Okay, Ainsley, so you're studying writing. What exactly do you do?

I'm paying the current equivalent of $16,000 (woohoo, the dollar is gaining strength!) to study creative writing - and that's just the cost of tuition.  If I were to have studied in the States, this would have cost more, and I wouldn't have had nearly as awesome or impressive an experience in the meantime.  But all that aside, why am I paying $16,000 to study something that I could just as well do all by myself, as I have been for some years now?

Partly because I love it, and partly because I promised my little 13-year-old self that I would.  It's not a good idea to renege on a promise, especially to yourself.  The betrayal, in such cases, is brutal.  And I chose Scotland because I can drink a gallon of deliciously hot tea a day and nobody looks at me like I'm insane.

Not even I knew quite what I was getting into when I dashed off a response to the head of my program back in March saying that yes, I would love to study at Edinburgh Uni and yes, I would hand over all this money just so I could spend a year writing.  I knew that I would, well, write.  And my courses, so far, have promised me exactly that.

On Mondays, I take a course in postmodern literature.  We focus on literature written from the mid-1950s to the mid-1980s, and generally discuss and criticize it just as I have been doing for the past four years at Wooster.  Only difference here is, we discuss the books as writers rather than just as scholars.  Stay tuned for exactly what that means, as I'm not sure myself.  Books for the semester include Slaughterhouse-Five, Song of Solomon, and Labyrinths.  It looks like a really interesting set of books.

Tuesdays, I have workshop.  If I am presenting, I have sent a piece of work that usually doesn't exceed 3,000 words (about 12 double-spaced pages, if I've got my math working right) by the Friday previous, and I have spent the weekend biting my nails and wondering whether I'm really, actually good enough to be in this program.

No, I don't bite my nails anymore, that habit was kicked back in May.  But it's a better image of nerves than, "I spend the weekend giving myself a French manicure and drinking wine that was 3 for £10, which Ana and I like to buy together every week.  As Dad should know, £5 a week isn't bad at all for a weekly wine budget."  And it's not, but that doesn't really portray nervousness.

Come Tuesday morning, I run the mile and a quarter to the labyrinthine building mentioned in my last entry, listen to other people tell me that my work isn't complete shit even if there are some changes that should be made, and tell them the same thing.  Granted, it's more complicated than that, and we talk about inane things like point of view and tense and overuse of adverbs which readers take for granted but we, as writers, add to our lists of neuroses.

Wednesdays, I have no class.  I spent this Wednesday with writers block, and therefore washed three rounds of dishes, stuffed the cracks where the windows don't shut with newspaper to insulate them a bit, scrubbed the stove, wiped the counters four times, made my bed twice (once after I got cold and crawled in for a short read), and set up a Great TV-Purchasing Adventure for Saturday so I never have to spend a day like that again.  Finally, at 9:30 PM, inspiration struck.

Guess who needs a job.

Thursdays, I have seminar.  We sit in a circle and sing Kumbaya and talk about writerly things that are supposed to inspire us and make us try new things.  There's no real Kumbaya-singing as yet, but you get my drift.  We're a bunch of artists sitting around discussing art.  I enjoy it, but to anyone on the outside, I'm sure it seems very Kumbaya.

Fridays, I don't have class.  I'll do a final edit on the story I'm presenting on Tuesday, send it in by about 1:30 or 2:00, and then bum around the flat for a while until other people do come home from courses and I don't have to do any more dishes.

Beautiful days in Edinburgh

Tuesday morning started classes.  As I was one of the writers presenting at workshop this week, I did not want to be late for my very first course.  Coffee in hand, iPod in my ears, I left the flat with an extra ten minutes to find the building where my class would take place.

Edinburgh, by the way, is a veritable labyrinth of twisting streets and tiny little alleyways.  My sense of direction in this city is based on my constant awareness of the location of the castle, of Arthur's Seat, and of the University's main campus.  Having walked through campus, I knew I had to go north toward the castle just a little more to get to class.  Trouble was, I hit a Y in the road.  Not a normal Y, mind you, but a roundabout-type Y, with a big paved circle in the middle where pedestrians stood to gauge when they could cross the next part of the street.

