Week 12 Impressions by Lauren Haisley

The Kids’ Cookery School is a small building located in Acton, a good fifteen minute tube ride west of our home base, Gloucester Road. When you walk into the small school you are greeted by an array of colorfully painted walls covered in posters, articles, awards and cookbooks. One of the first things I noticed was the posters of celebrities who have been in to the Kids’ Cookery School. This includes the members of Steps (a British pop band that I was in love with throughout my middle school years) Ant and Dec (a well known duo that host numerous British shows), and many posters of celebrities such as the famous chef Jamie Oliver wishing everyone at the KCS well. The only person of quasi celebrity status that I have met while working at the Kids’ Cookery School is Bubbles the Wizard. He’s a character on British Nick Jr. He has a sparkly whisk, a talking frog friend, and teaches kids about cooking in shiny magenta pants. Not quite the high profile celebrity I was hoping for, but entertaining none the less.

The Kids Cookery School offers cooking classes for kids ages 3 to 19 on a sliding payment scale so that those who cannot normally afford cooking classes can send their kids to learn about cooking and nutrition at the KCS for a very reduced price. Of course the best part of my job is working with these kids. While I admit that the thought of twelve 8 year olds all learning how to cut with sharp knives at the same time slightly terrified me, I have yet to see anyone get stabbed, burnt, grated, or harmed in any other way. That’s a large part of my job, making sure the KCS’ spotless record stays that way.

Teaching kids from every age group also reminds me what hell it must have been for my teachers when I went through each of those age stages. Like when you are 8 years old and know everything there is to know about every subject, or when you are 14 and anyone over the age of 18 is lame and old. Of course all of these kids secretly love the staff at KCS, some just choose to show their love through sarcasm and pouty glares. The kids that go through the KCS are from all walks of life. After talking about multiculturalism in class so much it is wonderful to see so much diversity first hand. This diversity also comes through in the food classes make at the Kids’ Cookery School. Staple recipes include hand made pizza, kebabs, spicy rice, jacket potatoes, and different kinds of pasta. The school as hundreds of recipes to choose from and each class gets a say in the food they choose to make each week. My favorite is when they make any sort of Mexican food and I see the kids’ baffled stares at words like Guacamole, fajita, and taco.

Working at the KCS I become very aware of my Americanness whether it’s because I have no idea what a “plaster” is (it’s a band-aid) or because I pronounce kebab kebob or vitamin, vitamin. Kids are very quick to point out my strange accent. When they find out that I’m from America many kids respond with some sort of comment about their love for our fast food restaurants. They love to tell me about their experience with travel in the US and on many occasions I have been asked to name our “59 states”.

Finally, the most coveted part of my job is that every Wednesday Thursday and Friday I have two professional cooks make me lunch. I would probably have a severe protein deficiency if it were not for these three meals that often consist of very stereotypical English cuisine including meat, pie crust, and mash combined in any number of creative fashions. Of course, in order to not be total hypocrites, we eat salad everyday as well.

At the end of the day it all depends on who you work with. Washing dishes and cleaning up after a dozen four year olds who have just finished a flour fight could cause severe annoyance to a college student who gets enough of cleaning dishes in her tiny flat kitchen. But surround me with enthusiastic people singing loudly to British pop music and talking about the places I must go in two weeks when I will be forced to leave this wonderful city and venture out into the rest of Europe and I must say that I have found in the Kids’ Cookery School a niche within London’s crazy buzz that I will very sorry to leave.

Week 14 Impressions by Alex Hickok

The tube, while moving people rapidly and relatively efficiently around the city, produces some interesting behaviour amongst its users. There are unwritten rules that experienced tube riders know and abide by. These rules are there to ensure that everyone gets along in those cramped little train cars without trying to kill each other by the end of the ride. The first rule I have seen evidence of is the rule of out before in.

