Scotland...The Final Frontier. These are the memories of Brian Wagner, aged 21, as he braves influenza and fatty deep-fried foods to record the happenings of his life.

Right, now back down to business. I'd better wrap up the details of my homestay at some point, or I'll be recounting what happened in Insch when I head back home in late May.

On the second day we were at the Burnet's house, we did the group activities segments. First on the list was the GlenDronach distillery, which is owned by a larger whisky company called Teacher's. As we showed up late to join the group, we missed the entire tour of the distillery, arriving only in time for the whisky tasting--twas a shame to miss such an exhilarating opportunity to see some tubes and tanks that I had already seen previously, at the Royal Scotch Whisky Heritage Centre in Edinburgh.

A boy and his whisky:



So we drank a dram at the distillery, bought souvenirs (in my case, a small bar towel and a 3oz bottle of their Teacher's Highland Cream Whisky), and eventually found our way to Delgatie Castle:



The castle, built in 1030, was turned by its late owner, Captain Hay, into a charitable trust so as to preserve it after his death. Not the most imposing of structures, it was still fascinating to circle up and up the spiral stone staircase, stopping along the way to investigate the rooms that had once housed feudal lords and are now reputedly the home of three kooky and crazy GHOSTS. Of course, we all made fools of ourself peeking around corners to see if we could catch the ghosts by surprise, but what else could we be expected to do--none of us wanted to admit it, but we weren't sure that ghosts didn't exist. Hell, a German TV paranormal investigator had said there were ghosts whom he had seen in the building and talked to--how can we doubt such a reputable figure?

Due to the castles small size and the enclosure of some of its rooms, the tour for the first of us to wander off ended rather quickly. The highlight was of course the room that Mary Queen of Scots had stayed in during 1562 after the Battle of Corrichie. It is my sincere hope that, for her sake, she didn't stay long, as the room she stayed in had nothing but a small wooden bench and a window a short woman may not have been able to see through. Being a queen wasn't always shits and giggles--sometimes they had to rough it like a jailed Martha Stewart. And god knows that home decoration wasn't as advanced then as it is today. All that stone is so 1300s.

After growing board with ghost-hunting and the other random visitors who kept popping into rooms and yelling "Who you going to call" before spraying crazy green lasers all across the room, some of us wandered out into the snow, where we found 4 Shetland ponies munching on grass and snow. Bored young Americans that we were, we spent the next half-hour naming the four horses "Bubba," "Bubba," "Bubba," and "Bubba," and contemplating whether we could ride them. In the end, we just talked to them like they cared about what we had to say, took pictures of us near them, and tried not to get the crap on their noses smeared on our nice new Columbia Sportswear jackets.



After our day of tramping around in the snow--with a side tramp to a grouping of ancient stones (in a circle of course) that one of our hosts called a "damned boring burial ground or the like," we headed back to the Burnet's house--all of us--for tea, cookies, and of course, a team game of snooker. I think we got more than a few people hooked, as Team Brian trounced Team Keith, thanks in large part to one of Keith's teammates, Kat, who contributed about 20 points to my team by constantly making errors.

As dinner time approached, one might think that our day was winding down, but oh, how wrong one would be. After a splendid steak and potato dinner with a dessert of candied pear in a red wine sauce--yes, it was as good as it sounds--we drove over to the main host family's for a nite of partying with the hosts and the students from the Butler program.

Other than getting drunk at the request of Hugh, the main host, who plied us with cans of Guinness and bottles of wine, we basically played games. Yes, games. First there was a game, called Lightning Round or something, which involved four people holding buzzers and waiting to press their button when a flashing red light turned green. The catch? The slowest person to buzz got shocked by their buzzer. An interesting game while sober, a damned genius game when drunk. But the true highlight of the night, an hour that will stick in my memory forever, was the cereal box game. Dear lord, how I wish that I had pictures of this glorious exercise in absurdity and contortionism. Picture this: everyone lounges around the living room; in the middle of the living room is placed a cereal box. Going one by one, every single person must pick up the cereal box with their mouth, the catch being that the person's knees can't touch the ground. Not too difficult when the box is over a foot tall, but in each successive round, one of the hosts chopped off part of the box, lowering its height from the ground. I utterly surprised myself, me of the great inflexibility, by developing a method of crossing my legs and sitting on my feet that got me into the 6th or 7th round. But the three eventual winners were astounding--they could all bend, in various ways, to pick up a FLAT piece of cardboard that was lying on the ground. Jimi Hendrix sang, "excuse me!, while I kiss the sky," at this party, three individuals literally asked us to excuse them while they tongued the ground (hooboy, that was a corny reference--go team!).