I considered my options a little too long and took the wrong street.

I wasn't worried.  I had given myself an extra ten minutes so that when I got lost (it was an inevitability from the time I left my flat) I could find myself again and still get to class on time.  I turned around, went down the correct road, and promptly passed right on by the 5-foot wide alleyway in which my building hides itself.  I wasn't very observant that morning.

I turned around again at the end of the street, found the correct alley, and walked up to the building with no small sense of relief.  We needed to swipe our student cards in the door so that it would unlock and we could get in.  No problem, I had lots of practice with swipe cards back at Wooster.

Mine didn't work.

A man doing renovations on the building let me and the two other girls who had arrived in - neither of their cards worked either.  It's a good thing they're renovating the building, because they can add the swipe card device to the list of things which need to be fixed.

I wandered around a little inside the building, and could not for the life of me find the room in which we were supposed to be meeting.  I was supposed to be in 6.01.  There's no sixth floor in that building.  Maybe I got the room number wrong, I figured, and I was really in 1.06.  I couldn't find 1.06 either.  There were men painting everywhere, there was scaffolding taking up entire rooms, I'd had a full cup of coffee already and the caffeine had definitely kicked in, and I couldn't find the classroom.

I started to panic.  I could not be late for my first postgraduate course, I could not be late to a workshop in which my work is being critiqued, I could not be late.

I saw a face in the hall that I recognized.  It was one of the professors I'd met on Induction Day - I thought.  Maybe  it was one of the professors I'd met on Induction Day.  Maybe I was crazy.  I walked up to her tentatively, she asked "Are you Ainsley?" and I was relieved.  She guided me through a dark room with scaffolding and paint cans and dropcloths everywhere, the kind of dead-looking space that's often used for horror flicks, and we suddenly - amazingly - arrived in a bright room with fellow writers sitting in a circle.  My professor had been standing in the hallway to catch us and make sure we found the classroom.  I was two minutes late.

The rest of the week went smoothly.  I've only got classes on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays, so I spent some time fixing the piece that had been submitted to workshop and considering what to do next.  Although I'm getting used to the weather, I still find it hard to believe it's so warm at home and so cold here.  I haven't turned on my heating yet, but there has been a lot of cuddling under my blanket and in my housecoat.  My consolation is that in December, January, and February, I'll have milder temperatures and a less severe winter than everyone left back on the other side of the ocean.

Settling In South of the Meadows

These past few days have been all about learning to live without the internet.  The day I moved in, this meant setting up my room, shopping at the Pound Stretchers, and getting my first round of groceries.  My lack of internet on this first day gave me the time and desire to make my room comfortable.  I've got a nice little vanity, a small bookshelf which will soon be full of secondhand books, and a wonderful little bed, duvet cover courtesy of Mom.  The room I'm now living in is larger than the room I lived in last year, and as a bonus, I also have a separate kitchen and living room.  Luxurious, indeed.  The open space between my desk and my vanity is wide and clear and perfect for zooming through my  room on my chair. 

I work very hard to keep my room tidy, and I don't have a single item of dirty (or clean) clothing on the floor as yet - it helps when I know I'm rolling all the way across it every day.  I've been making my bed every morning as well, something that Mom and Dad probably don't believe.  Since my room is across from the kitchen and the door is open if I'm home, though, it's good to have a tidy room. Now if only I could decide whether or not I need a floor lamp at the bottom of my bed, I would be golden.

The kitchen is rather nice as well.  Unlike last time I was here, it has loads of cooking space.  It's actually pleasant to wash dishes here, too: our kitchen is directly above the tunnel to the car park, and our sink has a window so we can see everyone who walks in.  Some of our friends and neighbours have taken to looking into the window on way home and waving if we're there. 

I also have a lovely little basil plant which lives next to all the dishes left to dry, and it seems to be thriving for the moment.  We've done our best to make our kitchen homey, so we have accessories spread here and there across the counters in addition to my plant: a set of glass jars that say "Coffee", "Tea", and "Sugar"; a toaster I picked up at Tesco for only £4.50; my little white teapot.  Even though I'm the only one in the flat so far who seems to know how to cook more than canned soup, we're starting to enjoy sitting in there together for lunch or for some water at the end of a night.