The out before in rule is as simple as it sounds: let people off the train before you pile in. This rule ensures that the trains are loaded and unloaded in an efficient manner and that people can actually get off at the stop they need. Of course, this rule gets complicated when the tube is crowded during the morning and evening rush hours. Normally it is as simple as standing near the door (upon leaving the train), waiting for the doors to open, and simply hopping off. Inversely, if you are trying to get on a train, it is customary to wait on either side of the train doors as they open, let the alighting passengers depart, and jump into the car.

During rush hour though, these customs change. The British, normally known for their orderly and calm queuing, do not have much patience during rush hour. Train platforms when busy seem to naturally separate into two separate groups: people who wait dangerously close to the gap, and those who stick to the wall. As the train approaches the wall-huggers jump up and madly press up behind the row of people near the gap, forming a near impenetrable wall of humans. Getting on or off the train involves a squeezing through a mass of somewhat accommodating humanity; one often has to physically push through the bodies to get through. This contact is not typical of the British; they like their personal space and privacy, but sacrifices must be made by all in order to move so many people every day.

Personal space is redefined on the tube. If you have ever wanted to get good feeling for the expression “packed like sardines” all you need to do is ride the tube through central London during the evening rush hour. The sheer amount of bodies packed in each train car is amazing. The smell of sweaty humans is always present, and accompanying this is the delicate haze that covers the platforms, undoubtedly stemming from the respiration of thousands of bodies. There is no way around it and no defence against the humanity pressing around you from all directions. Possibly the only form of protection you have is a newspaper, most often a free one given to you at the station, which can be used much like a shield to put some type of barrier between you and the rest of the world. Most people use some type of reading material or listen to their iPods in an effort to gain back some personal space that they were robbed of when 50 new people got on their already packed train at the last station.

The idea of personal space brings about another rule of the tube: don’t talk to your neighbour. Now, this doesn’t mean that you can’t talk with one of your friends that you happen to be riding with. It means do not try to start up conversations with strangers; most of them do not want to talk to you. Enough sacrifices are made to pack people into those cramped cars like cattle, so they are sure as hell are do not talk to you for any reason what so ever other than to get you to move so they can get off the train. Even talking to your friends in a loud voice can draw evil glares from the silent Brits lining the seats.

The classic example of this is the group of French tourists that happen to all get on the tube in one large group. As soon as the first word of French leaves their lips the stares of disdain can be clearly seen across the natives’ faces. I can’t blame them. Even in the short time I have been living here in London I have come to respect the golden rule of silence. When I see a group of tourists noisily chatting away on the tube I shake my head in disappointment and turn up my iPod another notch. The train on the tracks is loud enough for christsakes, I don’t need some bloody tourists adding to the racket.

Worst yet is when every once and a while there is some enterprising old man who thinks that it is a good idea to serenade people riding the tube with his guitar. The poor chap goes down the car strumming some out of date American rock tune while horribly butchering the lyrics and then has the nerve to ask people for money after he is done. The reactions, I can tell you, are never favourable. People avoid making eye contact with the guitarist much like they would avoid the plague. This is the type of person who you almost want to give money to in hopes that they will go away faster, but then you think better of it because you realize this might just encourage them to sing you another horrible song. Why these people ever think it is a good idea to bother people on the tube with sub-par singing and guitar, I don’t know, but I sure as hell don’t like it, and I don’t think anyone else does either. All know is that the tube has become an important part of my life here in London and I will miss it when we leave soon, kind of.

Week 14 Impressions by Lauren Bryson

There are two things I would like to address in this blog.

1. First is this county’s obsession with football. People will define themselves by what team they support. West Ham to Arsenal, Fulham to Liverpool, you live for your team. It’s kind of like a secret society but not secret and involves lots of yelling. When game day rolls around, you bust out your scarf and migrate to the pub, or if you’re lucky enough, you migrate to the stadium to watch your team. Trying to describe the attachment you feel to your team is really difficult. I remember learning about the power sports teams can have over people in my social psychology class, but now I can really see the spell football can put over people. If you see someone wearing your team scarf walking down the street you will feel an automatic pull towards them, be more inclined to talk to them and maybe want to hug them. In my time here I have held conversations with so many people from so many different walks of life just because of our affinity for Manchester United. It is really an amazing phenomenon I am going to miss a great deal when I get back to the states.

