Who Watches the Watchmen?

So, apparently no one in Edinburgh cares what time it is.

I alluded to this in the Tuesday, August 7 post but never got around to going into a bit more detail about it.

Having flown into Scotland on Friday the 3rd, I realized that evening that I'd neither brought my watch nor travel alarm clock. It wouldn't be an issue until Sunday morning, when we were to have been in our performance venue at 7:00am... for those not knowing the time difference, that'd be 2:00am Georgia time.

I had a bit of metaphorical baggage from my college years hanging around due to the TD we had during our summer stock seasons. Despite all of his other faults (he stood for years as the sole example of everything I didn't want to be as a Technical Director), I could say two things that I actually respected about him: He was always responsible about his bedtime and he was always the first up and ready for the workday. In these two aspects I've also turned out to be his opposite, and it's always bugged me. I should be an example, at least here, I thought, and thus determined that it was my responsibility to help ensure that I was the first up, ready to go, before the rest of the company. I helped determine the time when most others needed to be up and moving about, and decided when we'd need to leave, with Hannah's approval, of course, as it was her party.

Understandably knowing what time it is would be a good thing.

So, the morning of the 4th, Saturday, I set out bright and early to find a watch and clock. An easy thing, I'd assumed, as every convenience store around here in Marietta carried some sort of timepiece. Of course, that morning, "around here" was thousands of miles away in the land of redundancy and excess, the horrible U.S. of A. In Europe, they do things differently.

I began at a local grocery store about the size of my office. They directed me to a pharmacy. The pharmacy directed me to a Woolworth's, only a fifteen minute walk away. "Perfect," I thought, "Woolworth's carries everything."

Except watches or clocks.

The young clerk then directs me to a watch shop down the block. Even more perfect!

Except the watch shop, while they carried watchBANDS and actually repaired watches, did not sell watches themselves or clocks. Nor could the clerk initially direct me to a store that DID sell watches... or clocks. As I left, it came to him that I should try a place two doors down. They'd certainly have them.

It doesn't matter what was two doors down. All you need to know is that, no, they didn't sell watches. Or clocks.

A Happymeal toy with a cheap digital readout, a sundial... I would have been happy with most anything at this point.

I finally took out my city map to begin making my way back to another commercial area. Numerous stores were visited. Minutes ticked by, an hour passed... (not that I would have known at the time, mind you, but they did). I'd passed an outdoor market, a place in what used to be the gallows/cow sales area of Old Town (which I'd later find was adjacent to what would become my favorite Mexican place in the city; see Aug. 8 post) and a single flea market hawker had a few vintage antique watches he would be willing to part with... for around thirty to seventy five pounds each ($60-$150). Sorry, I'm frustrated, but not that much. Not yet, at least.

Continuing on nearly aimlessly, eventually I stopped in complete frustration at streetcorner where five routes converged into one spot. Seething in that I'd been walking for an hour and half, visiting countless (non-described in this post) vendors, yet apparently no one knew were to find a watch (or a clock), I'd had it. I stood there, angry, with a series of unspecified and muted expletives flowing through my imagination, frozen in irritation, nearly overcome with the fury over not being able to find a friggin' timepiece of ANY sort. Fuming, I went back the way I'd come to cut over a few blocks to a familiar street I'd visited the day before.

Half an hour later I did happen to come across a cheap tourist shop that had a few watches and did indeed pay a reasonable amount for a decent looking, square faced timepiece (and tiny travel clock with a discreet alarm), and all was well in my life again. It'd only taken two hours and a long, circuitous route which had taken me in an arc all over downtown Edinburgh.

(Thanks for hanging in there with the mundane details of my frustration. All of this has been written to come to this final moment of the anecdote:)

Later that afternoon the company headed out of the flat to hand out fliers advertising our show which was to premiere the following day (y'remember, the reason I needed to know what time it was to begin with). On the route to the venue, I recognized that we neared the spot where I'd stopped in anger to mentally raise a fist to the sky at the ridiculous lack of timekeeping pieces in the city, and relayed the story, specifically the intensity of the moment on the streetcorner, to Caroline and Lauren. We paused for a second as I described the morning's agitation on the very spot where I nearly had a meltdown.