The party broke up around midnite, and we headed back to the Burnet's house, where Keith and I engaged in another game of snooker before crashing.

The next day was our last, and we spent it wandering the city Aberdeen.

more to come on that.... and check out my other photos of Scotland, on the web at: http://www4.pbase.com/biggerz/scotland

I'll be writing more tonite, but for now, here's another Scotland pic:



Also, during our weekly poker game last nite (where I nearly doubled my money, thank you very much) I came up with a "Poker Mix" on my ITunes which I found to be, as Triumph The Insult Comic Dog would say, "not shit at all. In fact, this stuff is quite listenable!"

So here's that list, just for fun:

Fit But You Know It-- The Streets
Almost-- Bowling for Soup
Album Of The Year-- The Good Life
Out Of My Head-- Fastball
Hurricane Party-- Cowboy Mouth
Galvanize-- The Chemical Brothers
The Internet is For Porn-- Avenue Q: Original Broadway Cast
Exotic Talk-- RJD2
Mass Destruction [P*Nut & Sister Bliss Mix]-- Faithless
The Machines Ascend Skyward Towards The Heavenly Spheres-- Sparky Dog
Racheal Yamagata-- Worn Me Down
Walk Into The Sun-- Dirty Vegas
It's Only Divine Right-- The New Pornographers
The New Face Of Zero And One-- The New Pornographers
The Legacy of Margaret Brown-- State Radio
Apache— Michael Viner's Incredible Bongo Band mixed by Fatboy Slim
Jubilee-- Blur
Stephanie Says-- The Velvet Underground
Music Is The Victim-- Scissor Sisters
Sitting, Waiting, Wishing-- Jack Johnson
The Truth-- Handsome Boy Modeling School
Just Dropped In-- Kenny Rogers & The First Edition
Two Way Monologue-- Sondre Lerche
Vice-- Razorlight
It's a Shame About Ray (acoustic)-- Lemonheads
Wonderful Night-- Fatboy Slim (feat. Lateef)
Mama told me not to come-- Tom Jones with Stereophonics
Caught in the Rain-- Martin Sexton

Return with me now to the rural farmlands outside of Insch, where I spent last weekend with Calum and Roberta Burnet, a gentleman farmer and a special ed teacher ...

On our first night at the Burnet's house Keith and I were treated to a veritable late night feast. Bustling about the kitchen with an obvious love of guests, Roberta laid before us roast beef, potatoes, salad, wine, and tea. Hungry after a 3.5 hour bus ride (where I had made another 150 page dent in David Copperfield), Keith and I dug in with a gusto equal to that of a cold, wet American WWII soldier being taken into a sympathetic local house after a week spent crawling amongst French hedgerows in avoidance of Nazi tanks--we were that hungry.

Soon after dinner, Andrew, the eldest son, introduced Keith and I to the amazing world of snooker. With Daft Punk's "Discovery" issuing from the stereo, we proceeded to learn the intricacies of a game much more complicated and intellectually-stimulating than plain ol' pool.



As you can see in the above picture, there are a lot more balls on the table (and in the case of a full-size table, the table itself is much larger). The red balls are the generic common ball; the colored balls arrayed around the table are representative of different point values. Starting at the head of the table, you break the red balls like you would break up a rack in pool. From there, though, there is a whole world of difference. The goal for the first part of the game is to knock in a red ball, then a colored ball following. If you can manage that combination you are able to pick up points (1 point for the red ball + however many points the colored ball is worth). There is a point counter built onto the Burnet's basement wall just for this purpose. So you keep knocking in red balls and colored balls until all the red balls are off the table (a note: in this round you replace the colored balls on the table after knocking them in a hole). After the red balls are all gone, you have to knock all the colored balls in while following an ascending point order. If you EVER miss a shot, beware the penalties. Miss a red ball and your opponent gets 4 points. Miss a shot at a 7 point ball (the black one) and your opponent gets 7. Often, games are decided not by what you make, but by what you miss.

Where, you may ask, does the term "snooker" come from? If you have to hit a certain ball, but another ball is in the way, making a direct shot impossible, you are "snookered." Think of it as a polite, snobby British euphemism for "fucked." So, since you get points when your opponent can't hit the proper ball, you always want to snooker your opponent--it takes a lot of pressure off you if they are constantly in a battle not to screw up.

