How A Lost Frenchman Restored My Faith In Humanity

On the 18^th September, Scotland held its long-awaited, historic independence referendum.

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be a political entry (There’s plenty of that over on my new politics blog), but it’s necessary for contextualizing today’s anecdote.

So, as I was saying: referendum. As you more than likely know, Scotland voted No to independence, with a 55%-45% divide. I was a Yes voter, and needless to say the No vote gave me more than a wee bit o’ the glaikit stare, och aye, it wasnae nice, nae it wasnae.

With my glaikit stare (emphasised by the fact we’d stayed up all night roaming the city and watching the TV coverage) the most prominent feature of my face throughout the day on the 19^th September, I escorted my visiting, equally glaikit-staring friend to Edinburgh’s Waverley Station and waved him goodbye with a glaikit hand.

On my way back, I decided to go on a detour around a dark and foggy Edinburgh. My route took me past Bute House, the official residence of the first minister, where earlier just that day Alex Salmond had announced his resignation.

I sighed and moved on.

Heading down the dark, winding King’s Stables Road towards Grassmarket, away in a dismal wee dream, I noticed a nervously shuffling figure shimmy out of the dim mist. He seemed to be muttering panicked French curses in an alarming way.

As I made to shift past the distressed young Frenchman, he suddenly seemed to notice me and hurried over.

“Excuseh me, sir.” He muttered.

“Yes?” I muttered back glaikitly.

“I, eh, seem to be, eh… unable to find my way.”

“You’re lost?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

“Where is, eh… le Haymarket?”

“Haymarket? Like the train station? Are you sure you don’t mean Grassmarket?”

“Yes, I am looking for Haymarket.”

“Ah.”

I felt a pang of sympathy for the young Frenchman at this point because he was absolutely nowhere near Haymarket.

“Do you know where it is?” He asked, despair dripping from his voice and putting my own dull mood to shame.

“Yes, it’s, uh…” I gestured in the rough direction of Haymarket, knowing that if he followed where I was pointing he could just as easily end up wandering straight past it and on for hours to the Forth bridges, Fife or Perth.

“Maybe we should look it up on a map. Do you have a pho-?”

He wrenched a massive phone-shaped brick from his pocket at this point and chuckled. “I am French. Our mobiles are, uh, quite shit.”

“Ah. I’ll use mine then.”

So I took out my phone and started searching for where the young Frenchman was wanting to go. It turned out he was meant to be meeting a group of friends at a fancy restaurant on Dalry Road and had somehow lost his way quite spectacularly.

The only problem was that the route he would have to take was quite winding, especially for a visitor unused to the labyrinthine streets of Edinburgh.

“Do you think you’ll be able to find your way here?” I asked, pointing to his end destination.

“Yeees?” He replied, hesitantly.

I knew at that moment if I let him go on his way he’d end up going so far off course he’d probably end up wandering through the night until he fell into Loch Tay.

“Okay, let’s write out the directions.” I said, taking out my notebook and pen.

The look of surprise on people’s faces when you spontaneously pull out a notebook and pen is priceless.

I turned to lean on the wall, but it was damp, mossy and, I kid you not, covered in snails. 

“Oh look, snails,” I commented.

“I love snails!” The young Frenchman laughed.

It’s okay to laugh at stereotypes if the subject of the stereotype makes the joke, right? Right!?

Leaning on my knee instead of the mossy wall, I started to write. “So it’s a left up here onto Lothian Road…” Scribble scribble. “A right onto West Approach Road…” Scribble scribble. “Then you head up to the A8…” Scribble scribble. “And turn left onto Dalry Road. Easy!” I decided not to embarrass us both by using the words ‘Gauche’ and ‘Droit’, as tempted as I was to unleash my poor high school French.

He was delighted when I handed him the sheet of paper, and the relief on his face was apparent. “Sank you – sank you!” He reached out his hand and for a moment I thought he was wanted to shake mine, but instead he dropped a £2 coin into the palm of my hand. “For your service.”

