When the hurly-burly’s done

(Recently found in a notebook I forgot I had.)

Commerce, street-style. Buying and selling Tattoo tickets is a full-contact sport. The Sikh in the plaid turban’s a sharp talker. I can’t even get much of a sound out–dry throat left over from last night’s farewells, some mist behind my eyes. Last night in Edinburgh.

Everyone from SUISS has scattered. I left Swetha and Sarah near the Book Festival. I’m glad they were the last people I hung out with here–they’re both genuine and mature and sweet and I’ll miss them terribly. Sarah’s talking about trying to get a job teaching Spanish in the US. I promised her I’d do anything I could to help her out.

But last night was emotional. We had the farewell party/show, then went out to a karaoke place. My guess is that we were steered that way to cut down on tears. I keep watching the video I shot from the center of the knot of people singing “Bohemian Rhapsody.” I guess it’s the light or something but everyone looks like they’re in slow motion.

(It tails off here, getting embarrassing and maudlin.  You can only imagine.  A short-lived crush cycle is described, and some more thoughts about how wonderful Edinburgh is.  After I wrote this I walked across town to my hostel, which was okay, and took some pictures along Princes Street.  Nobody was home at the hostel when I got there except some annoying American girls–the room was enormous and co-ed–who were going out to get bombed on a Friday night in Edinburgh.  I’d had an almost all-nighter Thursday night, so I went to sleep at about 9:30, woke up briefly when everyone came home at 3, and slept soundly until my watch alarm woke me to go to the airport.  It rained on my way to the bus stop, on the bus going to the airport, and definitely when I walked outside at the airport to get to the shuttle bus to the plane.  Everyone on the plane was soaking wet and miserable, and I didn’t really feel like dealing with the couple I sat with who couldn’t understand how I’d spent more than three days “doing” Edinburgh.)

I’ve already gotten a bit of a lecture about using “the world” to refer to back home in the States, but I’m going to stick to it. It’s Vietnam War-era grunt slang that comes up in almost every book about the war whenever someone leaves the war and goes home. It connotes adjustment, discomfort, anticipation, and, I think, the knowledge that the soldier in question is never going to look at things the same way again.

So I’m not leaving a jungle or a war, and the toilets here flush and there’s power and running water and everything, but I’ve started to think about what going back home is going to be like. There’s a lot to do in the next week and half–in addition to getting everything ready for the return to school, I keep getting emails about the Beth El youth group that I agreed to run and which is turning into way more work than was advertised (nothing unmanageable, but), and I’ve got gigs in August, September, October, and November to get ready for. Yikes.

So going back to the World means giving up, I think, most of everything here–the Housekeeping staff who clean my room, make my bed, and bring me fresh towels every morning (freaked me out at first, but I got used to more quickly than I’d like to admit), the people who make my meals for me, the proximity to friends that only comes from living in dorms (although, I suppose, that the Branch Davidians made a good attempt at this in their time). Back in the World, I can’t just wander down the hall, knock on someone’s door at night, and expect them to a) not call the cops, fearing a break-in or b) agree to come out to see what’s going on in town.

I was invited to see a few plays at the Fringe this week, but I’m skipping them. I’d much rather spend the time (and the money) somewhere where I can talk to the friends I’ve made and who I’ll probably never see again, mostly. We went out last night to Medina, where over a dozen SUISSers sat on pillows on the floor and just talked. Everyone, it seemed, was from somewhere else–Alek from Serbia, Zuzka from Slovakia, Mairin from Ireland, Roxanne from Italy, myself and Matt and Meghann from the US, Amir from Iran, Sweta from India, Rachel from Australia, Liza from Israel, and plenty more who I’m forgetting right now. That to me’s been the best part of being out of the World–meeting people from all over the place and forging a little community of expat temporary students from places with lousy exchange rates with the pound. Bliss.

There’s been some talk of setting up a message board to help everyone keep in touch after this is all over tomorrow morning. I’m all for it, but I don’t hold out much hope for its success. I’m afraid that everyone’ll go back to their lives, and barring the occasional email or Facebook message, this is all over. And letting go is okay–it’ll make going back to Connecticut easier, for sure, and it’ll give me focus. But I kind of want this to last just a few more days. The World’ll still be there.

David’s comment reminds me that I haven’t blogged in a few days, and that in the intervening time I’ve experienced a pretty wide swath of the Fringe. Basic quick rundown follows, as I’ve got 2,500 more words to write if I want to hand in this draft:

Saturday night: A Midsummer Night’s Tree. Nothing to do with Shakespeare, as Heather and Jaki and I thought it would have, but still great. Breakdancers, trapeze artists, a singer, and a comedian (whose bits went on a bit too long, though he was pretty funny) performed separate pieces on a stage beneath a gigantic tree in the middle of a park on the outside of the New Town. I think they might be the world’s strongest people.   The whole night was nice, despite the midgies that came out when the drizzle subsided.