Day two, there was a Fresher's Ceilidh down at Pollock Halls.  The event was flushed with little 18-year-old boys and girls trying to impress the opposite sex, but I'd gone with a big group of international postgrads.  The dances were all about jumping and spinning and turning and switching partners.  It was great fun, and something a lot of us are excited to participate in again when the International Office or the Student's Association holds one. 

As enjoyable as it was laughing at freshers, we've since been going to events that say "Postgraduate" or "Mature Students" in the title.  This rule is easily broken, however, if the event description includes free food.

The Countdown

Halfway through summer, and I'm beginning to revitalize Pink Plaid Wellies for this fall. Every day, I consider what I can do for my return to Edinburgh. I count the days like a kid towards Christmas - though my 64 remaining days are significantly longer than Advent. Today's little job was giving my blog a new face, and it seems that an e-mail went out today with one of my old blog entries.

After two years of silence, this page is going to be used again very soon. Keep an eye out around September 10th for an entry from the airport in Amsterdam!

The End

I took my first of two exams today. My philosophy test went well, and I'm hoping my Italian test tomorrow will be just as good. I resent them, though, because they - plus a 10-page paper - have kept me busy for my final week and a half in Edinburgh. Yes, for the last week and a half, I have spent most of my time sitting in my room and doing work. While many of my friends finished all their work and exams last Friday, I have been sitting here staring at my computer for hours on end, trying to memorize Zeno's Dichotomy, writing about Richard II and Jonson's court masques, and trying to re-learn the basics of a language within the space of a week. I will always regret that I haven't had the chance to truly enjoy my last few days here.

I have done one thing this week. We went out for a goodbye dinner on Tuesday night, because two of the people from our group of friends left on Wednesday. We got 18 people together at an Italian restaurant right next to the Elephant House Cafe (where JK Rowling started writing Harry Potter), and down the road from the corner of George IV Bridge and the Royal Mile (where I believe they used to behead people).

Quick side note: I learned while trying to check that second fact that Mary, Queen of Scots was beheaded exactly 400 years before I was born, to the day. Maybe I am Mary reincarnated.

Anyway, back at the Italian restaurant, they gave us all Christmas crackers. These are paper tubes that you and a friend pull apart together, and they make a huge noise. They always have a toy inside, as well as a crown made of tissue paper and a joke. I don't know why the Brits wear tissue paper crowns on Christmas. Maybe they all want to be royalty, but don't have the money to commission the creation of a real crown.

We returned to the flat, where Christine, Eve, Anna, Kate, and I did our flat Secret Santa. I had Christine, the American, and I gave her a Scottish flag and a teddy bear dressed in full Scottish military uniform, kilt, hat and all. Eve had me, and she gave me three bottles of whiskey from the Wee Whiskey Shop on the Royal Mile (I'm not sure that they even add up to an ounce), a fridge magnet with some Scottish slang for "to be drunk" (steamin' is the main word, but there are others), a "Grow Your Own Perfect Man" which I need to put in water when I get home, some whiskey-flavoured fudge, and a tin of lip gloss. My stocking has "Ainsley Harriott" in iron-on letters.

They call me Ainsley Harriott here, or quite often just Harriott. The real Ainsley Harriott is a big black male chef with his own TV shows and food line. I'm a little white female cook with no TV shows, and no food line. I'm pretty sure I've been called either "Ainsley Harriott" or "Harriott" more times since coming here than just "Ainsley". I'm gonna miss these girls.

Tomorrow, I have my Italian final and spend my last few hours in Edinburgh, then Saturday morning I get on a plane at 9 AM GMT and hit Columbus around 7 PM EST. That is, of course, being optimistic... as long as the snow isn't too bad in Columbus I'll be back on time.

I don't want to get on that plane. At the same time, though, I'm excited to get back to Wooster. I've got a lot of people excited to see me again, making plans already about what we can do next semester to make up for lost time.



The past three months have been the experience of a lifetime. I'm gonna miss it.