I tried to return it, but he insisted. “For your service, my friend!” He said, and scurried off into the night.

Now I’m not saying that money is what makes me happy, or that my friendship comes at a monetary cost, but the gesture was so kind that I immediately felt much better with the world than I had before. The fact that there is kindness and that there are interesting characters everywhere gave me a boost.

I spent the coin on a cheap baguette in the Grassmarket in honour of my briefly encountered friend, and ate it smiling on the way back to my flat. As always, when there seems to be a lot of despair in the world, faint glimmers of hope start shining through. One of mine just happened to be an ill-equipped Frenchman with a poor sense of direction.

New Post Coming Soon...

In the meantime, get some politics down yer gullet! http://gnasrant.blogspot.co.uk/

Giving the People What They Want

I received a request for a blog post at a party a few weeks ago from a Scot called Angus in an oversized Mexican hat from Spain. How could I say no?

(I added in the maracas. The rest is accurate!)

Reckon you’ll look good on a whiteboard? LET ME KNOW!

How A Mountain Followed Me To Edinburgh

Last week, the past knocked me over.

Let me explain. I was out on a run. Winding my way through the streets of Edinburgh, I allowed my mind to wander, and before I knew it I was angling far from my intended destination.

Oh well, I thought, thrilled at the prospect of adventure. May as well go with it!

So I chose a random, nearby alleyway, angled towards it, and delved into the unknown. (I should point out at this stage that I in no way advocate heading down strange alleyways on a whim. It doesn’t always turn out as well as this. Sometimes it does! But sometimes you get mugged. Not fun for anyone involved. Except the mugger. Maybe. They could just be misunderstood. Or they could be crazy. Either way: strange alleyways generally equal bad.)

I drifted off again, despite reassuring myself I’d stay on my mental toes, and unsurprisingly ended up winding through a secluded labyrinth of big houses and tree-lined avenues which I was fairly certain had not existed until this very moment.

Nonetheless, I ploughed on. It was a bright, fresh day, perfect for exploring.

Soon enough, a hill loomed out of the horizon, and to my surprise I realised I’d come to Blackford Hill, the home of the Royal Observatory of Edinburgh. Roaming up its woodland paths, I rose above the city and spied on the houses and paths and roads and allotments arrayed below.

Eventually, some wind and wispy mist swooping over the hilltop, I reached the trig point. Here I stopped for a breather.

Onto the trig point was bolted a panoramic map of the surrounding landmarks. Circumnavigating the map, I worked through the distant castle, the towering bulk of Arthur’s Seat, the distinct but hazy peak of North Berwick Law, and all the towers and spires and blocks of Edinburgh arranged in between.

Then I faced west. And there, on the map, were scored the words ‘Ben Lomond’.

Let me explain why this was significant. Where I come from originally, near the southern bank of Loch Lomond, Ben Lomond is the most prominent and impressive feature on the horizon. She is a bulky, wide-shouldered Munroe who oversees loch and sky from her lofty heights.

And suddenly, here in Edinburgh, the complete other side of the country, I could still see Ben Lomond.

Following the trig point’s marker, I could just make her out, the tiniest smudge beyond a puny hill ranges.

This left me surprisingly shaken. Loch Lomond and Edinburgh were two such different, distinct parts of my life. They are divided my experience and geography – except suddenly the physical geographical element of this division was gone.

From the top of this relatively low hill in Edinburgh, I could see my past!

Now maybe I was just delusional from dehydration, and maybe the wind was scooping rationality out of my ears, but this seemed hugely significant, and I stayed there staring westwards for a while.

Eventually, another runner appeared, and his bald head bobbing up the path towards me shook me out of my contemplative state. I turned and started jogging down the hill, parallel to the other runner, who was following a different path.

I had was thinking so hard at this stage that my feet weren't really a priority as the route downwards became steeper… I think you can see where this is going.

