So, I've moved into a new flat. It's in a very lovely part of Edinburgh (in fact, a very posh part) but it's just that extra bit further away from both my jobs and the center of town to be convenient. Also, it's a one-bedroom that my flatmate has lived in for 5 years. We're meant to be moving to a larger, two person flat soon. Soooooon.
But, despite the crampedness, living in a real-person house with a person I actually can have a conversation with is such a breath of fresh air. Take it in. Breathe. Feel the relief. The best way to maximize such relief is in the bathtub. Some of my friends think I'm a little crazy when it comes to baths. They don't quite get my apparent obsession with them, my poetic odes to them. But if you were incapable of having one for months on end, I imagine your love of them would increase as well. At least in part. But I do recognize that I have a serious affection for them that is not entirely common. This, I think, is in part tied to the lack of emphasis our society puts on truly relaxing - on a daily basis. Yes, we have ads about getting away and taking time for yourself, but they're generally for 5-star getaways at fancy spas. They're not for your everyday life - that's apparently meant to be hectic and insane. Why? Why do we have to allow ourselves to get so overwhelmed that our only escape could be thousands of dollars worth of massages and plane rides and mai tais? (I've never had one, I don't know if that's actually how you spell that particular cocktail.) It's like cleaning, or organizing, or meeting a massive deadline: do it a little at a time and it's never too much to handle. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time, of course! Take a bath every so often. Not a quick one, a real one. A long one. With a glass of wine, or whisky, or Bailey's, or a beer (or orange juice if you're teetotal). Let yourself really soak. Think about how the water feels between your toes, over your tummy, behind your neck. You'll suddenly realize you're not thinking about work or laundry or dinner or anything else. Really concentrating on your body can be so therapeutic. It can allow you to recollect yourself so that, when you get out of the tub, you can face the world again with determination and hit-me-with-your-best shot pizazz.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
Oh Hello, Autumn, We Missed You
It's officially September. The time of year when you break out sweaters (or jumpers if you like calling them that), get out scarves and coats, and wait for the leaves on the trees to turn fantastic shades and then fall under your feet as if begging to be crunched. Unless, of course, you live in Scotland. Here, the demarcation from Summer to Fall this year was hopelessly underwhelming. It's been scarf weather for at least 2 weeks here and the tree outside my window has been yellow for at least 10 days. Everyone has been saying that this summer was particularly miserable, even by British and specifically Scottish standards, but I don't think that's accurate. I think that somehow, for some reason, the gods of nature forgot Scotland this year. Time stood still or sped up or was warped somehow, because summer never came. This year, we in the land of haggis, neeps, tatties, kilts, and whisky were left behind in Spring and then fast-forwarded to Fall in the blink of an eye. Doomed were we to hear of others' afternoons at the pool sipping daquiris, to hear of romps in shorts and bikini tops, to dream of sizzling barbeques and content ourselves with a pub dinner in jeans and long-sleeved shirts, hoping to catch a glimpse of a tourist looking bewildered by the rain that stops and starts 10 times in as many minutes.
Ah, but still... life, she is good. For how could one drink a whisky and a pint in hot weather? How would one get adequate use out of umpteen scarves if not to wear them all-year-round? And - best of all for those of us who wear aprons at work - how else but by freezing rain will customers stop ordering bloody Frappucinos? Yes, this weather has its advantages, and though I cursed and swore and ranted several times this summer, I refuse to have my optimism squashed. And now that it's officially September, balance has been restored and wearing a scarf does not need to induce rage.
In other September news, it is the start of a new school year. In my case, a new degree! Ha! I've just handed in a Master's thesis (literally - 2 weeks ago) and now I get to start my PhD! The good thing is that PhD's are much more personal and self-based research and so it's not like finishing one year of undergrad and hopping into the next in a fortnight. (Yes, I said fortnight). I'm looking forward to getting back to the academic part of my world, if for no other reason than it means I get to forcefully scale back my hours at the Bux and have a great excuse not to take tours when the office calls looking desperately for a guide. Hoorah!