Listening so well as she always does, Caroline, with her patented smirk, asked, "So, you couldn't find a place that sold one, anywhere?" She delicately pointed over my shoulder. "Like that one?"

I glanced back. Not three feet behind me was a store with an enormous window filled with its wares, and a sign above it that read, simply, in one foot tall, three dimensional, polished aluminum letters:

'WATCHES'.

Fresh Produce

I tease Vicki about her daughter, Samantha, having what I call a "cantaloupe head", as it's round and sort of Charlie Brownish shaped. I then have to remind her that I had what I refer to as a "watermelon head"... oblong, and as tall as my shoulders were wide. Seriously. It's like I was some sort of mutant or something.

Taking a walk

The two days I had for hiking in Scotland were spent between Stirling and Collander, northeast of Edinburgh. I'd wanted to go to Wick, the north terminus of the rail line in Scotland, but wisdom had me stay nearer to my airport in case anything were to go wrong (like oversleeping and missing a bus or train).

Around Collander is an area named 'The Trussachs', a lush mountainous area also called 'Rob Roy Country' as this is where the rogue/folk hero operated. True enough, as Steve had mentioned, it was beautiful. Much different from the rest of the Lowlands, which to me truly just resembles the rolling hills of some of our southeastern states albeit with less trees.

Stepping off the bus in Collander I purchased a topographical map from the local visitor center, bought a couple of trekking poles from a local outdoor shop, and headed east with only a few hours of daylight left. When showing the clerk on the map where I'd intended to go, he'd responded, looking over his glasses, "Today, you mean?", questioning my ability to cover the miles before sundown. The hike was like walking through a postcard... it was exactly what I needed, a complete break from Edinburgh... diametrically opposite.

Despite the clerk's reservations, or perhaps in spite of them, I made it to where I'd wanted with an hour to spare. Unfortunately, while gorgeous, there was no spot anywhere near appropriate for pitching a tent... I turned around, hoofed it a mile back to a Boy Scout campsite, and spoke to the Scoutmaster about the possibility of using a small corner of their maintained area as daylight was about to be gone and dark clouds were moving in. Unfortunately it's the age in which we live: Despite my explained reasons, he was wary of a stranger coming up around nightfall and asking to camp near his large group of young boys. I wanted to get angry about this but he was well within his rights to concern himself with "child endangerment". I thanked him and was about to excuse myself, but he paused and then told me about a second sight they had at this location a few hundred yards away, down the road and up in the trees. I would be more than welcome to use it if I wanted. Perhaps he had a change of heart, I don't know... but if I were a molester or some other fiend, a few trees wouldn't have kept me from their camp. He was probably just covering his rear while being helpful, and I don't blame him.

...Especially since this other space was FAR superior to the one they were using! He'd directed me to a clearing surrounded by moss covered boulders, large Shire-like trees and next to a good sized running stream. Away from everyone, not a sound to be heard other than the gurgling of the small waterfalls nearby, the campsite was ideal. I honestly could not have asked for a better place to spend the night.

The following morning I made my way back over the miles to Collander, the landscape along the way being completely different in the early sun, and back to Stirling. As the day progressed, the weather kept getting worse but I still had an afternoon to see as much as I could.

The main thing I did while in Stirling was visit the William Wallace National Monument, a tower built in the mid 1800's in honor of the guy the film "Braveheart" was supposed to be about, though nearly completely fictitious. The tower was amazing, built on the precipice of Abbey Craig, overlooking the city toward Stirling Castle. The monument consists of five levels, but in truth is between what we'd call ten or twelve stories tall. Each floor is packed with historical information and was a joy to experience (the highlight being Wallace's actual claymore, one of the things the film didn't alter for Hollywoodization). The hardest thing for me to deal with, however, was the SINGLE spiral staircase in the monument, seen at the leading edge of the building in the image at the top. Built on the outer corner of the monument, this stone walkway is wide enough for one person to ascend (or descend) comfortably... I could stand on one step with outstretched arms and touch both walls! And this is a major monument of the country that hundreds of people visit a day! I'm embarrassed to say that the narrow, steep spirals, with windows that looked over an enormous drop and allowed strong winds to gale in, got to me. By the time I got to the third level, my hands were shaking. It took me a few minutes to gather the courage to make it to the fourth level and even then I had to sit immediately in the middle of the room. I never made it to the fifth, the open-air roof covered by eight buttresses.