Needless to say, Keith and I were hooked. He beat me by one point in the first game, then we played as a team to lose to Andrew by about 40 points. We played three more times while we were there, eventually evening the score at 2 games to 2 games (Can you smell a rematch? I sure can).


Coming either in a few hours or tomorrow, depending on when I get to it.... our visit to a whisky distillery and a castle (with ghosts and Shetland ponies, oh my!)

A weekend in Insch promised ...well, I didn't really know what it promised, other than an inability to think of it without calling it "Hedwig and the Angry Insch." My homestay this weekend turned out not even to be in Insch, but on 1,200 acres of farmland in a rural area. As farms go, this one was a bit misleading. See, most farms don't have mansions. Or large hedged gardens. Or 13 foot-long snooker tables (like pool, but better).

The weekend, in short, was an amazing experience. I, along with Keith, a junior from Claremont McKenna, stayed with the Burnet's (Calum and Roberta) at a house which had been passed down in Calum's family for 7 generations. A quick sketch of the house. After parking the car, you walk into a small hallway, where you can either enter the library, which includes vellum-bound books from the 1700s, or go up the stairs into the main hallway, where you are quickly surrounded by two behemoth canines--Fred and Barney (yes, after the Flintstones). Fred is a year-old Great Dane who can't control his drool; Barney is the wiser, more in control German Shepard who is still able to take down Fred in a fight. Both love to sniff you and lean against you till you lose your balance. In short, you can't help loving them (hell, I had a chunk taken out of my leg at age 10 by a dog and i'm saying this).

The hallway is more a great hall than anything else, with the walls adorned with massive paintings that deserve space in a museum--Calum is still working on tracking down the history of each one. To the left of the hallway is the main entrance that leads out to the front lawn, where you look across hundreds of the Burnet's acres--when it snowed while I was there, the entire landscape seemed to be smothered in white, except for a green field in the distance that stubbornly refused to yield to the powder that was floating down for hours. Across from the main entrance in the hallway are the main stairs, leading to all the bedrooms, and next to the stairs is the entrance to the basement, where the magnificent snooker table is housed (more on that later).

The rest of the house is less impressive, but just as splendidly comfortable--a cozy kitchen with a massive stove that is a recreation of something from centuries past, and a large living room with the basics, including couches and a TV that constantly spewed out the works of Matt Groening.

The Burnets have five children, the youngest 19, with all of them out of the house at the time. Keith and I got the opportunity to learn snooker from Andrew, the eldest, as he was on his way from Edinburgh to a nearby ski resort to try and take advantage of the snowfall.

Before we met them, Keith and I were warned by the host who was in charge of all the other host families that they were the ones with the "odd" house. She was right, if by "odd" she meant "fucking amazing." I think Keith and I were guilty of bragging a bit too much about our circumstances to the other students who were staying in the area, and they all loved the house too when they came over for tea and snooker (how British!) on Saturday evening.

To be continued tomorrow in part two....

These were the dogs I spent the weekend with. Huge and friendly.

I'll be posting a lengthy recount of my experiences in Insch and Aberdeen soon, but for now, here are a few of my Scotland photos:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/77228245@N00/

At 530 pm today I am off on a weekend homestay in Insch, which is near Aberdeen farther north on the east coast. I'll be residing with Calum and Roberta Burnet, a farmer and teacher with five grown children. Calum enjoys skiing in his free time, while Roberta, ever the teacher, prefers to increase her intellect through reading. They have 2 dogs, which are hopefully not man-eating Dobermans or toe-eating chihauhas (how the hell do you spell that).

So I bid y'all adieu until Sunday evening, when I shall breeze back into Edinburgh like the prodigal son returning home.

Cheers,
Brian

Dickens' command of language is wholly overpowering.

See how he has David Copperfield describe his infatuation with Dora Spenlow:

"I don't remember who was there, except Dora. I have not the least idea what we had for dinner, besides Dora. My impression is, that I dined off Dora entirely, and sent away half a dozen plates untouched. I sat next to her. I talked to her. She had the most delightful little voice, the gayest little laugh, the pleasantest and most fascinating little ways, that ever led a lost youth into hopeless slavery. She was rather diminutive altogether. So much the more precious, I thought."

Words worth a thousand pictures.

Hey, good news! You can now post on my blog without having to be a member. (Wink Wink Nudge Nudge....COMMMENT or say hi!)