Ah, but still... life, she is good. For how could one drink a whisky and a pint in hot weather? How would one get adequate use out of umpteen scarves if not to wear them all-year-round? And - best of all for those of us who wear aprons at work - how else but by freezing rain will customers stop ordering bloody Frappucinos? Yes, this weather has its advantages, and though I cursed and swore and ranted several times this summer, I refuse to have my optimism squashed. And now that it's officially September, balance has been restored and wearing a scarf does not need to induce rage.
In other September news, it is the start of a new school year. In my case, a new degree! Ha! I've just handed in a Master's thesis (literally - 2 weeks ago) and now I get to start my PhD! The good thing is that PhD's are much more personal and self-based research and so it's not like finishing one year of undergrad and hopping into the next in a fortnight. (Yes, I said fortnight). I'm looking forward to getting back to the academic part of my world, if for no other reason than it means I get to forcefully scale back my hours at the Bux and have a great excuse not to take tours when the office calls looking desperately for a guide. Hoorah!
Friday, August 12, 2011
Meet Me At the Pub
So, as you may have realized in my last post, Edinburgh is currently pretty insane. Really insane. Ok, not as insane as London was a couple nights ago, but a civil insanity bent, not on destruction and chaos, but on art and turning streets upside down for creative reasons. And, as I so blatantly stated, I am not enjoying this.
However, all is not lost in this higgledy-piggledy town. There are bastions of peace and tranquility, at least comparatively. Pockets untouched by the festival where citizens can get away from the tourists, the students, the gawkers, and the performers and sink back into the middle-class quiet and respectability Edinburgh likes to pride itself on for the other 11 months of the year. One of these pockets happens to be the part of town that contains my favorite pub: Bennets Bar.
I was first alerted to Bennets by my beloved advisor. (Postgrad advisors are so much more than academic guides.) It's his "local" and so one afternoon we popped in after a chat in the office. (One thing I love about grad school, and especially grad school in Britain/Europe is the complete acceptability of having an amiable drink with a professor.) This place is brilliant. According to Michael Fry, it's one of only 5 pubs in the city that maintains its Victorian (1890s, specifically) layout and style. And sure enough, the ceiling, the glasswork, even the ladies' side bar are all still there. The seating area opposite the bar is done in little pseudo-alcoves around small round tables, so it has a cosy, intimate feel no matter where you sit. Even better? They stock a large number of whiskies, including obscure ones.
This past Tuesday, I stopped in to Bennets for some me time. A pint of Timothy Taylor, a dram of Edradour (Scotland's smallest distillery), me and my journal at one of the wee tables. The weather was disgusting - it's been more like a wet fall than a summer here lately - but with one sip of the Edradour and a look around, it was easy to forget all the stress and cold and dissertation and festival. The colors from the internal stained glass give the whole place a happy feel, and if you try hard enough, you can almost feel like you're in a cheerful, warmer version of the Saint Chapel in Paris. Sitting there, soaking in the place, made me realize that there is one thing you cannot, under any circumstances, in any way, fault the Brits for: pub culture. People here can sometimes (especially to an American) come off as pompous, fake or just obnoxious. But once you walk into a pub, that melts away. All those annoying little quirks dim and a cheerfulness seeps in. Everything takes on the warmth and color of an amber beer, or a Speyside whisky (my fave region, for the record). Conversation lightens and loosens and people get positively jovial. Even the women drinking half pints, as if they, too, are left-over from the Victorian era, give off a charm you can't seem to find anywhere else.
So here's to Bennets. And whisky. And Scottish pubs. May we always have one around when life gets to be too much.
However, all is not lost in this higgledy-piggledy town. There are bastions of peace and tranquility, at least comparatively. Pockets untouched by the festival where citizens can get away from the tourists, the students, the gawkers, and the performers and sink back into the middle-class quiet and respectability Edinburgh likes to pride itself on for the other 11 months of the year. One of these pockets happens to be the part of town that contains my favorite pub: Bennets Bar.
I was first alerted to Bennets by my beloved advisor. (Postgrad advisors are so much more than academic guides.) It's his "local" and so one afternoon we popped in after a chat in the office. (One thing I love about grad school, and especially grad school in Britain/Europe is the complete acceptability of having an amiable drink with a professor.) This place is brilliant. According to Michael Fry, it's one of only 5 pubs in the city that maintains its Victorian (1890s, specifically) layout and style. And sure enough, the ceiling, the glasswork, even the ladies' side bar are all still there. The seating area opposite the bar is done in little pseudo-alcoves around small round tables, so it has a cosy, intimate feel no matter where you sit. Even better? They stock a large number of whiskies, including obscure ones.