Now, the scenes at the pub on game day are quite possibly one of the most amazing things I have ever experienced. I am used to watching the Premiership on my TV at home in my PJ’s. usually by myself. But here, two teams equals two different groups of fans who will become your best friend if you support the same team, or your worst enemy. There are also different kinds of fans, well different levels I guess. You have the obligatory middle aged men who come to the pub, get completely pissed, and yell obscenities and cheers at the screen. There are the men deep in conversation at the table talking about Schevchenko’s terrible season, who is getting transferred to what team, and what team will really win the Premiership. You have the singers, the chanters, the chuggers, and the just completely outrageous over the top men decked out in their jersey looking like they have actually been playing football because their face is so red from cheering.

My experience with football came to a high point with the arrival of my little sister a couple days ago. She is my other football half and in high school we combined forces to convince my mother to get digital cable so we could watch the Premiership in the states. Our main goal was to go down to Portsmouth and watch Manchester United play. Unfortunately, our goal was blocked by the small obstacle of £300. So I took her to 3 Kings Pub to watch the Manchester United vs. Portsmouth game last Saturday. Apparently, there are not many Manchester United fans that go to 3 Kings to watch them play. More specifically, at 3 Kings that day there were exactly 3 Manchester United fans. Me, my sister, and a man who was born in Manchester. 3 against about 50 Porto fans. In the beginning of the game we were quiet. There is something a bit intimidating about being the minority team when watching football. My ears were full of GO PORTO colliding with WANKERS and the occasional TOSSER whenever Man U got possession of the ball. As time went on, pints were consumed, and slowly you could hear the occasional GOOO MANCHESTERRRR from us in the corner. The other Man U fan caught on and came over and soon we had our own cheering station complete with Rooney chants to the tune of Walking in a Winter Wonderland. You always expect dirty glances from the other side, but they are usually so into their team they don’t really notice you. Or maybe they do and choose not to acknowledge it. It is these experiences that I will cherish when thinking about London. The friends made, the pints consumed, the heated debates held, and most importantly, the different chants learned.

2. Secondly, and most importantly, I did not lose my tube pass during my stay in London.
Great success!

Week 13 Impressions by Katie Burnett

It is 5:00 in the afternoon and the sun is till high. I have just returned from a weekend in Edinburgh and my body feels heavy from the 6-hour train ride, suite style hostel and the Guinness I drank, but I cannot possibly waste this beautiful London afternoon indoors. As I stare longingly outside my flat window, I suddenly ignore my tired body and feel my heart start to pound. Seeing the window of opportunity, I immediately throw on my running shoes, quickly skip down the steps of Metrogate and fly out the front door. My feet start moving at a surprising pace; soon making a quick left onto Queen’s Gate Road I find myself entering the magical land of Hyde Park, eager to lose myself in its enormousness and its convoluted pathways.

As I cross the street, my feet continue to pound. I turn to the right after passing beneath the gated entrance and am immediately blinded by the afternoon sun’s reflection off the Albert memorial. The impressive golden monument stands tall, looming over the young boys playing roller hockey at its base and providing shade for the young lovers lying on the grass pastures to its left.

The sound of slapping sticks pinches my ears so I dodge the puck and move forward. I cross the street leaving Kensington gardens behind me, passing the Diana memorial and its dangerously toxic water, and begin weaving through the pedestrians like a downhill skier on ice. My head starts to pound and my heart continues to race. However, my feet propel forward; there is no stopping in sight.