I hate to start comparing my Edinburgh experience to my 2.5 years at Columbia thus far, but hell, there's no time like the present to start making assertions that I don't have the knowledge or evidence to back up yet :-)

Discussion sections: Who would you rather have a small discussion group led by, a PhD candidate just learning English, or your professor? Easy answer, and despite the supposed "distance" between students and professors at UK schools, I already feel like I'm getting to know my professors after having small group meetings with them. And get this, the tutorials, as they are called, actually are more educational and engaging than any lecture could possibly be (except Principles of Economics with Sunil Gulati; the guy is a god stuck in the body of a middle-aged short Indian man). I'll be espousing my thoughts on these tutorials much more in the future.

The number of classes: I have three courses that I attend for a total of 8 hours a week. Last semester I had 7 hours of class on Thursdays alone. With the decreased pressure to meet expectations and make the grade for 5 courses, I am finally being able to wander into the library each day and sit down for a few hours with assorted books from my courses and skim to my hearts content--and I'm not even working hard nowadays (unlike poor Gautam Hans down in London, who is working his ass off). More on this in the future, but the mere fact that I am taking notes on my readings, as opposed to just flipping the pages to pretend I've gained knowledge, is impressive in and of itself.

Note to self: Goddamit Brian, you brought three cameras to Edinburgh. It doesn't matter that its always cold and dark outside. START TAKING PICTURES!

It's a familiar conundrum for me. Put me in a busy environment like Columbia where I feel a need to compete, and I will be one of the most involved people you'll meet. But place me in Edinburgh, Scotland, where the work ethic is less obviously displayed and where I, as a study abroad student, have few responsibilities, and the whole situation flips around. I've been so amazingly lazy; up till this point I've been enjoying myself, but now I'm starting to have my usual worries when I feel like I'm not doing enough to contribute to my future success and knowledge. I'm barely even thinking about my classes, I spent two mornings sitting in the kitchen with coffee reading all of the DaVinci Code, and I'm slowly working my way through David Copperfield. Oh, and of course I've been drinking a ridiculous amount of alcohol. Sounds like fun, no? Yet I'm starting to feel those familiar pangs of regret that I'm "wasting" my time doing nothing that looks good on a resume or contributes to my ability to perform jobs or functions.

The only moral victory I've achieved is dragging myself through the cold to the gym to work out and learn how to play squash--but no one would consider working out as being on par with getting a job or spending chunks of time in the library studying. Should I feel guilty? Or am I placing too much pressure on myself to constantly achieve, or at least create an illusion of action and progress?

Honestly, I don't think anyone knows how to overthink about a good experience as well as I do. Give me a great week of relaxation and I can turn it into a week where I'm at wits end over imagined work.

One thing I'm resolving to do is continue going out and wandering the city--the least I can do to fight guilt is keep learning new things about my home for the spring.

And by the way, Family Guy redebuts on May 1 on Fox, followed soon after by American Dad, a hilarious new cartoon from the same guy, Seth McFarlane. That is something worth wasting time over.

The whole concept of study abroad is something I find absolutely fascinating. You go to another country where you have two choices--you can continue to be responsible and hard-working, or you can party your ass off. Now, hard work is great and all, but when you are taking three courses that rarely meet, and no one around you appears to be trying hard, your motivation quickly is replaced by the DaVinci Code, late nite games of Halo, pub-hopping, and gym time. The great thing about this fine part of the world is that the work ethic is completely different. In all of Europe, in fact, people work fewer hours and retire earlier than in the US. We think that everyone expects us to work hard, but cultural relativism being what it is, what we see as a good work ethic can be seen as excessive elsewhere. So in the last three days I've spent the mornings reading with a cup of coffee for hours at a time, doing a bit of work in the afternoon, and going out at nite, and let me tell you that it is fabulous.

Don't get me wrong, I have been logging hours in the library, because the European Union, Scottish History, and International Political Economy do fascinate me. But if I'm planning to take classes this summer at home (Chinese), I'm not going to feel too guilty about the whole affair. I mean, for God's sake, I go to Columbia University. I've worked and played as hard as I could for a decade; it's time for a little bit of selfish, relaxed "me" time.

Anyways, I love the fact that I'm rambling on a website that may have 1 or 2 readers at the max. So leave me some love if anyone is out there in blogland reading this ... or don't if you are lazy, since I'll continue posting anyway (what do you mean I like the sound of my own voice. Shut up!)