This past Tuesday, I stopped in to Bennets for some me time. A pint of Timothy Taylor, a dram of Edradour (Scotland's smallest distillery), me and my journal at one of the wee tables. The weather was disgusting - it's been more like a wet fall than a summer here lately - but with one sip of the Edradour and a look around, it was easy to forget all the stress and cold and dissertation and festival. The colors from the internal stained glass give the whole place a happy feel, and if you try hard enough, you can almost feel like you're in a cheerful, warmer version of the Saint Chapel in Paris. Sitting there, soaking in the place, made me realize that there is one thing you cannot, under any circumstances, in any way, fault the Brits for: pub culture. People here can sometimes (especially to an American) come off as pompous, fake or just obnoxious. But once you walk into a pub, that melts away. All those annoying little quirks dim and a cheerfulness seeps in. Everything takes on the warmth and color of an amber beer, or a Speyside whisky (my fave region, for the record). Conversation lightens and loosens and people get positively jovial. Even the women drinking half pints, as if they, too, are left-over from the Victorian era, give off a charm you can't seem to find anywhere else.
So here's to Bennets. And whisky. And Scottish pubs. May we always have one around when life gets to be too much.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Good, the Bad, and the Pipers
It's August here in Edinburgh - a time when multiple festivals descend on the city, creating a giant jumble of crazy. There's venues all over town - some in university buildings, some in the meadows, some made to look like a giant up-side-down purple cow right outside the student union. There are street performers everywhere, either performing or handing out flyer after flyer begging people to come to their show that night. There's a thousand and one shows to go see. In truth, it's all a bit overwhelming.
Everyone keeps asking those of us who are in Edinburgh for the Fringe for the first time, "What are you going to see? Have you seen any gigs yet? You just *have* to see such-and-such! Aren't you loving it?!"
I can tell you this: I am not loving it. As someone who is trying to finish up a dissertation that is getting more stressful by the day, having to wade through crowds and listen to shouting and singing and drums and chaos day in and day out is not fun. Nor do I have the time to go see any of the actual shows (or the money for that matter) so it's not even a silver-lining. Now, that may sound a bit harsh, but I do have two other reasons to be grumpy about this festival: I am a barista at a tourist-laden Starbucks and I give tours on the Royal Mile. The Royal Mile. Home of 70% of those performers, buskers, and flyer-hander-outers. Try getting a group of tourists who have paid to come on your tour down a street packed cheek-to-jowl with people whose only current goal in life is to hand out as many small pieces of paper possible. Including while you're telling a story. Now see if you like the festival....... Told you.
There was, however, one awesome, amazing bright spot: the Military Tattoo. Possibly one of the greatest things I've ever seen. In my entire life. It's done on the Castle Esplanade (pronounced by the Brits to rhyme with gatorade) and involves Scottish and international bands, bagpipes, and performers. The thrill of watching an entire fleet of pipers all dressed to the nines is something I cannot do justice to with words. Nor can I adequately describe the awesome sight of a castle lit behind them. Or the fireworks. Maybe this set of pictures I stole from one of my best friends will help:
Is that not amazing?! The best part, I think, is that it's different every year. Each year has a new theme, and thus new international elements. This year Brazil (whose navy was created by a Scot, just like the US one), the Netherlands (always closely connected to Scotland over the waterways), and Bavaria (apparently Scottish soldiers are sent there to train in the mountains?) featured prominently. It was spectacular.
Everyone keeps asking those of us who are in Edinburgh for the Fringe for the first time, "What are you going to see? Have you seen any gigs yet? You just *have* to see such-and-such! Aren't you loving it?!"