Next thing I know I am running alongside the lake. Paddleboats contaminate the tranquil waters, but the subtle laughter of children and their splashing about puts me at ease. I continue to surge forward.

Like most sunny days here in London, the park is filled with friends, children, and young lovers. Many of them are walking hand in hand, while scarfing down ice cream cones and popsicles from the overpriced truck that is parked outside the entrance. I pass them all, for my feet do not stop. Cell phone talkers, dog walkers, tourist photographers, Hyde Park attracts them all. It is now 5:20 and I watch as I pass those packing up to return home, wherever that may be.

Me however, I feel as though I am home. Instead of rounding the lake, I return to the running path. My run is my meditation, my own personal afternoon fix. The wind begins to pick up and its song overrides the chattering of voices that soon become distant whisper. Leaves begin to circulate into miniature tornados and dust begins to fly but my feet continue to surge forward.

I squint my eyes to avoid dust and stray from the common running path running along the outskirts of the park and instead pave my own road. I pass through the parks belly. I pass football games left and right—men mostly, but a few women players appear. I think about the man who laughed when I told him I play football, I begin to run faster. I pass a young girl and her dad playing Frisbee with their dog. A surge of nostalgia runs through me but my feet dance onward.

The wind subsides and but the sun remains. I feel sweat begin to trickle down to my cheeks, cold against my hot skin. I continue to move forward. My arms begin to pick up as my legs begin to tire. Pumping left then right then left my body compensates for the rest. I stop at a water fountain to quench my thirst. I see kids frolicking in the fields, their parents watching at a safe distance while engaging in their social outings.

I am now back at the Kensington Gardens entrance. It is 5:45 and I should head back. I wipe the sweat from my temples and run my hand through my jumbled ponytail, knotted from the wind. I slow my pace to a walk and await the individual signal from the oncoming traffic, indicating I can pass. A black cab slows to a stop and I cross over into the garden where we first began our tour in London. I walk by the same lake I walked by on January 9th at group orientation and have since passed countless times during my afternoon walks. This time was different, though. This time I am overwhelmed with a melancholy longing for more time in London. Two weeks is all I have left here. Two weeks is far from enough time.

My feet begin to move again, faster and faster. I run through the rest of Kensington Gardens, across High Street Kensington, and back into Metrogate. It is 6 pm and the run is over, my meditation has come to an end, back to reality. Two weeks, 14 days, 336 hours is all I have left in London. But deep down I know I will return again and my feet will be reunited with the pathways that decorate Hyde Park. I will again get lost in the metropolitan sanctuary.

Week 13 Impressions by Niku Schreiner

I have, for a long time, been a whiskey appreciator. So naturally a visit to Edinburgh would involve an investigation of some of the greatest Scotches and an expected reeducation of my whiskey beliefs. The best way of satisfying my needs was to visit The Scotch Experience. I was given two options for tours. One consisted of a tour and single dram while the other consisted of five drams. For those who don’t know, a dram is 25ml of scotch. One could only guess which one I decided to take.

The tour starts with everyone being given a box for their official whiskey tasting glass and then the glass filled with out first precious dram. As instructed I observed the colour which is given by the cask that it is maturated in; the aroma which can retain scents of fruits, trees, spices, and paint thinner; the body which can be observed by the legs running along the side of the glass; and, of course, the taste where a variety of words can be used. I was able to use my new found skills to analysis and conclude that the scotch that I was holding was absolute crap. I was not surprised to find out that it was Old Smuggler, which some have vague recollection of buying freshman year when in search of a cheap drunk.

After reluctantly finishing the drink, the tour was herded into the next room where we were sat down in church like benches to watch a video that was most likely made in the mid 80’s describing the finer details of how scotch is made. It starts with the malting phase where barely is steeped for four days in large tanks and then spread out along a floor. The barley is then turned regularly over another 12 days before it is ready for the next step. The mashing phase comes next where sugars are dissolved into the concoction. Step three is the fermentation stage where yeast is added to make the whiskey alcoholic. Then comes the distillation phase. During this time the elixir is ran through a spirit still raising the alcohol content to 70 or even 80%. The liquid is then placed in the barrels for the maturation phase where the alcohol will sit for several years losing about 2% alcohol each year. For the contents to be considered scotch it must sit for at least 3 years but often whiskies will sit for 8, 12, 30 or even half a century.

