The Edinburgh Saga: An Expected Party

So, I am running a little low on inspiration today.  That seems to be one thing that happens when you go home after college- nothing happens.  Okay, I am sure that is not true.  I mean, I have seen friends and family and all of that.  Obviously, I have been doing things.  (It's why it's been a few days since I have posted anything.)  It is just not anything I really want to blog about.  So, sorry, if you wanted to hear (or read) about that.

Instead, I am going to write the first installment of what I like to call “The Edinburgh Saga.”  Now, if you are friend or family, you have probably heard some version of this, but I have wanted to write it for some time now.  So, here goes.  Enjoy the gratuitous pictures of Scotland I throw in.

(Oh, by the way- Names have been changed so I don’t get in trouble.  Insert big grin here.)

It was November of 2010, and I was spending the semester in Dublin, Ireland.  It was absolutely marvelous, but when one has the whole of Europe to the east of oneself, it is rather difficult to stay in one country, let alone one city.  And so, during the first weekend of that month, a group of eleven Notre Dame Dubliners got on a Ryanair flight from Dublin, Ireland to Edinburgh, Scotland.

We were all naïve, excitable college students, and probably only that last bit has changed in the couple years since.  We were eager to experience Scotland and all of its culture, and so we obviously went for the most stereotypical of tourist activities: the pub-crawl.

Now, many fascinating things happened on this pub-crawl.  For one, I discovered that scotch whiskey does in no way compare to Jameson.  However, the story I wish to tell mostly takes place in the wee small hours of the morning, after all the pubs had closed. 

It was ten o’clock, and the group of us had confiscated a table at the first pub, somehow managing to squeeze all eleven of us around said table.  (For any who have been to a real pub, you will realize what a feat this is.)  Everybody was on their first drink of the night, and it was cozy with the sort of comfort you only get when you have been in constant close contact with a group of people for a couple months.  I was looking forward to a fun, relaxing night and had settled contentedly into my worn wooden chair, when Peter’s phone rang.  We all thought nothing of it as Peter backed away from the table so as to get some quiet.  However, as the conversation went on and his smile faded, I at least could tell it was not good news.

A twelfth member of our party, Fred, who had been in London and was coming to meet us, had missed his flight that morning due to a sickness born of alcohol.  There were no other flights available any time soon, and so he had decided to be adventurous and had gotten on a bus.  Fred called Peter to let him know that said bus had run into problems and that he would be arriving much later than planned, much later meaning approximately one am.  When Peter related this to the rest of us, we realized that someone would have to meet him at the bus stop at such an hour and guide him to the hostel, which was located a couple miles away from said bus stop.  Peter vowed that he would be the one to make the trek, as Fred was a close friend.  With a clink of our glasses, it was decided. 

Of course, going to a number of alcohol-selling establishments can give rise to a change in plans, and so it proved to be true in this story.

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(PS- For any who want to know, the above pictures are all from Edinburgh.  I'll probably post pics from other places in Scotland later.)

Don't Mess with My Beach

I should explain something about my college (which is the University of Notre Dame, for any who want to know): it is in the Midwest.  Now, I am sure there are many wonderful and marvelous things about the Midwest that I missed out on.  For one thing, I have never participated in a ‘bring your tractor to school’ day.  (I am not making this up; someone I know from college actually participated in this.)  I am also sure there is more to the Midwest than endless fields of corn.  For example, I have heard rumors of cows.  And I am sure that Chicago is a wonderful city to live in.  Wonderful if you don’t mind the lack of a decent slice of pizza, which might not be important to some people (perish the thought).

But while there are all these possibly wonderful reasons for living in the Midwest, there is one thing that I will never like.  You see, Midwesterners have this very odd concept of what constitutes a beach.

Before I go any further, let me clarify something- I am from the East Coast.  Except for those four years at Notre Dame, I have not lived any further than a half hour drive from the ocean.  I really cannot comprehend moving permanently away from the coast.

A week before graduation, my friends and myself decided to go to the ‘beach,’ and by beach, we meant Lake Michigan.  When we arrived, I quickly realized that it was most decidedly not a beach.  Now that picture above might make it look like a beach, but a picture can only tell you so much.  Allow me to elaborate so you, my dear reader, will gather a clearer picture.

1. There is no salt.  It smells wrong.

2. The waves are tiny and barely make a noise.  It sounds wrong.

3. The sand is fine and dry and obviously not natural.  It feels wrong.

4. And lastly, once more, there is no salt.  It tastes wrong.

These are my beaches: Long Island beaches and Virginia beaches.  They have salt and seaweed and crabs and rocks and dolphins.  They are real beaches.

Okay, so it turns out I don't actually take pictures of my beaches, because, well, they're where I live/have lived.  So here, have a South Carolina beach in place of Virginia.

And an Irish beach in place of Long Island.  These are real beaches as well.

Last night, I went to a club with some friends from high school.  We quickly got bored.  (Hey, I have never pretended to be cool.)  So, what did we do?  We walked a block, and we were at the beach.  It was kind of foggy and smelled strongly of salt, and you could not hear the person next to you talk because of the waves.  It was fantastic. 

That is the ocean, and this is the East Coast, and don’t you Midwesterners dare compare your lake to my beach.

(PS- Happy Towel Day to any celebrating!)