I can tell you this: I am not loving it. As someone who is trying to finish up a dissertation that is getting more stressful by the day, having to wade through crowds and listen to shouting and singing and drums and chaos day in and day out is not fun. Nor do I have the time to go see any of the actual shows (or the money for that matter) so it's not even a silver-lining. Now, that may sound a bit harsh, but I do have two other reasons to be grumpy about this festival: I am a barista at a tourist-laden Starbucks and I give tours on the Royal Mile. The Royal Mile. Home of 70% of those performers, buskers, and flyer-hander-outers. Try getting a group of tourists who have paid to come on your tour down a street packed cheek-to-jowl with people whose only current goal in life is to hand out as many small pieces of paper possible. Including while you're telling a story. Now see if you like the festival....... Told you.
There was, however, one awesome, amazing bright spot: the Military Tattoo. Possibly one of the greatest things I've ever seen. In my entire life. It's done on the Castle Esplanade (pronounced by the Brits to rhyme with gatorade) and involves Scottish and international bands, bagpipes, and performers. The thrill of watching an entire fleet of pipers all dressed to the nines is something I cannot do justice to with words. Nor can I adequately describe the awesome sight of a castle lit behind them. Or the fireworks. Maybe this set of pictures I stole from one of my best friends will help:
Is that not amazing?! The best part, I think, is that it's different every year. Each year has a new theme, and thus new international elements. This year Brazil (whose navy was created by a Scot, just like the US one), the Netherlands (always closely connected to Scotland over the waterways), and Bavaria (apparently Scottish soldiers are sent there to train in the mountains?) featured prominently. It was spectacular.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
One loves because one loves.
I love love. There's no better way to say it. Even when it's ripping me apart, I can't help but draw my little moth self to that flame. This is sometimes a major flaw, you can imagine, as I end up getting my heart trampled on. Inevitably, though, I just pick myself up and start all over again. Happily. Ah well....
The other day I watched a wonderfully-done docu/drama about Vincent Van Gogh on BBC's iplayer. It's no wonder this thing won awards. Beautifully shot, fantastically edited and laid out, it uses only the words of Vincent himself and those around him (people who wrote letters to him, doctors' reports, etc) to tell the story, with just minimal biographical information supplied by a host. The fact that Benedict Cumberbatch (of Sherlock fame) plays the title role makes it positively genius. I haven't watched anything of this caliber in quite a while. Two thumbs up.
At one point in the film, Van Gogh is smitten with a cousin of his who had come to stay at his parents' house while he, too, was living there. He falls deeply for her, becoming slightly obsessive and causing outrage and scandal for all the adults involved. He writes to his brother, though, that not loving fiercely was simply not an option. Now, while I don't endorse stalking or pestering or harassment—not in the least—I can completely understand his sentiment. What's the point if you're not going to throw yourself right in there and get messy, take chances, and make mistakes? (Thank you, Miss Frizzle!) I love fiercely and, though it's definitely not always good for me, I will probably always do so. Thanks to the Google machine I was able to find the full text of Vincent's original letter. Below's the passage quoted in the movie. Delivered flawlessly and trembling with emotion by Cumberbatch.
From the very beginning of this love I have felt that unless I threw myself into it sans arrière pensée [unreservedly], committing myself totally and with all my heart, utterly and for ever, I had absolutely no chance, and that even if I do throw myself into it in this way the chance is very slight. But what do I care if my chance is great or small? I mean, should I, can I, take that into account when I am in love? No, no reckoning up, one loves because one loves.
Perfection.
The other day I watched a wonderfully-done docu/drama about Vincent Van Gogh on BBC's iplayer. It's no wonder this thing won awards. Beautifully shot, fantastically edited and laid out, it uses only the words of Vincent himself and those around him (people who wrote letters to him, doctors' reports, etc) to tell the story, with just minimal biographical information supplied by a host. The fact that Benedict Cumberbatch (of Sherlock fame) plays the title role makes it positively genius. I haven't watched anything of this caliber in quite a while. Two thumbs up.
At one point in the film, Van Gogh is smitten with a cousin of his who had come to stay at his parents' house while he, too, was living there. He falls deeply for her, becoming slightly obsessive and causing outrage and scandal for all the adults involved. He writes to his brother, though, that not loving fiercely was simply not an option. Now, while I don't endorse stalking or pestering or harassment—not in the least—I can completely understand his sentiment. What's the point if you're not going to throw yourself right in there and get messy, take chances, and make mistakes? (Thank you, Miss Frizzle!) I love fiercely and, though it's definitely not always good for me, I will probably always do so. Thanks to the Google machine I was able to find the full text of Vincent's original letter. Below's the passage quoted in the movie. Delivered flawlessly and trembling with emotion by Cumberbatch.