I know this thing has been standing for over a hundred and fifty years, but KNEW the thing was going to collapse that day, despite its five to ten feet thick walls (the staircase wall was only about a foot thick, though solid stone, but I knew when I had to step aside to allow others to pass, the stones would certainly fall out behind me and I'd be screaming to my death). This place was great, though, and well worth my discomfort.

On my way back I made it a point to cross the Stirling Bridge, pictured above with the monument in the distance, where Wallace had his first decisive victory against the English. Though being horribly outnumbered, he attacked as they were bottlenecked on this bridge where the mounted cavalrymen could only cross two abreast. Funny... 'never showed up in the film. Not enough spectacle, I suppose... two men fighting at a time, no pitch-saturated burning fields...

The last image is Stirling at Sunset, with the Wallace Memorial in the foreground and Stirling Castle on the ridge. I took none of these photos, by the way... they're postcards. The weather was foul that day, and, truly, even in perfect weather I couldn't have taken images this nice.

Edinbroke

Nine hours over the Atlantic and a plate of BBQ later, I'm safely back in the U.S.A.

A great many things happened in the last couple of days that obviously got on my last nerves, and it's easy for that sort of thing to happen when you don't want to be where you are to begin with. I'd considered deleting the whiny gripe list post from a couple of days ago, but I'll leave it as a pure slice of feelings at a particular moment in time.

Suffice to say that I'm glad to be back. Going overseas and going to other countries really flips some people's buttons. I like my buttons where they are, apparently. There's a great deal in this nation of mine I have yet to see.

And it's a helluva lot less expensive.

"There's no place like home... There's no place like home..."

Honestly, I can't get back to the US soon enough.

My flight leaves in five hours.

Where are my ruby slippers?

Ok, I'm done...

Things that have, this morning, become the last straws on the back of this Scotland trip:

The @ and " keys being switched on all of the keyboards.
Polish and French accents.
Obnoxious Europeans in hostels.
Cramped spaces... EVERYWHERE.
The pervading stench of urine and something that is akin to soured boiled peanuts... it just lingers in the air all around this city.
Being charged a pound and a half (roughly three dollars) for a Coke... in a tiny glass with a single ice cube.
Drizzly rain.
No inside trash cans, apparently.
The lack of legspace or hand-resting space at this internet kiosk at the hostel (I'm typing with my arms fully extended, just touching the keypad).
Setting bags down on the sidewalk only to find moments later that's exactly where someone decided to clear their morning congestions.
People spitting everywhere.
People flagrantly littering.
Neo-Bohemians. (Take a shower and wash your damn hair. Here's a quarter... go get a shave)
It's a surprise if anyone returns a pleasant "Good Monrning".

Typing this way is annoying. I'll finish later.

And then there were none...

The company closed house this morning, all of us going off in our own directions. Two left in the dead of night to make an (insanely) early flight. Three left by taxi to take a more sensible departure. I said goodbye to the other three as we parted ways in downtown Edinburgh after they'd found a hostel for the evening, as they were staying a day or so longer. They rolled their huge cases down the street, and I walked away from them, my pack-stride returning like an old familiar friend.

I'm off to Stirling, Scotland, for a day or so to do a bit of backpacking.

Dr. Hannah Harvey, the director of "Beowulf and Beer", has more a more detailed list of what, where, and how I'll be doing things each day. I thought I'd give that a try for once. So, if no one hears from me after today, have her give the list to the Scottish authorities, or, like Jack Burton says while going off to deal with some sort of big trouble in little China, "If you don't hear from me, send in the Marines"...

I may have been eated by a distant relative of Grendel.

Perfect weather, if you're a frog.

This is not what the skies looked like today, but this IS Arthur's Seat (the highest sloping peak to the right).

We've been blessed with amazing weather this week, truly. Afraid of having the stereotypical weather while we were here, and in the process walking miles each day in the drizzle, we instead were blessed with nearly perfect conditions all week. What rain we had took place in the early morning hours and we woke most mornings with blue skys and temps in the high 60s to low 70s.

Today, though, fitting for our last show, back to the drizzles. I've been walking in it for hours now. 'Not complaining, mind you... again, we've had far less rain during our daylight hours as forecast this week. A single member of our company had not walked the peak just north of Edinburgh, 'Arthur's Seat', and I'd done it twice already. It was such a good walk that I did it today with him despite the rain... because of it, too.

