dark. It smells like earth and the ceiling drips and echoes. Other echoes happen too. You never quite know where they are coming from. There is emergency lighting that flickers for no apparent reason. There is a turbulent mix of anger and melancholy rotting away in the space; its hard to describe, but you can feel it in your gut, on your skin, breathing at your neck.

The tour guide led Squee and I to the first part of the street, reported to have a low supernatural level: 1. You get a prickly feeling from this part of the street. You know when someone holds their hand an inch or two from your body and teases, “I’m not touching you”? It felt like someone was doing that; it felt like standing in a crowd. Something was human about the energy. It wasn’t scary, exactly. Just really, really creepy.

On level 1 we went into a vault where homeless people hid when not having a home became a criminal offense in the olden days. We huddled together in the center of the room: you could sort of feel ghosts sitting with their backs against the walls: hungry, sick, and waiting.

Next, we walked up the stairs to level 2. Instantly, I was terrified. The energy shifted. I didn’t feel a human presence anymore. Something animal stirred in the shadows, and each step we took brought us closer to its matted fur, its low growl, its yellow eyes. I clung to Squee.

“Are you whimpering?” The guide asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“I just like to know where sounds are coming from.”

Walking timidly to the second vault, clammy cold washed over me, followed by steamy heat. The guide explained that these were “pockets” of supernatural activity. We were walking through ghosts.

Close now to the second vault, a wave of intense nausea hit me. I was sure I was going to pass out. Most of you readers know that I pass out frequently at the slightest provocation–there is no stopping me from slipping into unconsciousness once I start. But this time, in the underground street, was different. Just as the brown dots that mark the start of my descent began to crowd my peripheral vision, I sensed something terrifying: a dog pacing around me. I felt him sniff. I could smell him too. I knew, without a doubt, that something really creepy would happen if I did pass out–that I would encounter the animal in those lucid moments of unconsciousness. I regained my vision and squeezed Squee’s hand. “We are NOT going into that vault,” was all I could say. My terror only grew after hearing that I’m not the only one who’s felt the animal presence at the second vault.

The guide told us a story. A few years ago, a spiritualist rented out the second vault from the haunted tour guide owner for his coven. But after moving in, the place would get trashed every night after locking up. The coven leader was sure that kids were coming in to vandalize the space, so he stayed one night to catch them in the act. In the morning, he was found cowering in a corner, pointing to a circle he’d drawn in the middle of the room.

“Don’t go near that!” He screamed. A ghostly beast had attacked him where the circle was drawn. He now rents a vault in level one and regularly cusses out the haunted tour owner for bringing people in the vault that the beast inhabits. Claws are heard scrabbling and scratching across the floor. Some people leave the vault to find they’ve been bitten…

The third level felt like calamity. But it was a human feeling, and this relaxed me some. Squee, however, was suddenly more afraid than she’d been in all the tour. “What’s that smell?” She blurted. Immediately, I pulled my scarf further up onto my face so that only my eyes were showing. I did NOT want to smell anything.

“What do you smell?” The guide asked.
“Wood? Something…burnt?”
“We are NOT going in there,” I declared again.

The guide wrapped her coat tight around her. “Lots of people say they can smell burning in this vault,” she said. And then she told us another story.

In the seventeen hundreds, a huge fire raged in the streets of Edinburgh for days. When running from the flames got to be too much for the citizens, a number of them took refuge in the underground street that the modern-day dormitory was built flush against. The citizens figured that stone of the underground was flame retardant, so they should be safe from the blaze. But as the fire raged on, the underground stone street grew hotter and hotter. The people inside were cooked. Literally baked alive.

So gruesome was the deaths of these citizens, that the city closed the street off and its existence was buried until the 1970s when that student broke through the wall.

At the end of the tour, we were offered a shot of whiskey and some shortbread. Squee tried to calm herself with a biscuit, to no avail. We were shaken beyond the fun frivolity of snacks. I was flat out nauseous.

Once out onto the street, we noticed that we were drenched with sweat, yet shivering, flu-like. “I never want to see or go to any place like that ever again,” we affirmed.

But after a cheerful (well lit) pub outing brimming with some of the best conversation I’ve had in months, we forgot the tangible horror of the haunted tour. By the time our train pulled back into Glasgow Queen Street Station, we were back to our usual invincible selves.

It wasn’t until we were back in the flat, telling Shaun all about it from the beginning, that the goosebumps, the overactive tear ducts, and the shivers reminded us that we experienced something truly terrible.

“I want to go on the tour!” Shaun said.
“Promise me you won’t ever go,” I said.
“Why?”
“Just promise.”

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Have you ever been to a haunted place?