From the very beginning of this love I have felt that unless I threw myself into it sans arrière pensée [unreservedly], committing myself totally and with all my heart, utterly and for ever, I had absolutely no chance, and that even if I do throw myself into it in this way the chance is very slight. But what do I care if my chance is great or small? I mean, should I, can I, take that into account when I am in love? No, no reckoning up, one loves because one loves.
Perfection.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Pray Me to Death
I spend my mornings watching the Rachel Maddow Show on itunes. Given the time difference, I have to wait till the morning after it airs to see her show. It's a nice way to wake up, drink some tea, find out what's going on in the world and especially American politics. Today's episode brings up some ridiculousness. I mean ri-di-cu-lous: Rick Perry.
Rachel loves election politics. The more out-there a candidate is, the more she eats it up because she just finds it so entertaining and so hilarious. So Rick Perry and his wooing of a possible presidential run is one thing she keeps her eye on, and then reports to the rest of us. His latest thing? A prayer meeting. He's invited all the governors of the other states to a day of prayer in Texas and his website has all kinds of videos inviting the "American people" to join him, either physically (and then - boy-oh-boy! - financially with a donation) or spiritually from wherever they happen to live. One of the conservative sponsors of the event has a list of all the pastors attending this thing online. They've also conveniently compiled a bunch of these pastors' videos. Oh. My. God.
I refuse to watch these people's videos myself - I won't give them the satisfaction. Also, I'm not a fan of vomiting. But having seen the clips Rachel highlighted (so as to make a point about the company Perry keeps), these people are insane. Not the usual "you're-on-the-right-I'm-on-the-left-so-we-disagree" kind of crazy. One of them thinks Oprah is the harbinger of the Apocalypse. Another thinks God sent Hitler to Earth to move the Jews back to the Middle East. Another thinks there's a harlot who comes around to the nations of the world, sleeping with their leaders and causing chaos. Apparently, her sleeping with the sun god caused Japan's economy to tank. This is serious wack-o territory.
No large portion of the population will take those kinds of things seriously. But what annoys (or worries?) me is that Rick Perry is translating these ideas into the background of his more mainstream packaging. A prayer meeting to fix the economy?! In his video, Perry literally asks people to pray for the economy to get better because, after all, government never actually gets anything done. Politicians just sit around like fat cats. It's prayer that will turn this recession around for good.
Seriously?! I'm all for people praying (in private or with their own community). If you feel better afterwards, if it makes you calmer or more confident, go for it. I'm not going to judge. But praying without then doing anything for yourself? This is when I get too annoyed to look these people in the face. When someone walks up to you and says something along the lines of, "I got a parking space today because I prayed for one," it makes me want to punch them. No. You got a parking space because you drove around until you found one. "If I pray hard enough, I'll get funding to go to college." Not if you don't fill out some applications, you won't. By all means, pray as you fill out the funding. Pray after you send in the application. But you have to do some work yourself, too. This idea that we can all just passively go through life, always counting on someone else to do the legwork just makes me so annoyed. That's the real crux of this issue for me: you're not faithfully expressing some all-mighty maxim of Christianity, you're being lazy. You're waiting for me to go out and vote, or pay into your retirement fund, or call my Congressman/woman to get a jobs bill on the floor. Stop praying and start working on something.
Rachel loves election politics. The more out-there a candidate is, the more she eats it up because she just finds it so entertaining and so hilarious. So Rick Perry and his wooing of a possible presidential run is one thing she keeps her eye on, and then reports to the rest of us. His latest thing? A prayer meeting. He's invited all the governors of the other states to a day of prayer in Texas and his website has all kinds of videos inviting the "American people" to join him, either physically (and then - boy-oh-boy! - financially with a donation) or spiritually from wherever they happen to live. One of the conservative sponsors of the event has a list of all the pastors attending this thing online. They've also conveniently compiled a bunch of these pastors' videos. Oh. My. God.