He wore his kilt for the occasion.

How better to experience this extinct volcano, surrounded by the low-lying rolling hills? In 'true' Scottish weather, where the rain doesn't so much fall, it just sort of hangs there for you to walk into it. Even with the sluggish conditions, it was wonderful.

We're finished here, all of the props are packed, and we're out of our performance venue. Most of the company are flying back tomorrow, but I'm off to the Stirling area, the gateway of the Highlands, I'm told, for a couple of days of camping. Perhaps the rain will let up... I don't know. As much as I can deal with the wetness aesthetically, it's a major hassle to put up and take down a tent in the rain (not to mention the extra weight a saturated tent adds to the pack).

I'd considered hopping on a train and going as far north as I possibly could, but wisdom crept in Thursday... the thought of missing the ONE train at seven in the morning back to Edinburgh, and thus missing my flight, and thus creating a huge hassle and a great deal of expense in getting back to the States, made me take a more conservative option. While Stirling is only half an hour away by train, I'm told it's gorgeous, actually having been likened to Tuscany, Italy.

My main hopes now is that I'll be able to find a great place to see the stars... if the weather lets up for a bit.

Sampler.

Y'know, I tried writing something today, but I'm not really into it.

I could write about the two hikes I've done to Arthur's Seat over the last couple of days and watching sunsets from atop Calton Hill and its faux Greek memorial.

I could write how I arranged a 'date' between our company's percussionist and an extremely cute French/German girl (who had golden skin and perfect blonde hair).

I could write about how the 'City of the Dead' tour that a couple of company members took last night was so dreadful, although they'd gone due to the rest of the company's urging since the tour guide WE had was so AMAZING (And he was... they had a horrible guide).

I could write about how I've decided where I'm going for my three free days after the close of the show.

...But I'm just not into it right now.

I'm headed back to the flat after a spot of lunch. I've done pretty much I want to do here and all that I really want to do is get off of my feet and read.

I think I'll do just that.

Local Flavor

Scottish food.

I've done the meat pies, the 'real' fish and chips, and won't do the hagus, but the best restaraunt that I've found here is a small out of the way place on a little curvy, downsloping sidestreet behind our performance venue.

It's Mexican.

And it's owned and operated by locals. Scottish locals.

The taste of this stuff is amazing. I don't know WHY they have a Mexican place here... maybe it's to break the mold of the local pub atmosphere (one every other doorway), but in any case it's the best Mexican I've had since Cheyenne's, a place that was within walking distance from where I live in Marietta, closed years ago.

Adding to this is the fact that it resides on this aforementioned low-key street, seemingly a world away from the chaos of the Royal Mile festivities where the Fringe Festival sort of congeals into this packed mass of flesh, noise, and plaid. This is not to say this street is deserted... quite the opposite. However, the folks walking along are usually business owners, store regulars, and only a discreet number of Fringe stragglers and passer-throughs, just to keep it interesting for people watching.

I loved sitting at one of the outside tables today listening to the passing brogues, surrounded by the gothic architecture... and eating my burrito.

All for the want of a nail...

No, I didn't run into the lovliest woman in Edinburgh today. Second lovliest, yes, but not the first. A brunette, this time, but that's another non-story. No, instead, I want to write about another type of frustration... hardware.

God Bless America... the land of the free, home of the brave... and SOME sort of hardware store just around the block.

Today during the show the sole piece of scenery, a stool, shattered. It was one of those inexpensive IKEA deals... good enough to be easily assembled and look good afterwards, but not good enough, apparently, to hold up Andrew Puckett's narrow bum on a regular basis. Being the consumate professional that he is, he didn't drop the line... in fact, I'd not have known anything happened if it weren't for the huge "CRAAAKSPLIT" that I heard while in the booth. I looked up over the booth to see the shattered remains of the piece and Andrew slowly standing, still phyically in character as an old king. What a guy.

After looking at it post-show, I saw what the problem was: the pre-glued, pre-assembled parts collapsed for some reason. Everything that I'd put together, my true fear, held. My pride gave a sigh of relief. No real damage was done to the stool... no split wood, no broken pieces, just weak glue. Nothing four screws couldn't repair to (nearly) as good as new. CERTAINLY, this being an international theatre festival forty years in the running the techs here would have ready access to a gun and a couple of screws.

