This city that I love

I completely and utterly adore Edinburgh. All of this magnificence, and yet at 11 pm I can still hear through my open living room window, a man yelling at a woman at the bus stop across the street: "Did ye know yer a shitey smelly bastard? Ye need ta change yer knickers."

Yup, this city is tops for views as well as wildly dramatic uses of the English language. Good night.

I work next to dead people

My colleague and I were saying cheerio after work when the dog started to bark and the screams began. Normally we would just ignore it but today the screams were particularly dramatic and so interrupted our thoughts.

The building in which I work is a long stone structure that houses several businesses. Our nearest neighbours are a night club on one side, and on the other, the Edinburgh Dungeon.

The dungeon is part of a chain of pseudo-historical, entertaining underground tourism experiences, with other locations in London and York. Actors take victims/customers through different areas, relaying to them some of Edinburgh’s ghoulish history, including methods of torturing witches and, in the “anatomy theatre,” tales of famous murders, Burke and Hare.

The tour takes people through several levels, with one particularly haunting section falling on the other side of the wall at the end of our hall. The tour also enlists the services of an electronic dog bark, so the sound of a rabid rottweiler often precedes the mayhem. The screams erupt while we hunt around in the stock room, eat lunch, or work in the phone room.

If there is a fire we would have to escape into the dungeon. Well, it’s actually a dark emergency exit staircase that we share with our macabre neighbours, but the sounds come from behind that door, so to me it is like running from the fire into the pit of doom.
New staff at work are inevitably shocked the first time they hear a man’s sharp howl coming from down the hall, followed by the terrified screeching of a collection of teenage girls. But within weeks they too cease to flinch as the rapid clunking of shoes signal the young prey's flight.

Each and every day I have to resist the desire to bang madly on the exit that separates us from the people clamouring around in the shadows, waiting for Fear to catch them. Instead I allow myself the pleasure of adding a flourish to my directions for people who wander into our bright shop looking for the dungeon entrance.

“Just up the street,” I say. “Turn right beneath the bloody pendulum and follow the screams into the darkness.”

I should really demand payment for that kind of advertising.

Welcome to St. Mary's Cathedral

Little in the way of writing today; I have too much reading to do. I like it. I have one piece I'm reading about the Tattoo, which is giving me a boost of enthusiasm where mine has been flagging. I really have to get to work on the pod cast. Then there are other reading assignments of sorts, but I cannot speak of them. Because they are TOP SECRET. I would have to kill you. With a fork that has been tipped with the fire of the scotch bonnet pepper. Tongs of the inferno!Anymahoo, even with my fancy new camera, I don't feel I did this cathedral justice. St. Mary's looms above Palmerston Place, teetering between where Edinburgh's busy Princes Street meets Lothian Road, and Haymarket train station. If it isn't completely void of tourists, I can guarantee there will be only one or two. Most of the tourists visit St. Giles because it is on the Royal Mile. But St. Mary's, the biggest cathedral in the city, sits with an empty belly most of the time. The one time I attended a choral service there on a Thursday night, there were only eight people in the audience.

That is what makes this place so wonderful. It is a haven for the deep, reverberating silence that is hard to find in a city. Besides, I like places that feel as if they have been forgotten and are just stewing in their own memories.

The first foundation stone for the cathedral was laid in 1874 and five years later the first service was held in the nave. The Father Henry Willis organ was also built in 1879. That is one old organ (insert unseemly joke about Viagra here).

I always try to encourage tourists to make the effort to see St. Mary's, but as I begin to explain that they will have to walk about 20 minutes from our office, I can see them start to lose interest. They prefer the idea of a cluster of photo-ops to a single out-of-the-way stone matriarch. They are missing out. Gorgeous wooden doors, intricate tile floors, high vaulted ceilings, every whisper an echo...echo...echo...