Doubt

Doubt is a tricky thing.  In some instances, it can be good.  It can force you to look at a situation, figure out if you’re looking at the truth of the manner.  It causes you to question, to think, to wonder.  In my opinion (and this is my blog, so obviously I’m going to tell you my opinion), you should doubt textbooks; you should doubt politics; you should doubt the future.  In my opinion, have doubt about everything except one thing- yourself. 

If you figure out what you are and what you want, do not doubt it.

A friend and I like to say that we never changed our majors, as if that’s a good thing.  And maybe it is; I certainly loved getting an anthropology degree.  It helped me become who I am.  At the same time, though, college was a process of constantly changing my mind.  First, I wanted to be an historian, then an archaeologist, then a professor, then a museum worker, then back to a professor, and then I realized that I was doing something I had always told myself not to do.  I was trying to avoid what I loved because I was afraid.  I was afraid I would not be able to find a job; I was afraid my friends and family would not support me; I was afraid that I myself was simply not good enough.  I was going the easy route.  Anthropology taught me to look at the world objectively, and finally, senior year of college, I looked at myself objectively.  When I did, I was not happy with myself.

I love writing, and I mean LOVE it.  I have been writing for fun since I was six.  It is the only thing that always makes sense (even when my writing might not actually make sense).  There is not a day that goes by that I do not look at something in the world and wonder, “How would I write about that?”  I have wanted to be a writer for as long as I have been writing.

I gave up on that because people, society told me it was useless; I needed a real job.  So, I treated writing as a hobby, until anthropology forced me to think about what I wanted.  And then I realized that in order for others to take my writing seriously, I have to take it seriously myself.

I cannot doubt that I want to be a writer.  I cannot and will not doubt that.  The moment I do is the moment that it becomes okay for other people to do the same.  I am not saying that it will be easy, and I am not saying I will get my dream job right away, but I am saying that I do not doubt that I will get to where I want to be eventually.  For the first time in years, I feel completely confident in what I want to do.  And that is the most wonderful feeling in the world.

Day One

Today, I unpacked my diploma, that $ 200,000 piece of paper that says I jumped through the hoops and checked the boxes of college.  That piece of paper, however, was very opinionated and got into a bit of argument with another piece of paper in my room- my high school diploma.  The following is retelling of their conversation, edited for time and language.  (Oh, and for some reason, my university diploma requested to be called Ian and my high school diploma Engelbert.  Don't ask.)

Ian

Engelbert: Welcome to life in storage.

Ian: Don’t get ahead of yourself, high school.  I’m not there quite yet.

Engelbert: But you’ll get here eventually.

Ian: Maybe, but maybe not.  I do have a frame to go in.

Engelbert: You think you're special?  I was the result of so much hard work.  I was studying and reading and paper writing.  I was scrabbling to beat the next person, I was-

Ian: You were obviously trying too hard.

Engelbert: I was so much work!  And look at me now, stuck on a closet shelf.  You think you are better than me?  You think-

Ian: Um, yes.

Engelbert: Wh- what?  Why?

Ian: Well, because you were leading up to me.

Engelbert: Leading up to you, sure.  If you want to put it that way.  But-

Ian: I do.

Engelbert: But what are you leading up to?

Ian: I have no idea.

Engelbert: You see what I mean?  You’re certainly no better than me, and probably even worse.

Ian: I doubt that very much.  Do you know what your problem is, Bertie?

Engelbert: I’m sure you’re about to tell me.  And don't call me Bertie.

Ian: You think you know everything.

Engelbert: Is that supposed to be a problem?  Because I’m really not seeing one.

Ian: Well, there is also the fact that you are a card and not an actual diploma.

Engelbert:  It was Friday the 13^th!  The high school lost the actual diploma.  It’s not my fault.

Engelbert (He really is just a card.)

Ian: Yes, well, even if you are a bit small, you talk a great deal of nothing.  You think you know everything?  The amount of what you know is smaller than the credit card sized photocopy that you are.

Engelbert: I know a lot!  I know how to write an insightful English paper.  I know the best method of memorizing dates.  I know the shortcuts of Algebra II.

Ian: And do you know how much of that was used to get me?  No, no, don’t try and answer.  Wouldn’t want you to strain your lamination.  None of that was used, but do you want to know what I know?

Engelbert: Not really.

Ian: I know that a real friend will dance down the hallway to cheer you up.  I know that Guinness should not be too cold and goes well with good conversation.  I know that a museum is best viewed with someone who is just as willing as you to mock every single piece of art.

Engelbert: Is that supposed to be impressive?  Where is the 4.0 GPA?  Where is the departmental award?  Where is the job?

Ian: Okay, so I don’t have any of that.

Engelbert: I’ll just reserve this spot next to me in the-

Ian: I would not be so cocky.  You see, I happen to know that she is very proud of me.

Engelbert: And you think she wasn’t proud of me?

Ian: You?  You were a means to an end.  But me?  I’m more than that.  I’m not a means to an end.  I am an end, and I am a beginning.  So, think about that, as you gather dust on your closet shelf.

I think the conversation might have continued for some time more, but I then told the two of them to shut it, as I needed to figure out if I should put Terry Pratchett next to Douglas Adams or Neil Gaiman.  (Because thematically, he is a bit closer to Adams, but then he did write Good Omens with Gaiman.  Of course, I could put him in the middle, but then with the sizes of the books as they are, they just don’t line up that nicely.  You see?  This is what I have to deal with as a college graduate.)