Oh, no. This is Edinburgh. I had a hellova time purchasing tape and a black marker over here, and I don't think I have written about the two hours it took for me to find a watch for sale. This is far more of a specialty problem.

The space's lead tech asked around and eventually was told that another one of their spaces, maybe, had a gun. Maybe.

We walked a block and down an alley to find that he could not get into the other space... locked door and all. Asking at its box office, he was told that the keys were off and about. He left to find the keybearer and I sat with a book which, fortunately, I'd had the forethought to bring today for the first time.

Minutes passed.

Fortune! The keys were found! He opens up the door, walks in for a bit, and returns with a gun and two batteries. Guess what: Both dead. Well, at least he had screws, right? Well, no... he'd have to look in another space four blocks away for that. He'd have to dig around a bit. Drill bit for a pilot hole so I wouldn't split the wood? Eh... no. Where is a hardware store, or anywhere I can purchase a drill bit? None known. Fortunately I DID know where to find one, if it could call itself that, but it's near our flat, over half an hour's walk away.

Alright... charge the batteries, find the screws, and I'll be back with a bit.

Two hours after beginning the process, and after less than five minutes of work, the stool was repaired. Finally, all of the resources for a simple fix came together into what I would have assumed to be available at each venue in case of emergencies.

All in all, though, this tech I was dealing with was very, very pleasant and seemed embarrassed that these things weren't readily available. He did what he could to help, when, really, probably, he didn't need to.

I just find it amusing that it seems to take so blasted long to find anything around here, even with the locals. This city's been around for what... a millenia, maybe?

That, and it gave me a fun blog post title to work with.

Can't seem to get away from each other...

'Only have five minutes to post this in the local Internet Cafe'... Time is money, doncha know.

Steve came to see the show today with a couple of the teachers in his group visiting the Fringe Festival.

How unusual is it that two men, living in the same house, would attend the same festival in Scotland for entirely different reasons, unbeknownst to each other until after the fact?

As is our way, we spent most of the day bumming around, as we have done since college. A large portion of the time we were shopping for his whiskey, which was fine... Steve was in his element. Not so much the drinking (although that has come to fit, too), but moreso the meeting strangers and engaging in conversation. I don't know many more things that would make him happier than standing in Edinburgh easily speaking to a old, local salesperson (who looked, sure enough, that he knew his subject) about the best whiskey available. He seemed to take only seconds to bond with the guy and make a connection.

There are things I envy about Steve. That's one of them.

By the end they were REALLY into it...

My reason for being in Scotland right now, the KSU Tellers' "Beowulf and Beer", opened to the largest 'house' that the venue people we're working with here have had for an opening day... ever.

Granted, it was only 42 people (44 counting the two that had to be turned away due to showing up late), but still... that was two thirds of the house full.

It probably had something to do with the free beer the attendees were given along with their ticket...

At least I don't lay eggs...

So, yeah, I'm in Edinburgh, Scotland.

The trip? Oh, what you'd expect. Airplane seat was too cramped, baby two rows ahead of me. I couldn't sleep much, if at all.

Yesterday it was overcast and windy. Perfect weather, aesthetically, for Scotland. I slept a good deal, trying to overcome the onset of jetlag.

Like New York, it reeks of urine here. Everything is brown and gray. Or black, if it's older.

These topics are not important.

What IS important, though, is that today I saw the loveliest woman in Edinburgh. Wearing a cream colored sweater, jeans, and a tan scarf, she walked past me as I stood waiting for the rest of the group to catch up to where I stood. Her light blonde hair, glently played with by the breeze, gave me the briefest glimse of her flawless profile.

She walked ahead and disappeared behind a waiting bus. The bus moved on, and she was gone.

I was overcome... crippled. I could think of nothing else for a number of minutes except how absolutely taken I'd been with this woman, just by the merest glance.

A bit later, I looked back for something and saw that she and her friend were right behind me walking in the same direction. It would have been the easiest thing to stop and introduce myself, and invite them to our show.

But, no.

Like some clumsy adolescent, I couldn't muster the courage to speak to her.