People-watching moment of the day: Looking out my window onto Gorgie Road, where the punters were heading to the football game. A father and son sitting on a bench, eating chips with little forks. The father's left eye had a fading shiner and he was watching the other we're-so-tough men who were walking past. The boy was sitting squashed up against his dad, leaving the rest of the bench empty. He slowly and methodically reached into the bag with his little fork and pulled out a long chip, and began nibbling at it while enthusiastically relating some story to his distracted father. I wonder how often, as everyday worries vie for their attention, that fathers fail to notice that their sons see them as heroes. Here is a man bathed in light, and yet he cannot see.

Finally: Happy Birthday, Norah! Viva la Revolution!

Edinburgh's German Market and other adventures

It's the solstice, and what better way to spend it but with a trip to the German Market. The best time to visit the market is at night, when the steam from the Glühwein creates a scented cloud, like the breath of a drunken god. But night is when it is also busiest, with clutches of people gathered around the small tables and wolfing down their crepes or Bratkartoffeln, clinking their ceramic mugs or nudging forward in the queue to pay for their logs of stollen.

I wait all year for this market to begin, which it does each 24 November. And all too soon it is gone again, leaving me to yearn after good quality landjäger and giant bars of chocolate-covered nuget/marzipan creations.

My family is German. December is the only month my mother makes large amounts of cookies. Germans are cake people, you see. But at Christmas there is this supposed need among German women to bake small, spiced biscuits, often with a tender sting of cinnamon and nutmeg. There are stacks of such things at this market, along with the kind of chocolate that tastes so familiar, because it is the same kind our extended family would mail over for us each December.

While most of the wee wooden huts contain traditional crafts, including wooden nutcrackers and hand-painted Christmas tree baubles, my favourite stalls are the food-based ones. I love the sight of a giant vat of frying potatoes - who doesn’t? There is comfort and pleasure in such things.

And alright, so crepes aren’t known as a German food (I know you’re thinking it, Craig), but I am not going to argue with a woman standing just a knife's reach away from countless jars of Nutella. Crepes are good. Nutella is good. Let us not disturb the goodness. Besides, the person making the crepes is German, and that has to count for something.
But my number one food experience recommendation is a visit to the steak-in-a-roll shed. For me, it is because these taste just like the ones my dad barbecues in the summer. More than this however I love to watch how men often amble helplessly toward the smell and sight of grilling meat. Suddenly they want nothing more than to possess a pork steak served with a great pile of sauerkraut, a dollop of herb or garlic sauce and, if they really want a treat, a sliced, tart pickle. They can hold the giant, messy catch in their hands and feel as if they had killed it themselves. For it is both barbaric and beautiful.

The guys running the place also never seem to succumb to the long days of cold and often wet weather. As the market draws to a close on Christmas Eve, you can see that many of the vendors are counting the days. But these guys are chipper and genuinely seem to be having a good time, which makes them stand out.

Just next door to the German market is the Scottish Christmas market. Alas, the Stoats Porridge folks have not returned for another run. Last year was their first go at the Christmas market (they are year-round regulars at Edinburgh’s Farmer’s Market), and it seems the experience was not worth repeating. Sad, as a tub o’ white chocolate and toasted hazelnut porridge would have gone down a treat today. I did see one familiar face from the farmer’s market, being the cheddar cheese lady. But she had such a group gathered around her that I didn’t stand a chance for a photo. Such is the power of good cheese. There are plenty of crafts here as well, with the traditional Scottish knitted hat dominating many a product spinner. But I didn’t need a hat, so I moved on.
Past the Scottish market begin the rides. They start with the tea cups and the carousel (strangely enough, it is the very carousel that helped inspire my pleasure dome ramble). Then they get more serious, such as the giant Ferris wheel and the ride I like to call CHAIR-O-PLANE OF DOOM! This is the ride you take if your greatest desire is to be hurled repeatedly through the air toward the sombre gothic stones of the Walter Scott Monument. Never, ever, EVER again.
My travels today took me down Prince’s Street, through the market and then over Waverly Bridge, where I met Ronnie, a driver for one of the hop-on, hop-off bus companies. Ronnie looked set to wear that smile pasted on his face all day, as he combined his regular duties with raising money for the local children’s hospice charity.