This is the view the other runner would have seen of me as we ran down our parallel paths, separated my low ridges:

When my feet found a muddy patch, slipped and flung themselves up in the air, I realised a few things as I plummeted upper-spine first into the mud.

1.) Aaargh- Oh! I don’t scream like a girl any more! The noise I made as I fell was hardly macho, but at least I maintained a shred of dignity.

2.) The sky’s clearing up again. Nice! Sometimes it takes a muddy, splatty fall to make you appreciate blue skies.

3.) I think my neck and tailbone are broken… But at least I can lie here for a bit and gather my thoughts! Mud, grass and stones aren’t that uncomfortable as long as you don’t mind getting covered in muck.

4.) I should really have watched where I was going. It’s far too easy to look back and keep looking until it obscures your vision of everything else. I should have waited until I was on the long, straight streets on solid ground before drifting away on memories of Ben Lomond!

5.) Well… The run back should be fun!

The run back was fun! To be specific, watching people reacting to having a lanky youth running through a city covered on one side top to toe in green-and-brown muddy mush was fun.

When I returned to my flat, I had a shower and thought over what had happened. Refreshed and exhausted at the same time, I considered my rediscovery of Ben Lomond. Initially, on that hilltop, I had just been startled, maybe alarmed. But at the same time, knowing she was just there, just over the horizon, reassured me too.

I suppose the past will always be there, as out of sight and mind as you want it to be.

I hope to go back and spot Ben Lomond peeking over the horizon from time to time. I’ll nod to it, turn, and carry on my way, feeling reassured and refreshed. And I’ll try to watch my footing on the way down.

Humming Pigeons Drinking Red Wine

I make no apologies for my disappearance from the blogosphere for the past 3-nearly-4 weeks. It has been a busy time. A productive time. I worked hard, wasted no time socialising or messing about, and sorted out my schedule. And I have no interesting anecdotes to share with you as a result.

That, readers, is what I would say if I was a hopeless pessimist. Fortunately for you, I am not.

Every day, stories blossom around us. The threads of life we wade through day by day can be spun into epic yarns. Fire up the imagination drives, and crack open the seemingly mundane – there’s always a tale inside.

The following are a selection of short and relatively insignificant encounters that, despite their minor nature, contributed to colouring my day:

The Case of the Humming Tinkler

So there I was, early for a history tutorial, minding my own business in the history, classics and archaeology department, when Mr Bladder informs me he needs to do his stuff. Off I hobble to the nearest gentlemen’s room, undo my zipper, and answer nature’s call into the urinal, as would any right-minded man.

Suddenly, in bursts a youth about my own age, about my own height, and in a similar predicament to myself just seconds earlier. He shuffles up nearby (It was a small men’s room), unzips –

And starts to hum.

And when I say hum, I mean hum. For the next fifteen seconds, he composed a tuneless symphony, which the thrumming brass of piss-on-porcelain its ambient underscore. Shamelessly, he turned a casual toilet break into nothing short of a magnificent concerto.

I left the men’s room, unsure whether I had been disturbed or uplifted by what I had just witnessed.

Either way, every time I visit that set of urinals, I remember the Humming Tinkler, and the as-yet unmatched whizzing-soundtrack he shared with me.

The Case of the Malicious Pigeons

Marching down the Meadows on a sunny day is one of the blessing of Edinburgh. Recently, that illusive ball of blazing gas decided to rear its head over Alba, and everybody was out to make the most of it.

Unfortunately, that also meant that everybody was there to witness the following.

A flock of pigeons – twelve o’clock.

It’s fine, I told myself, eyes happily squinted in the sunlight, They’ll move.

I trudged on, preparing to meander between a pigeon or two if need be, but ultimately certain they would shimmy out of my path.

Unfortunately, Edinburgh pigeons are accustomed to human company. So accustomed, that is, that they have gained a sense of superiority over those foolish bipedal monstrosities that toss their leftovers to the ground so casually.

I reached the pigeons.