The evening ended at a famous pub called the Hebrides, where Martin, who is one of the tutors here, was playing Scottish folk music with one of his two bands. In addition to the folk songs, some of which I knew (and which turned out to be Irish, actually), they performed that Edinburgh classic “(I’m Gonna Be) 500 Miles,” and some sort of very localized political parody of “Billie Jean.”

Sunday afternoon: (Aine) Tigone, basicle Sophocles’s play adapted and re-set in Belfast, 1972. I think the performers were local high school students, and they didn’t give the most even performance, but the script was amazing and I left feeling really moved. I don’t know very much about Antigone, having never read or taught it, but this actually made me a little interested in the original.

Monday afternoon: Bouncy Castle Macbeth. Forget Kurosawa. Forget Polanski. This is the way the Scottish Play needs to be done. An hour and fifteen minutes, a cast of fewer than ten (Banquo was played by an inflatable doll wearing a kilt), and a big purple bouncy castle as the stage. Not sure why Macbeth used an inflatable Tyrannosaurus Rex as his sword in the final battle scene, but I’m sure it was a necessary piece of stage business (or the balloon sword he’d had earlier in the play popped). Magical. 

Tuesday night: The Ballad of James II. Douglas Maxwell, Scotland’s most prolific young playwrite (his words), wrote this show about truth and mythmaking in the lives of nations. James II, an ugly, schizophrenic, and asexual king of Scotland, must make a decision that might lead to a civil war. The cast of five did a remarkable job with the complicated emotions involved, and the staging (in the famous Rosslyn Chapel) made the performance even more special. This is the show I’d recommend most highly of the four, though the others have a lot to recommend (especially Bouncy Castle Macbeth). But there’s something about great theatre, and a great script, and great actors, that transcends gimmickery. James II would’ve worked anywhere–I could see it being done at the GHS Black Box, for example, or on Broadway, or anywhere there’s a performance space. I left that play wanting a copy of the script and another opportunity to see the show. Alas, last night was our last off night until next week, as we’re pretty heavily programmed here.

And now I really need to write this story. It’s easy to forget why I’m here–Edinburgh’s not a good city if you’ve got ADHD that’s triggered by impending deadlines.

The first week is out of the way, and I think I’m all set here. I’ve figured out the layout of the city enough not to get lost on foot, and have braved the buses (there are multiple bus systems here, each with their own schedules and fares, so it’s a little tricky).

I’ve danced in a céilidh. I’ve spent a very long night at the Famous Spiegeltent. I’ve decided to take the Creative Writing course for credit, forking over £40 for three credits that hopefully will apply to my sixth-year and really allow me to live like a Master of the Universe.

I know I’ve written this before, but I have to say again that Edinburgh is amazing. You walk around the corner, and there’s something great to see–Georgian or Victorian tenement buildings, a monument to someone wearing a periwig, a gigantic castle, an extinct volcano.   And now that the Festival’s getting underway, there’s all sorts of human scenery here too. I’m going to head over to the Royal Mile after I finish up here, grab some lunch (the University cafeteria that we’ve got access to is closed for lunch on weekends, for some reason, and I certainly wasn’t awake for breakfast), and do some serious people-watching. And laundry. Got to remember the laundry.

I’ve been writing, too, though I’m not satisfied with much of what I’ve done. One piece, which I’ve put on hold for now, is written in the 18th-century voice I’ve been playing around with (and which Peter does so much better than me). The other, though, has been a little more interesting to work on, though I don’t want to say anything more about it. I believe in jinxes.

I should, though, get back to work so I can get out of here, eat something for the first time today, and ensure a supply of clean socks for the coming week.

Peace.

So I’m here in the main library at the University of Edinburgh, where the main sport seems to be hurling books around and yelling.  The computers are free and internet access is fast, though, so that’s nice, and I imagine I’ll be here a lot odoing work.

Oh yeah, work.  First day of classes just ended and it’s going to be intense.  There was a lecture this morning by an English professor who explained something about the differences between modernity, modernism, postmodernism, and “postmodernism”.  No, I’m not kidding.  It was the first lecture I’d been to in a really long time (I didn’t even have very many as an undergrad) so it was a struggle to sit still and quietly for an hour listening to someone read from a paper he’d written.  It was interesting though, as far as I understood it.  The writing part, though, is going to be fun.  My class doesn’t have as many undergrads as I thought–in fact, there are only two of them, plus three high school English teachers (including me) and two people who’ve quit their real jobs to write novels.  Good mix and everyone’s really cool.

I’m going to eat some lunch now, assuming I can find the place, so that’s all. 

Peace.