It reminded me of what a guy I'd worked with in New York once said... He lived on a street on which, apparently, a number of models lived. He saw them each day as he sat on his front steps but never got past saying a simple greeting to any of them. He finished by saying,"Y'know, the thing is, Kenyon, that any of them would probably do something with me, but I'm too chickenshit to ask."

So, while the group and I turned a corner, she kept walking straight ahead, off into the crowds of the Fringe Festival.

And I stood there, looking after her, reeking of a barnyard.

This is a Test.

As I'd said, until a couple of days ago I was a Blog virgin. Heck, I'm not that experienced at all with any other sort of computer dalliances, either, still awkward and clumsy around a keyboard's brassier straps.

Today, I learned how to click a couple of buttons and add pictures. I figure by this point I've caught up with the average second grader.

This image is of the best haircut I think I've had in a few years. I'd gone to the Superman Festival in Metropolis, IL last year and had allowed my hair and facial hair to grow a decent amount during the weeks leading up to it. No particular purpose there, 'had just done it out of boredom. After having gone to the Festival, however, and having spent the summer day walking around in the heat, the hair had really gotten on my nerves. That, along with, of course, having seen all day the images of a clean cut superhero everywhere I looked.

I went to a local mall's hair cuttin' place and asked the lady for something of what I called a "Thirties cut"... again, probably inspired by the older images of Kal... tight on the sides, longer in the front so that I could comb it back neatly and it wouldn't fuzz up on me.

Whether or not this is "Thirties", I don't know. But I do know that I liked the haircut, it did what I wanted it to do, and got a lot of compliments on it for a couple of weeks after that.

I've not had a good haircut since.

Masks in a Trunk

Today the last stateside rehearsal for the KSU Tellers' "Beowulf and Beer" was held, a small show the student group is taking to the Fringe theatre festival in Edinburg, Scotland. I'm being sent with the lil' tykes to be a technician errant, to provide some sort of support for the intrepid actors in addition to that given by their adviser/director/instructor, the young, pretty and, last-but-not-least, intelligent Dr. Hannah Harvey. I have jokingly called her "Dr. Barbie", but only once to her face. It's inappropriate, however, and I should know better, because she's really more of a "Dr. Skipper", Barbie's little sister. She has neither the height nor tan to own the immortal pink Corvette.

In the end, I believe I'd been asked to go more for the reason of seeing certain pitfalls before they happen, or being there to correct physical issues which may come up than providing any sort of real technical support. Maybe it's to be a bit of an anchor to Hannah, who seems to me to be a "Gee, wouldn't it be great if..." sort of person, looking joyfully to the end result, and I'm... not. I usually shift immediately into looking for and pointing out the problems that will more than likely be encountered along the way, believing that the entire process is doomed to disaster. Not quite that bad, perhaps, but not far off, either. Perhaps the Production Manager and the Artistic Director of the department feel that we'll balance each other out...

My presence there certainly isn't going to be about designing lights, as the performance space itself only has a 'stage' (which is really more of an area of the floor) of roughly 10' x 14'. My office at the KSU Sceneshop, aka 'The Keep', is larger than where they're performing! A couple of flashlights could light the space, and the performance space already has a large amount of instruments aimed at the rectangle which cannot be moved! So, I'll be there, at least, to bring the lights UP, then bring the lights DOWN. I can't complain, though... I'm getting a trip to Scotland out of it...

Of course, we're not there yet, the flight crews haven't lost the costumes and props yet, I haven't gotten stir crazy from being on the plane yet, we haven't gotten lost on the way to our flat OR been ripped off by Scottish taxi drivers waiting to pluck an arrogant American group dry of their fresh Pounds yet, we haven't had the trainwreck of running and teching a show when it's about two in the morning yet ("our" time), I haven't wasted most of my paycheck with the Pounds/Dollars exchange rates, we haven't been rained on for a week straight yet, I haven't had my tent leak water all over me when I go backpacking in the Highlands yet, and I haven't missed my flight back to the U.S. because I couldn't make it back to the airport on time yet.

I'm sure I'll have a good time, though, and in the end will find that the days had gone by far too quickly.

And there's the chance I could find a lusty Scottish wench who could have a thing for a handy, idiosyncratic American guy with a touch of gray in his hair and a weary look to his eyes...

...(*sigh*)