A moment of calm. Beady little eyes on cold, unreadable faces swivelled my way.

And then the pigeon typhoon was unleashed.

Seemingly hundreds of pigeons blasted my way in a flood of panic and feathers. My warm-Meadows-day coolness vanished as I screamed and flailed in instinctive terror.

Finally it abated, and I emerged from my huddled position to see a sea of confused faces – human faces – looking my way.

And that’s when I realise: pigeons may be small, but all that means is they’re easier to underestimate.

And that’s just what they want you to do…

The Case of the Pink-Lipped Alcoholic Reporter

Recently, I managed to nab a really decent interview for the university’s newspaper. The interviewee was pretty high profile, and I spent ages obsessing over the questions I would ask him, how I would pace my voice, how I would introduce myself etc.

The interview would take place shortly before he did a talk in front of a big audience about diplomacy and crises and all sorts of terrifyingly important stuff. I obsessed over timing here too, as I had plans to meet some friends that night – if the talk ran to schedule, I’d be able to watch the whole thing, mill about at the wine reception for ten/fifteen minutes, then head on my way.

The evening would run like a well-tuned clock. Surely.

The interview went well enough (Although at one point I enunciated a bit too violently while asking a question and watched in horror as a fleck of spit sailed through the air towards the interviewee’s suit. It just missed, thankfully, and he didn’t notice. Although I think he was slightly concerned at the terrified glint in my eyes and the blood rushing to my face, come to think about it...), and the talk was interesting. My Dictaphone didn’t malfunction, and I managed to control my sweating enough to not dissolve in front of him.

Then came the wine reception.

I was swept along to the table, and found a glass of red wine in my hand. I am not a red wine drinker. Mind you, I thought, I don’t normally strangle myself with a tie or dilute my accent so the people around me can understand my proletarian dialect, so I’ll just go with it this once.

I was half way through a conversation with an elderly lady who had helped found a swanky pan-continent institute and chuckling internally at how she must have assumed I was somebody important, when I had a glance at the clock.

“Sorry, I’ve got to go!” I yelped to the startled mid-sentence woman, spinning and scooping up my jacket and notebook.

I still had half a glass of wine, so tanked the lot and bolted for the exit.

On the way, the important interviewee appeared in front of me. For the sake of professionalism, I stopped in my dash and thanked him profusely. I wondered vaguely why he looked so terrified…

Then I left.

It wasn’t until I reached my friend’s flat, and somebody asked me “why is your mouth bright red?” that I realised how horrifying I must have looked as I left that reception.

Red wine is really, really red, I learned that night. My lack of appreciation for that fact, and my instinctive need to embarrass myself when I realised I was running late, just go to show: we can try to cover up who we are as hard as we can, but in the end the real you will always break free.

Unfortunately, in this case the ‘real me’ was a clumsy, blissfully unaware bundle of fluster.

So there we go, three encounters, interactions, and observations that make me laugh and cringe to reflect upon. All three were events that I reflected on a while after they had happened, and all three proved to be better stories than I had assumed at the time.

I usually end up with some moral or conclusion in my blog posts, and here you’ve been treated to four, as tenuous as they are. Firstly: Humming while having a whizz in public may break from social norms, but sometimes shattering societal expectations or harmlessly transcending decorum is all you need to make a stranger’s day. Secondly: Don’t assume that somebody will move for you just because they’re small. They might fly at your face and humiliate you. Thirdly: You can wear as convincing a mask as you like; your true face is bound to reveal itself eventually. Possibly sweaty, oblivious and smeared in red wine.

Finally:

Stories are everywhere, every day. When we begin to appreciate them, we realise how much we actually see and do as we casually navigate our lives.

Every new day is a blank whiteboard. Grab a marker and start scribbling.

An example of scribbling

Exciting news! (And some bad news. But mostly exciting! Kinda.)

"Write me. Write meeee!"

Sadly, it is not the next blog post which is mewling at me, but an unborn social anthropology essay.

