Winter courses (and another Edinburgh pic)

 

Another Edinburgh picture, taken from the very tippy-top of the Walter Scott Monument.  I love the lighting in this picture.  It looks like I did something really cool on purpose.  That big building with the clock tower is a schnazzy hotel, the street is Prince's St., and the green bit is Calton Hill.  Beyond that--yes, that is the ocean.

Figured I'd ramble a bit more in this post.  I'm going to try to actively begin to remember funny things that happen throughout the day, the way I did when I was living abroad.  Just because I'm home, so to speak, doesn't mean I should let that whole looking-on-the-bright-side thing I was doing last year slack off.  (Even if it was way too easy last year.)

Anyway.  I'm actually enjoying my classes this quarter, sort of.  We're reading a bunch of religious books in one of them, and half the time it's fascinating.  The other half the time it bores me to tears.  I think it's a mentality thing--it's definitely easier to understand and care about The Baghavad Gita when I'm not rushing or worried about other stuff.

In another class I've set an extra goal for myself (of churning out one short story per week), and that part is marvelously enjoyable.  The half where we have to read/critique other peoples' in-progress works isn't generally so much fun.  It takes a lot of time to line-edit forty pages of writing, and I try to be meticulous (because I hope that's what others will do for my story). My American art history course is kind of awful.  I keep getting flashbacks to 10th grade humanities  (Thanks, Ms. Tanaka.  Really.)  I'd be in so far over my head without that class, but at the same time--I mean, I don't know anything about art.  And half the lectures just piss me off because the idiot men are so goddamn sexist. (EDIT: Not the men in the class.  The artists.)

I'm also taking a William Carlos Williams class.  I don't know how I feel about it yet.  Some of his poetry just... doesn't make sense.  At all.  And there's an essay (that I haven't yet started) on his poetry due next week.  But his short stories--well, my copy of the book is late, but the prof read two of them out loud in class this week, and they were wonderful.  Absolutely brilliant.  Can you imagine a bona-fide legitimate writer in the twenties writing about lesbianism?  And it's not porn.  It's a good story.

So far this quarter

 

I look at pictures of Edinburgh when life in Santa Barbara starts to overwhelm.  As long as there aren't any people I know in the picture, it's very calming.  (If there are friends I haven't seen in months it's just sad.)  This picture was taken from about halfway up the Walter Scott Monument on Prince's St (that's what the brown/black spire is--part of the monument).  The first bridge with the buses is Waverly Bridge, and the odd coverings is actually the train station.  The other bridge, farther back in the picture, is North Bridge.  The first time I walked across it, the wind was so strong my scarf unwrapped itself and almost flew off my neck.  The hills in the background is Arthur's Seat.

Shorts weather in Santa Barbara today.  Dress weather, actually--it was too hot for even shorts.  It was pretty wonderful.  Somebody said it hit 83 degrees today (28 Celsius).  Even the wind was hot, like a Santa Ana.  I can't tell if I've got allergies in addition to my cold.  Blegh.  I love this weather, but blegh for runny noses and not enough cold medicine and pressure in the forehead that makes me want to either scream or curl up into a pathetic ball and groan in pain. (Thank god for Tylonal.)

I shouldn't complain.  One of my flatmates went to the hospital on Sunday for an awful stomach ache and ended up staying the night.  Horrifying.  Made me want to drive out there and give her a hug and some proper food.  (Except I don't have a car.)  For a while they thought it was appendicitis, and that she'd have to have surgery, but it turned out to be a lot less serious.  The day after she came home from the hospital, though, she ended up with both a cold and an ear infection in both ears.  Needless to say, she went home for the weekend to be babied.

My mother's coming up on Saturday with two of her girlfriends (both family friends) for a wine-tasting excursion.  Santa Barbara is wine country, I guess.  I get to come along, though if these allergies don't take a chill pill I don't know how much I'll actually be able to taste.

Whatever, though.  It'll still be nice to see my mother.

Stirling, again.

Another view of Stirling from last December, again facing away from the castle.  The temperature had begun to rapidly drop not too long before this. 

Stirling

Stirling, Scotland, in the midst of a cold December day, 2010.  Behind me is Stirling's castle, and off in the distance on the tree-covered hill you can just barely make out the Wallace monument. 

View of Loch Lomond from December 2010

Very, very chilly out there.  I had fingerless gloves on at the time.  Did my hands leave my coat pockets?  No, they did not. 

Wow. Just... wow.

This has quite probably been the most stressful two weeks of my life. Packing is stressful enough. Doing it twice is annoyingly stressful. Doing it twice, then missing your flight, then showing up at the wrong gate before FINALLY catching your (my) flight is basically unbearable.

I haven’t slept in I-don’t-know-how-many-hours, so this will probably either short and rambly or long and rambly. Thank god for spellcheck. And internet connections, while we’re counting our blessings.

So! I just arrived in Edinburgh. My bed is half made. I gave up halfway through getting the duvet cover on, because it’s ridiculously enormous. Which I suppose I’ll be grateful for in a few months when winter sets in, but right now I’m just beyond caring about it. (But I have a pillow!!! I am not beyond caring about that. :) At ALL.)

There are no elevators in my building. I’m on the seventh floor. (Sixth? Maybe.) I also have two fifty-pound suitcases, a backpack, and a duffel bag. OH MY GOD SO TIRED is all I really have to say about that. A very nice French girl offered to help me get my stuff up, but I don’t think she realized how much god-awful-ness would be involved because she definitely pulled the “I’m French and don’t speak any English so I’m leaving now because this goddamn luggage weighs a ton” routine.

She was nice enough to help for four flights, though, so I didn’t call her on it.

I have my own room, which is wonderful. There’s more furniture in here than I know what to do with. For some reason, there’s another, smaller desk beneath the regular desk. I don’t know what to do with it quite yet. Maybe I’ll just… put it in the middle of the floor. After I finish unpacking and hide my suitcases. Or block the door with it?

I also have a phone. (And internet. Thank god. Again. Hallelujah and all that.) And bookshelves!

Pictures (possibly a video) to come. After I find my converter and charge my camera.