Cheers,
Brian

Hop on the bandwagon everyone, it's pop culture time! Despite all protestations to the contrary, I just read Dan Brown's DaVinci Code over the last two days, and found it quite enjoyable--the fact that it ends in Scotland was my excuse, I swear. Despite the pedestrian style of the novel, the massive amount of religious history and theories included made the book much more interesting than your typical thriller. Now I find myself wondering what truth there is to assertions about the role of women in pagan religions before Emperor Constantine sanctioned Christianity. There are many questions raised, and I want to know more about how many of these assertions are designed for use in novels only, and how many are actually present as serious assertions or even facts in the academic realm.

Oddly enough, that may have been the first thriller I've read in over a year--shocking.

Recently seen on a bathroom toilet stall at the Main Library of the University of Edinburgh, where poets and assorted literati hold forth in scrawled script:


Sometimes things just flow
Sometimes things don't wanna go
Sometimes things will stop to think
Sometimes things just want to stink
Sometimes rolls are but one sheet
So to another pan I must retreat

Ahh, Scotland. Home of William Wallace, whisky, kilts, and haggis.

Hallo everyone from the beautiful land of the Scots, where the rain and cold of my first week have finally abated, and the sun has begun to illuminate what a gorgeous city Edinburgh. It is traditionally referred to as the "Athens of the North," in large part because of a shared obsession with phallic columns.

There is a lot for an American to learn--for example, which beers on tap are good and which are shite. And I've got to watch out so that I dont drink so much I go and do something daft. Because the basic truth is that the pub scene here is all-encompasing. In a city of 500,000, there are reportedly 500-1,000 pubs. Of course, many people abuse this availability, as they do in NYC; but the nearly nonexistent drinking age (I think you have to be able to pronounce the Czech beers in order to buy them, that's about it) does not in fact lead to widespread alcoholism and harmful inebriation. Shocking, no?

The biggest change here--other than talking about pounds instead of dollars--is the portions. Food servings are much smaller here than in the US, and while that means my stomach often growls, not in that "Oh god I ate John Jay meat" but in that "Oh god I would even eat John Jay meat" way, the Scots make up for the lack of food by overcompensating on the unhealthy factor. Ever had a deep fried candy bar? Your teeth will hurt and your soul will cry for Dr. Atkins' forgiveness. Ever had a sausage filled with cheese and wrapped in bacon? Ditto.

"Green" food, as one of my English flatmates said, is socially unacceptable to many Scots--eating healthy is on par with communism in the U.S. circa the Joe McCarthy era. While this may be a bit of an overstatement, it is truly astounding what is considered normal here.

Integration with Scots does not come quickly; a lot of my time is spent with my closest American friends, whom I met during our program orientation in the first few days. Surprisingly, out of about 75 of us, most were girls (score!) and none were Ivy Leaguers. I have heard, though, that there is a surprising proliferation of Dartmouth students around the campus, which is rather inexplicable unless New Hampshire and Scotland have some quirky exchange program. The group of mostly Midewest and East Coast students has begun to split up now as we pursue our own interests, but because of the fact that we are in a semi-foreign land (fitting in here really isn't that hard seeing as we all look like we could be Scots until we open our mouths and call the lift the "elevator"), we have started forming small core groups who we turn to for a night out or a touristy expedition into the city.

If anyone ever visits Edinburgh, swing by Bannerman's Pub, where Tuesday nite (yes, we drink every day here) is International Student Night. If you've ever wanted to see drunk guys sing "Gay Bar" by Electric Six while shaking their asses and spilling their drinks, the night is a must. If you don't find this appealing, I honestly don't know what you could possibly find fun other than a rereading of Moby Dick or the like.

All in all, I'll admit I'm not missing Columbia or the U.S. much right now. Except for my darling girlfriend, who will be studying in Spain this semester, all my ties have been cut or postponed. I stay in touch with all of you, my friends, by e-mail, phone, corny postcard, or maybe, just maybe, a personal visit in the UK. I received the delightful news a few days ago that the Spec, which was once my life, has decided to fire me as a columnist while abroad so they can focus on Columbia issues (not bitter not bitter not bitter...). Thus, it is amazingly helpful that I've, for the first time in my life, actually developed a small core group to spend time with.

In fact, we're off to two of the largest museums in Scotland right now to see Scottish history in person.

Oh, and yes, I do have classes in all of this. I'm taking International Political Economy, Common Foreign and Security Policy of the European Union, and Modern Scottish History 2. Lots of reading, which I should probably start soon.

But for now, I'm off. I apologize if you read this more than once--in an effort to keep a lot of people updated, I'm posting this here, on the Facebook, and sending some e-mails out.

Cheers,
Brian