I refuse to watch these people's videos myself - I won't give them the satisfaction. Also, I'm not a fan of vomiting. But having seen the clips Rachel highlighted (so as to make a point about the company Perry keeps), these people are insane. Not the usual "you're-on-the-right-I'm-on-the-left-so-we-disagree" kind of crazy. One of them thinks Oprah is the harbinger of the Apocalypse. Another thinks God sent Hitler to Earth to move the Jews back to the Middle East. Another thinks there's a harlot who comes around to the nations of the world, sleeping with their leaders and causing chaos. Apparently, her sleeping with the sun god caused Japan's economy to tank. This is serious wack-o territory.
No large portion of the population will take those kinds of things seriously. But what annoys (or worries?) me is that Rick Perry is translating these ideas into the background of his more mainstream packaging. A prayer meeting to fix the economy?! In his video, Perry literally asks people to pray for the economy to get better because, after all, government never actually gets anything done. Politicians just sit around like fat cats. It's prayer that will turn this recession around for good.
Seriously?! I'm all for people praying (in private or with their own community). If you feel better afterwards, if it makes you calmer or more confident, go for it. I'm not going to judge. But praying without then doing anything for yourself? This is when I get too annoyed to look these people in the face. When someone walks up to you and says something along the lines of, "I got a parking space today because I prayed for one," it makes me want to punch them. No. You got a parking space because you drove around until you found one. "If I pray hard enough, I'll get funding to go to college." Not if you don't fill out some applications, you won't. By all means, pray as you fill out the funding. Pray after you send in the application. But you have to do some work yourself, too. This idea that we can all just passively go through life, always counting on someone else to do the legwork just makes me so annoyed. That's the real crux of this issue for me: you're not faithfully expressing some all-mighty maxim of Christianity, you're being lazy. You're waiting for me to go out and vote, or pay into your retirement fund, or call my Congressman/woman to get a jobs bill on the floor. Stop praying and start working on something.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Historicize Me
So this past Monday was the Fourth of July. I am living in Edinburgh, Scotland, and so it was a different celebration from the one I normally engage in. When I'm in the States, the Fourth is always a day of gorging myself on hot dogs, baked beans (the Boston kind, not the crazy tomato-based kind they eat here), chips (crisps), potato salad, and then a vast array of desserts, most of which would be red, white, and blue, the white always being some kind of cream product, making it the best of the layers. The evening is then spent watching some kind of fireworks with friends and family, probably drinking. Although, let's be serious, the drinking happens all day long. When I'm in the South, these all tend to take place at a state or national park - last year involved my parents' canoe. In Buffalo the evening always happens at Niawanda Park on the Niagara River (known to locals as just "the river") because the fireworks are set off from a barge in the middle of the river, paid for jointly by 3 communities so they're usually pretty spectacular. In fact, that is my favorite way to spend the Fourth. And not just because a local staple and phenomenal ice cream shop Mississippi Mudds is right across the street from the park...
But so yes, I missed Buffalo and fireworks and such this year, but things weren't bad because there's quite a few Americans in this town and we got together on the Meadows (Edinburgh's biggest public park, conveniently located right next to the main university buildings) and had a mini barbeque. Now, when I say mini, I mean positively miniscule by American standards. But one makes due. We played a little touch football (yes, the American kind - it *was* the Fourth of July) and had some drinks and all in all it was a fun time. Even with British friends trying to throw the ball like a rugby ball - psshh, lame-os. Overall, a good day though nothing spectacular. Perhaps when I have a backyard and a grill here I'll put on a proper celebration. Until then it'll be make-due central for American holidays.
There was one aspect of the day, however, which gave my Intellectual History muscles reason to flex. The day before Independence Day I had an English girl ask my why we celebrated it (then quickly add that she knew it was Independence Day - she had studied abroad in the States). As in, what were we celebrating independence from exactly? It was hard not to make a very snarky comment that it was her own culture we had thrown off so many years ago. I went with a cheeky grin and a simple, "You. And the British monarchy."
