Premature Nostalgia

A dramatic cold front has settled upon Edinburgh (some might call it “Winter,”) and I’m both pleased and not-that-pleased.  I’m not-pleased because I’m chronically freezing, and I’m re-confronted with the thought I may be part reptile with each passing day.  However, I’m pleased, in some romantic sense, because I feel like I’m in some Northern fortress experiencing a real winter.  I hang my clothing on the radiator, and I’ve shoved my bed toward it in such a way that allows for easy foot-access.  Every time I leave the apartment, I bundle in layer after layer, finally topping it off with a peacoat and a gigantic scarf that swallows my face.  Almost every single pub and restaurant I pass is unceasingly fogged, and when I eat out, I trace little drawings in the condensation.  I brew tea when I’m thirsty, and when I’m not thirsty, and I clutch the mug close and feed off its warmth.  In class, I strip my extra layers off, and hang them over my chair like some winter-pro.  I add my voice to the citywide lamentation about the weather, even though I love all these things.

Two days ago, in a coffee shop, I took a short break from my essay (one of many…it wasn’t that short, either…) and I peered between the white-washed window panes.  Across the street I caught glimpse of pedestrians under bubble umbrellas in front of a backdrop of a beautiful Medieval building.  A red double-decker pulled up, and a woman in front of it hailed a cab (these look like they’re straight out of the 1920s, not like yellow taxis.)  The whole scene was so perfect, I wanted to tie it up with ribbon and offer it to someone for Christmas, or to eat it in one giant bite, like some Scottish chocolate truffle.

I passed this coffee shop on my way to my first Scottish Rugby game yesterday (against South Africa.)  I bought ten-pound student tickets not-too-long in advance, expecting to sit a skyscraper away from the field, and was miraculously rewarded with an incredible view and seats that were quite close!  (We were so surprised that we immediately went searching on the highest level, only to be [eventually] directed to a lower stand!  Turns out being a student has its perks after all!)  I was surrounded by Scottish fans, and cheered when they cheered, and booed when they booed, and donned their face paint, and laughed with them at the lone South African men below us that tried to rile up the blue masses.  Walking there, we saw a couple other fans, who asked if we could show them the way (as LaMarcus Ford II, Class of ’14,  said it was like the blind leading the blind.)  However, we soon found more fans, and then transformed into a gaggle of fans, and then turned a corner and were greeted with literally thousands of fans.  We marched to the stadium in some bread-line formation, passing bagpipers and drummers and ticket scalpers.  The herd unabashedly walked through the streets, abandoning the sidewalks, cheering and waving flags and dancing.  At one point, I looked up, into the sun, and realized I was just one little member of some thousand-part Scottish spirit machine, bobbing like a snake down the road.  (This machine couldn’t help us win, though.)

Before arriving here, I had so many worries.  Worries about being friendless, about not immersing, about hating my flatmates, and about wasting my “study abroad experience” on some alternate-America.  In some stroke of luck, I’ve met all sorts of new friends, I’ve rubbed shoulders with many-a Scottish citizen (thank you, Games Society,) I love my flatmates, and the five of us spin a perfect web of kitchen-talks and gossip and stories and pumpkin carving, and I’ve come to realize how unique and special Scotland is.  I think I finally understood this on my birthday weekend.  Before leaving for the Western Isles, LM and I watched Skyfall (which, props to my location, I got to watch early!)  I won’t spoil it, but the entire theatre cheered all throughout “the Scottish part,” (as I’ll dub it,) and I found myself unthinkingly cheering along with them.  After that, (as you know if you’ve read my last post,) we left to see the Western Isles, and weeks later, a large part of me still misses them…We purposefully visited really remote places, so we didn’t encounter other people that often, but when we did, I kept wondering how my life would have been different if I grew up there, if worked in that coffee shop, or if I operated that ferry.  Would I still appreciate the landscapes?  Would I long to leave, to bust into some big city?  Would I think of Scotland the same way?  All questions I’ll probably never know the answer to (except the last one…because obviously I’d think of Scotland differently…but how?!)  I think I’m becoming increasingly nostalgic because I realize I’m leaving in a little over a month (a chunk of which I’ll spend in other countries that aren’t Scotland.)  Imagining a walk to class where I can’t see Arthur’s Seat through the buildings is really starting to depress me.  For now, I’m about to leave to try another Indian restaurant, so I’ll eat my feelings and then try to finish these horrible final papers before my first trip (to Spain!)