As a result, the next post will be soon. But don't worry, that gives all the amusing anecdotal madness another forty-eight hours or so to rise in the oven. The oven of thoughts, that is! (i.e. My brain. Sadly it's more like a microwave than an oven at the moment, to be honest. Whatever that means.)

Anyway, on to exciting news.

Ready? Gird your loins people.

That's right, tomorrow's post will have real colours in it! And it had better be worth it, because the new marker pen set I bought cost more than any student's stationery has the right to cost.

Happy Tuesday!

A Rest

I've had a really busy stint in Edinburgh, as you can tell from the last few weeks' shenanigans (Being bizarre is exhausting), so now I'm back by my native Loch Lomond having a meditative zen-filled chill-out. Which involves trying to forget about a pending essay deadline.

Also, I forgot to bring my whiteboard with me. I know, I cried too when I realised.

So to fill up yer noggins this week, I'll point you in the directions of two superb videos. The first will stun and inspire. The second will also stun and inspire, albeit in slightly a less life-altering way.

Have a fantastic week!

(From Charlie Chaplin's The Great Dictator. Edited by 'thelakeysisters'. Open your mind and let it blow you away. Thank you to Alex and Josh for introducing and reintroducing me to this respectively.)

(From Disney's 2013 film, Frozen. Haven't seen it yet, but I've been howling this song and 'Let It Go' so loudly recently I really ought to get round to it. Thanks for showing me this, Jen!)

(Update: I've just watched Frozen, and it is fantastic. It also contains one of my favourite lines from any song ever in 'For the First Time in Forever' when an overexcited Anna sings "Don't know if I'm elated or gassy, but I'm somewhere in that zone". I know that feeling so well, Anna. In celebration, here's a bonus link!)

Ducks Are More Majestic Than Sunsets (A Treatise on the Appreciation of Beauty)

I often walk the Salisbury Crags.

Windy, grassy cliff tops, draped around the foot of Arthur’s Seat, the Crags offer some pretty outstanding views of Edinburgh. When you need a wander to clear your head, the Crags are a blessing.

The fact that they face west means that, with careful timing, you can witness sunset over the city there too.

It’s beautiful.

Or at least, that’s what my brain, eyes, and skin were trying to tell me the last time I was there.

Not long ago, I wound my way up the Crags to watch the day sink away. I needed a good old think, and the Crags beckoned. I reached the top, and right enough, orange clouds were blazing in a darkening sky.

Everything I had been raised to believe was beautiful was laid out in front of me. The riotous horizon: check. The glittering city: check. The warmth of the sunset: check. The bracing bite of the wind: check. The distant, hazy hills: check.

My Checklist of Awe was full of ticks. And I did indeed find myself transfixed by what was happening in front of me.

And yet…

I’d better gave wistfully into the distance, mouth slightly a-gape, I thought. It's expected of me! BECAUSE THIS IS BEAUTIFUL!

I did so. Job done.

Such beauty deserves an obedient audience. Sit down. I continued to think.

A little voice in me replied: “But there’s a weird oozing moss on the boulder und-"

SIT DOON!

“Okay…”

BECAUSE THIS IS BEAUTIFUL!

I sat down, trying not to let me face show the discomfort of knowing an alarmingly textured substance was now stuck to my bum.

You’d better cry now. A single, solitary, dramatic tear.

“What - Really?”

I don’t see any teee-ars! If this was a movie I’d be struggling to engage emotionally with you.

“But this isn’t a movie…”

IRRELEVANT! Cry, damn you! Like a baby!

“I’m trying!”

Try harder! BECAUSE THIS IS BEAUTIFUL!

“I know, I know, you keep telling me! But it doesn’t matter, because I can’t feel anything!”

I soon gave up trying to be life-alteringly moved by the scene in front of me, accepting that it was impressive before concentrating on my thoughts rather than my failed attempt at feeling.