But it is funny in some ways to be in Britain on the day Americans celebrate specifically not being British. Well, that and having created a new nation on our own. As a historian, it's an interesting thing to think about from various angles. Especially given today's political climate in les États, people are often asking "What would the Founding Fathers think?!" Sometimes in wonder, sometimes in exasperation, always with reverence. Here's the thing though: those men are dead. They would not recognize our world in myriad ways. So much about what we do and have today would be so totally alien to them, the same way that much about their world would be incredibly alien to us. People like to romanticize history a lot and pretend that the chord between past and present is really a telephone line that they can tap into at any moment and suddenly be completely immersed in the past (though with all modern amenities and probably without having left their couches). This is not only slightly absurd, it is sometimes dangerous. Enshrining anyone as demigods is never a fantastic idea - it's how Egyptian slaves ended up being killed when the Pharaoh died so he could take them with him, being a demigod and all. When NASA creates a spaceship, they don't wonder what Newton would think. Similarly, asking what the Founding Fathers (and first you'd have to define who exactly you mean... I like to include Melancton Smith of NY even though he didn't vote for ratification of the Constitution) would think of being in Britain on Independence Day is pointless unless taken in a spirit of fun and tongue-in-cheek speculation. Jefferson spent quite a bit of time in Paris and the John Adamses spent time in London, as did Franklin and lots of the other big names, so assuming they'd be appalled at the idea is probably a bit arrogant if not just completely false.
All I can say is, I'm looking forward to Bastille Day and questions of what the sans-culottes would do to today's CEO and banker fat cats. Now *that* is a scenario I would love to see play out.
But so yes, I missed Buffalo and fireworks and such this year, but things weren't bad because there's quite a few Americans in this town and we got together on the Meadows (Edinburgh's biggest public park, conveniently located right next to the main university buildings) and had a mini barbeque. Now, when I say mini, I mean positively miniscule by American standards. But one makes due. We played a little touch football (yes, the American kind - it *was* the Fourth of July) and had some drinks and all in all it was a fun time. Even with British friends trying to throw the ball like a rugby ball - psshh, lame-os. Overall, a good day though nothing spectacular. Perhaps when I have a backyard and a grill here I'll put on a proper celebration. Until then it'll be make-due central for American holidays.
There was one aspect of the day, however, which gave my Intellectual History muscles reason to flex. The day before Independence Day I had an English girl ask my why we celebrated it (then quickly add that she knew it was Independence Day - she had studied abroad in the States). As in, what were we celebrating independence from exactly? It was hard not to make a very snarky comment that it was her own culture we had thrown off so many years ago. I went with a cheeky grin and a simple, "You. And the British monarchy."
But it is funny in some ways to be in Britain on the day Americans celebrate specifically not being British. Well, that and having created a new nation on our own. As a historian, it's an interesting thing to think about from various angles. Especially given today's political climate in les États, people are often asking "What would the Founding Fathers think?!" Sometimes in wonder, sometimes in exasperation, always with reverence. Here's the thing though: those men are dead. They would not recognize our world in myriad ways. So much about what we do and have today would be so totally alien to them, the same way that much about their world would be incredibly alien to us. People like to romanticize history a lot and pretend that the chord between past and present is really a telephone line that they can tap into at any moment and suddenly be completely immersed in the past (though with all modern amenities and probably without having left their couches). This is not only slightly absurd, it is sometimes dangerous. Enshrining anyone as demigods is never a fantastic idea - it's how Egyptian slaves ended up being killed when the Pharaoh died so he could take them with him, being a demigod and all. When NASA creates a spaceship, they don't wonder what Newton would think. Similarly, asking what the Founding Fathers (and first you'd have to define who exactly you mean... I like to include Melancton Smith of NY even though he didn't vote for ratification of the Constitution) would think of being in Britain on Independence Day is pointless unless taken in a spirit of fun and tongue-in-cheek speculation. Jefferson spent quite a bit of time in Paris and the John Adamses spent time in London, as did Franklin and lots of the other big names, so assuming they'd be appalled at the idea is probably a bit arrogant if not just completely false.
All I can say is, I'm looking forward to Bastille Day and questions of what the sans-culottes would do to today's CEO and banker fat cats. Now *that* is a scenario I would love to see play out.
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