Then it was up Cockburn Street (pronounced Coburn; what a missed opportunity), up the Royal Mile, over George IV Bridge for a visit to Hilary‘s Bazaar, followed by a jaunt round the graveyard at Greyfriar’s Kirk (mmm…gothic…more on this some other time). Then down Candlemaker Row to Grassmarket to pop into Armstrong’s before trekking up Victoria Street in order to get back to the Mile.

And here is where I end, on a very sad note indeed. Khushi’s, one of Edinburgh’s best known Indian restaurants (started by Khushi Mohammed in 1947), was gutted by a fire that broke out Friday night. Many of the shops on Victoria Street were still without power today as fire crews continued the cleanup and secured what is left of the building, which also houses The Liquid Rooms, a popular concert venue.

Poor Khushi’s. I am thinking of all the staff who are now heading into the New Year without work (Britain’s job market is quite dire at the moment). And of course the Mohammed family, who have seen so much of 60 years of hard work and love of good food go up in smoke.

Edinburgh Festival Cavalcade

Do you trust this man to entertain you?

The LadyBoys of Bangkok

Hemingway's Havana

Some kind of tin foil show

The Great American Trailer Park Musical

Edinburgh cannot escape Harry Potter

Samba!!
Plenty of colour and one less car
Dynamic Earth's float, including dinosaurs!
Pipes and Drums a la Edinburgh Tattoo

The Full Monty

Edinburgh Moonwalk 2008

I did it! I am still recovering, especially my feet and my shins, but all is well. I managed it in about 8 and a half hours. There were 11,000 women and 1,000 men out in their bras, all raising money for breast cancer causes. I have yet to add up the total amount that I raised, but I think it is around £275. Thanks to everyone who supported me and helped me!!
It was very, very hard, especially the last 6 miles when the blisters on my feet were so painful. Looking around there were so many of us that were limping along, just willing ourselves to the finish line, and my heart broke for the women who weren't able to continue. I even saw women get sick and then carry on - oy. One of the best parts was seeing some truly large women on the route, women much bigger than me who walked the whole 26 miles. The last few miles I followed one bigger lady who had happy faces attached to the back of her bra. I just lumbered along after the happy faces until the finish line - it was such a big help.

It also made a difference when friends and family members of some of the walkers were along the route, clapping and telling us well done. Of course it was Saturday night and there were quite a few drunk men who found it entertaining to see so many women out in their bras. Well done for the men, who had to wear bras as well - what a testament to their commitment to the cause.

I don't know exactly how much was raised, but I did learn about where some of the money goes. Much of it goes to help with the care of patients, including a new hospital wing in Edinburgh that will give patients much more comfort and privacy. Also, the money helps fund machines that cool the scalp, which assists chemo patients to keep their hair.

The best moments during the walk were: 1. eating the oranges the volunteers had set out for us, because they were the best oranges I had ever had. 2. Watching the dawn break over the beautifully deserted Portobello Beach and feeling like Forrest Gump. 3. Calling Paula underneath her window at about mile 23 and waking her up. She leaned out the window in her leopard print robe, waving like a crazy lady. This cheered me up when I was feeling really tired.

And of course, number 4 - when John met me at the finish line and hugged me before shoving me in a taxi and taking me home, where I ate scrambled eggs and toast before easing myself into a hot bath. I tell you there are places that can chafe that you don't want to think about. And it stings...

I am proud of myself, but I don't plan on doing it again. The training, the fundraising, the stress leading up to the night - all of it was a bit much. But it was a great experiment in linear thinking, something I'm not naturally good at. I start a lot of projects but don't finish them, so this was a way to witness myself going through all the motions from beginning to end.

I bought a copy of the Scotland on Sunday, which printed all the names of the participants, and of course I have my lovely medal, which I shall cherish. And for all this week I am really enjoying taking the bus to and from work.

Edinburgh in the spring

During a recent visit to Holyrood Park, home of Arthur's Seat. Everything is so green it is surreal. The blossoms are gone now but the lilacs are out, pushing little puffs of pungent sweetness into the air. The weather is getting warmer, creating a kind of heated glow in the atmosphere which, when combined with the green hills and blue sky, makes some of the views look like they have been pulled from fairy tales.

From Calton Hill