My episode up on the Crags highlighted to me the nature of appreciating beauty. And in the process of thinking it through, I realised that my concept of beauty, and my culture’s concept of beauty, don’t exactly see eye-to-eye.

Case Study 1

I work in a theatre, usually as a bartender, but sometimes as an usher. This means that I get to ‘watch the audience watching the show.’ (i.e. Watch the show, before being interrupted by an overexcited kid projectile vomiting across your section of the upper circle.)

Recently there was an enormously emotional play on. I saw it, felt impressed, even a little bit moved. On the way out, one audience member called it “Beautiful”.

I concurred, I suppose.

Later, one my way home, I noticed something on the ground. I bent down to find a little collection of cigarette butts. In the shape of a smiley face.

The magnitude of joy and wonder this gave me is indescribable.

Of the two events that evening, one being the “beautiful” play, the other being the toxic smiley stamped into the pavement, the latter had a much more profound effect on me.

Why was it there? Was it an accident? A freak of nature? Something, some wonderful twist of fate, had allowed these little burnt-out shreds of paper to fall to the ground together. And assemble into a SMILEY FACE!

It is a wonderful world we live in, I concluded.

Case Study 2

One night, I could not sleep. I tossed and turned, curled up into a cocoon, emerged, pretended I was a butterfly with bedsheets for wings, cocooned up again, sighed, tossed, sighed, turned, semi-dozed, drooled a little bit, decided sleep was not on the horizon.

Concluding that I may as well do something to deal with my sleepless sleepiness, I listened to my iPod.

I did not have fun.

The singers was trying hard to project an emotional, powerful, beautiful voice into my ears. But all they were doing was making me grouchy, and reminding me I should have been asleep at least an hour ago.

Eventually I gave up with the iPod, hunkered down, prepared more tossing, turning, cocooning, butterflying.

But then, on the street outside, a voice.

"In da jungle..."

A slurred, wobbly voice bouncing about the silent buildings.

"Da miiighty jungle..."

It was a sozzled reveller returning from a night out. And he was singing the Lion King soundtrack.

"Da lion sleeps toniii - hic - iiiight."

For song mysterious, illogical reason, a bizarre law of the cosmos, it was his hiccup-y, worryingly gargle-y, but unashamedly joyful melody that hit my heartstrings. I felt at peace. I sank down. I fell into a calm sleep.

Drunken-Simba zig-zagged on through the streets of Edinburgh, singing the song of his people.

Case Study Three

This is a short one.

Horses are “beautiful”. Cool. Good on ya.

But ducks are in a league of their own.

I’ve been thinking long and hard about cigarette butts, drunken warbling, and ducks in my bid to understand beauty. And I think there may be a simple, but easily forgotten, truth.

I’ve steered clear of applying this conversation on beauty to people, but I think that my following statement applies to that particular sub-field as well.

Beauty isn’t a set of rules, despite the qualifications needed for it to be used in guidebooks or magazines. 

Beauty is something that makes you feel in awe, or happy, or both. And that changes person to person, and from mood to mood.

To be honest, a lot of the “beautiful” phenomena out there just don’t do it for me unless I’m in the right mindset.

Beauty, it would seem, is relative to character and circumstance. It isn’t a definite thing.

That day on the Crags as I forced myself to be in awe, I just wasn’t concerned by the sunset. I had other, more pressing thoughts on my mind, and the outside world, however “beautiful” it wanted me to think it was, was just a backdrop. A very pleasant backdrop, but a backdrop nonetheless.

We need to stop punishing ourselves for not being able to appreciate the supposedly beautiful. Awe, love, desire, or happiness cannot be forced, despite the training our culture pushes us through. Looking for beauty is hard. But if we keep our eyes and minds open, beauty will find us.

This is Guru Gna, signing out.

(The Crags from Arthur's Seat. I'll try and find a pwetty sunset one for ya.) 

(Note: Apologies for the pen running out from frame to frame. I intended to have more pictures, but the pen eventually gave up the gig. Next post, I'll have a shiny new one!)