The tour was then shown into a room where a master brewer was going to give us an explanation of blended scotch. However our master brewer was a bad light show with cartoonish styles explaining that a blended scotch was a combination of strong tastes of the single malt and single grain whiskeys to create a more even but pleasant taste.

The next and final stop in the tour was the barrel ride. I held delusions of a splash mountain experience where the water was replaced with scotch but those were soon destroyed by the appearance of a slow jerking plastic barrel leading us through the history of the drink of Scotland. I minded the request to turn off cell phone but the individual in front of me did not causing their barrel to derail: A riveting experience as a whole.

It was now time to try another four drams of scotch which were destined to be better then the first. The first of the new set was a mild Auchentoshan three wood from the Lowlands which contained aromas of sweet & spicy Christmas cake… and the taste was of a rich toffee and dried fruit. Verdict? Tasty.

The next on the list was the Glenmorangie Maderia, a Highland malt whiskey. The taste was of cinnamon and chewy toffee. I was able to detect the toffee but failed to observe where the chewy description was relevant. Verdict? Too sweet but good overall.

The next was a Speyside whiskey: Glenlivet French Oak, aged 15 years. I have had Glenlivet scotches before and the promise of a dry, slight spicy but creamy vanilla was tantalizing. Verdict? Amazing. Definitely one of my favorite whiskies to date.

The last to try was one of the Island malts, Ledaif Sherry, with a described peppery sweetness and lingering smokiness that left me wary of what to expect. Verdict? Vile. It was much like eating a piece of coal and burned like hell when imbibed.

After 5 drams of whiskey I was quite content with the Scotch Experience and was ready to apply my newfound knowledge out on the town.

Week 13 Impressions by Sasha Shybut

As I contemplated issues that press British culture I was not struck with any particular subjects. I have been interested in the gender roles in pubs as I noted the lack of female presence in pubs. However during my travels to Edinburgh I was struck with a more interesting subject. I was taking a ghost tour with the other Lewis and Clark students and found myself perplexed not by the tour but by a Statue that had “End London rule” written in chalk on it. During the tour I could not stop myself thinking about the relations between Scotland and England. I understand the events that have taken place in history; however, out of principle I was confronted with an inherent contradiction. Why were the English and Scottish on better terms than the Irish and Scottish? The Scottish and Irish have a common Celtic background, which would logically bond the two regions however no such political or economic bond exists. After noticing the public display of discontent I become even more interested in the British identity. As the tour ended we ended up passing another public monument that had written on it “Scottish not British”. The public statements were interesting to me in that I have been very interested in British identity as I do have Scottish heritage. I felt unrest due to the public displays of discontent. However I felt inhibited to query my curiosity with the local Scottish, as I did not know what their reaction would yield.

The group of LC kids I was with decided to visit a few pubs the next night, avoiding the touristy streets in attempt to meet locals. As we entered into a pub we found a group of men who were in about their late 30’s who were obviously local Edinburgh residents. The group I was with noticed that they were sitting in an open area and decided to join them. I was at the bar trying to decide what pint I should order when I turned around and found the group mixing with the Scots. I made my way to the table and sat down next to a man named David who oddly reminded me of my grandfather; perhaps this is just due to my grandfather’s Scottish roots. Perhaps it was the odd sense of familiarity, but I felt comfortable to ask David about, in a boiled down sense, Scottish identity and British identity. I quite bluntly asked David if he felt that he or the Scottish are British, and as to my original hunch he said in a non-offensive response that he felt the Scottish were independent of British identity, but rather just Scottish. The conversation was very interesting to me because it included bits of knowledge that I have learned from this semester as well as personal family heritage.

What was really at stake though? A small region in the world that is discontent with a linguistic issue or a region much like any other country strives to define itself for a collective esteem. Ireland is an easy area of concern in terms of trying to identify itself. In the states people clarify where they are from, but adding qualifiers of what type of Americans they are. The UK has been struggling with the diversity of London and the identity of the new English citizens. The borders and lines that exist which are meant to protect citizens of particular regions, to me, have the potential to destroy the humanistic bond that should exist between all. In order to keep things balanced, I do understand the need for belonging in order to help one facilitate one’s life. My curiosity lays in observing the future, and someday being a part of it, not merely a student in observation.

Week 13 Impressions by Andrew Barnes

As everyone knows from previous blogs, my London experience has me travel across a vast expanse of the city to get to work every week. Good old Arnos Grove, a sometime terminus of the eastern Piccadilly line service thereby meaning that it’s in the cuts. An area of absolutely no touristic value. Most people in London probably have never been there and will probably never have a reason to and yet I head for it three times a week. It’s a quaint area. You only have three ticket barriers to the tube, and such modern technologies such as escalators and lifts are nonexistent. I speak of the Arnos because for some odd reason it has come to epitomize my realistic London vision. Not the posh surroundings of Kensington & Chelsea, the glittering lights of Piccadilly Circus, or the drunken debauchery of Covent Garden. I speak to a real London. A place that people call home, an area untrodden upon by countless tourists, a land that has escaped sidewalk 'reversal of fortune' landmines, and a place where you have to mow your lawn.

The Arnos Grove tube puts you out upon a street that I guess you could call their 'high street.' The Amos clearly is clearly a locale of depressed economic status, due to my highly scientific deduction that every other storefront is either a nail place, hairdresser, or dry cleaner. Along this road you also have eateries known thoughtfully to the office as the 'dirty Chinese place', the 'dirty sandwich place', the 'dirty chicken place', the 'seedy Irish bar', and the 'dirty kebab place' due to the high quality of service and cuisine available for sale. Mingled in along the stretch are two specialty Italian and Greek markets which offer an amazing selection of fine quality ethnic specialties. The demographics of the area are clearly multicultural. I mean this place couldn't better represent modern Britain. Here you have in a little stretch of suburban London the current identity crisis of Englishness. Arnos Grove represents this issue in a microcosm. Cuisine, markets, people of every imaginable nationality can be found on my little stretch of suburbia. However, you take not but a five minute walk north of this street and enter a transport to middle England. An area called 'The Green'. Home to a real ale pub called the 'Ye Old Cherry Tree', a cricket club, an ancient Anglican Church with a secret garden, and grass tennis courts. This place screams English. You know, that tea, fish & chips, cheerio-type environment. The English-ness and whiteness is palpable. Even though the economic status of nail and hair places are found in both locales, you couldn't be in two more different areas. On one side you have modern multicultural Britain, and on the other traditional Britain. The division is immediately apparent, and a complete realization of a multitude of our classes. My weekly trips to the Arnos have been a constant reminder that the issues of nationality and immigration are manifest outside the dialog of academia. I will once again head out to Arnos Grove this week eagerly awaiting the adult ice cream truck, and do my best to support every ethnic community in the neighborhood, not only because I believe they deserve to be in Britain, but its the also the best way to stretch my five pounds for lunch.

Week 13 Impressions by Steve Fisher

To celebrate the upcoming end of our semester abroad, our LC class was treated to a few days in Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland. I had already been to Edinburgh once before with Niku during spring break, so it wasn’t completely new. Still, we had not explored the city thoroughly, and we were all looking forward to the opportunity to go somewhere new, especially somewhere far away from smoggy, familiar London. And what better place for a change from southern England than Scotland?

Our journey began on the morning of Saturday the 31st of March. We took the Tube to get to the train at King’s Cross. Some people left early in the morning so they could explore Edinburgh a little. I thought they were a bit too keen, and slept in, catching a later train along with most other people. The train ride itself was very long (thank God for iPods), and as I had made it before the scenery was not quite as fascinating as it might have been. Still, it was nice to see nothing but green farmland after having spent so long in the city. My companions, not to be named here, took full advantage of Britain’s lack of open-container laws, while I, feeling a little cold coming on, chose not to indulge. Yet.

We arrived in Edinburgh late in the afternoon, although the sun was still out. It was gorgeous weather; I only needed a sweatshirt instead of my usual sketchy ensemble of orange sweatshirt and bulky, black jacket.

When those of us who have a more pessimistic approach to life heard Tom mention the name of the place in which we would be staying, we took particular note of the word “Backpackers,” and immediately guessed the worst; a youth hostel. Some of our group, who have more hopeful dispositions, heard Tom say hotel, and were sorely disappointed upon arriving at what was unmistakably a very big hostel.

That night was our only night of free stuff. We got a free dinner, not at Pizza Express, which was booked, but at a little Italian place which wasn’t bad. There, we also received tickets for a free bus tour of Edinburgh, to be enjoyed on our own time. After that we got a ghost tour, led by a short, slightly insane guide, who seemed to enjoy whipping Tom and Alex a bit too much. (I’m not complaining, though; that was the funniest thing I’ve seen in a long time.) After our guide finished describing the gory details of some of Edinburgh’s more famous crimes and punishments from long ago (with her eyes popping slightly out of her head), she led us down into what was once an underground lair of some sort for those who couldn’t afford to live above the ground: supposedly the most haunted place in Britain. I saw no ghost; the only times I felt nervous were around the guide, who seemed to find it amusing to scream at random moments, making much of the group jump out of their shoes. Thespians. Go figure.

The next day Maura, Sasha, Niku, Alex, and I went for a long, enjoyable walk through the city. The rest of the group got the bright idea to find the highest peak in Edinburgh and climb it, much to my dismay. I’m not what you’d call an active person, and the thought of climbing a big hill was not at all to my taste. Still, I did it, muttering to myself the entire way (in between gasps of breath), and I must say I’m glad I did it. The view was amazing, even if the wind almost blew me off the hill. We came down from the hill and got lunch at a pub. Before you shudder at the thought of pub food, this was not your typical dark, smoky pub. For one thing, Scotland does not allow smoking indoors, so pubs are much more enjoyable. Secondly, it was very well lit, and thirdly the food was superb, as was the beer.

After this we went on the whisky tour (minus Maura) and learned about the process of brewing Scotch, and all the different kinds. I know nothing about whiskey, and less than nothing about Scotch whiskey in particular, so this was a very educational experience for me. I learned that I do not really enjoy the Island Scotches, which have too smoky a flavor for me, but the rest were drinkable, if not as enjoyable as a good Bourbon.

I will make no mention of that night; partly because I am ashamed and partly because I can’t remember much of it (for some reason). What I know is that we met a nice Russian girl at the hostel and proceeded to drink wine with dinner, followed by several pubs. You get the idea.

The next day was our last day in Scotland. Most people again left early (the train ride is quite long), but Sasha, Maura, and I stayed for a few hours, enjoying the French market and the big park in the middle of the city. We tried to go on our free bus tour, but, in a cruel twist of fate, the buses absolutely refused to stop for us. This was annoying; one of the few activities LC provided for us was apparently beyond our reach. After a few hours in the sunshine it really was time to go, and we got on the train, sitting next to a nice guy from London who was obviously a junkie of some kind. (I’m not kidding. The poor guy was literally shaking. Still, nice dude). Sasha and Maura played gin rummy with cards of a mortifying nature (or hilarious, depending how you look at it) while I listened to my beloved iPod. We knew we were back in London when we couldn’t see any green anywhere.