Tuesday 30 September 2008

Okay, so maybe it's time for some reflection. The last time I was on here, I was writing with a vindictive vigour and slurping away on that half bottle of £2.99 wine left other from two nights before. Not good. Yes, I was irate about being asked not to return to a temping job (temping I tell you, temping!!), but in retrospect, it was no big deal. I say that now.

Friday was that verbal vom night (enhanced, as all things are, with booze). Saturday I pretended that I was fine, everything in my life was fine, and I got together with my SAfriend and N, (a friend from back in the UC days who is now doing a masters) to a delicious sushi meal and a few casual drinks after. We laughed about what happened (or at least I tried to), and it actually turned out to be a good night. Then Sunday rolls around. Sunday was a black day...a day of soul crushing, self-imposed loathing and utter self-inflicted revolt that I seem to put myself through 2 or 3 times a year. Apparently Sunday was time number 2.

Here's what happened: Scottie made the innocent request that I spend time with him a little that day rather than see SAfriend again since we had both been working all week (with me going to bed a few hours before him), and we only really had Sunday to be with each other. And for some reason, something in me broke. There really isn't any way to describe it, other then it was like my insides were caving down upon themselves and I suddenly felt like the biggest failure at life ever. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and cry (which I did, and which later turned into hyperventilating). So I hid in bed for a few hours just crying my soul out over how I felt like such a worthless husk of space, how I couldn't do anything right, how I had no purpose in life...it was bad. And all the while, my poor boyfriend was doing everything he could to coax me out from under the covers and talk (from asking, to begging, to demanding, to tempting...), but I just felt like nothing I had to say was worthwhile. Eventually he physically grabbed me up and plonked me on the couch, threatening to call an ambulance if I didn't stop hyperventilating. If I know one thing, it's that I'm not worth an ambulance call, so I took out the bottle of Rescue Remedy that I'd hidden and managed to get my breathing back in order. After a cup of tea, I began to start feeling human again.

Now I don't want to sound like all of this crazy black mood stuff was due to being asked not to return to work- normally, while something like that would certainly bum me out, I would never go all ape crazy. Instead, I think I have to put it down to a whole mix of things; the sun setting at 5 (soon to be 4), my week of early rises, and my non adjusted mental clock, that I have been thinking a lot about careers, jobs, life, and that my monthly visitor is only a week away. So I guess this depression has been building up, and when mixed with anxiety, it coalesced into something big.

During all this, my boyfriend was absolutely wonderful. He kept telling me that I really shouldn't be worried. That the temp agency would call me on Monday and I would have a job again. That I was really unhappy at BG and that maybe this was all for the best after all. And I hate to admit it, but he was right. Sure enough, Monday comes along and I get a call at 9:00 asking me to do reception at an NHS office. I go there, and they LOVE ME. The head of HR even compliments me on my excellent phone manner. They give me a lot more responsibility and it's good for me because now I actually have something to do all day- booking taxis, booking rooms, booking computers...easy. I still don't want to do reception my whole life, but at least I am happier working at the NHS (the free nationalised heathcare service) than at the corperate conglomerate. Which just really goes to show that I am not cut out for the world of consumption and greed, but rather public service, where at least I feel that good is getting done.

So new week, new job, new attitude...and I even got to catch some sun as I walked home!

Friday 26 September 2008

Okay, I know that a few days ago (quite possibly yesterday), I was going on about my loathing of reception work. Well, I have been doing that particular job for over a week, so now it's Friday. I finish up, get ready to leave, and notice that I have a missed call on my cell phone. Oh look, a voice mail. It's from the temp agency saying that my services at Baillie Gifford (yes, I'm saying it now) will no longer be needed. So the whole bus ride home I'm thinking in my head of what possibly went wrong. I know that they do in fact still need another receptionist for another two weeks. I thought I was doing well at the job- hell today I even made and ENTIRE list of ALL the employees and who their secretaries were so that I could connect the person on the line to someone else if the person they were after was busy. Was it because I was online all the time? No, the other secretaries were freaking buying jewellery on e-bay all the time and looking at pictures. I really couldn't figure it out.

Then I get home and read my email (since I am not allowed gmail access from Fascist I mean Baillie Gifford) to find an e-mail from the temp agency. Apparently, while they thought I was ‘lovely’, I was apparently ‘a bit too quiet for the role and lacked initiative.’

HOLD UP!

The quiet thing I can understand. True, I am not very vocally dominant and don’t talk to strangers in a loud, obnoxious, voice. Nor do I sit around all day talking in a voice that all the people waiting in the waiting room can hear, thus inviting them against their will into the conversation of how delicious your Marks and Spencers two for £10 meal was last night. Fine. I’m okay with being on the quiet side.

BUT LACKED INITIATIVE??!?!?!?

I’m sorry that I haven’t failed enough at life to be a receptionist at Baillie Gifford for the past 16 years. I’m sorry that I don’t have all 600 employees memorised and know all their job titles, their team members, and who to direct an enquiry towards for personal pensions. But does that mean I lacked INITIATIVE?!?!
I asked questions about things I didn’t understand- did you hear me ever repeating a question? NO, because I learned from it the first time. I think that looks like initiative.

FOR G** Flipping Mother F***ing sake, I spent an hour TYPING UP ALL THE EMPLOYEES AND THEIR SECRETARIES so that I would know who to send a caller to in the event that the person they were after was in a meeting. INITIATIVE!

It’s not my fault that the computer system, logged in as a temp, won’t let me place room bookings or book taxis, but I still do all the work for it for YOU to enter into the computer system. Maybe you should FIX THE TEMP SETTINGS so that I could actually help out.

All this said and done, I think I did FREAKING GREAT my first week because I sent everyone to the people they asked for, learned how to use a switchboard within the hour, booked taxis even though I couldn’t enter them in the database, and only asked for help when I really needed it after not being able to find the information myself with the means I was given.

Baillie Gifford, I hope that this current financial crisis destroys your company, because obviously a company like yourselves should not be allowed to succeed when you fail to see the amount of initiative from your staff (AND TEMPS!!!)

Interesting facts here- yesterday I was railing on about my lack of career focus, how much I don't want to be doing reception, and how I silently long for lives experienced by more interesting people. Apparently I am not the only one. In the paper today, it is said that '... January 2008 found that almost seven million Britons in their twenties are deeply unhappy with their lives an duder intense pressure to succeed in jobs, finances and relationships.' Seven Million?!?!?! I had no idea Britan even had that many twentysomethings. So at least I'm not alone. Bad news is (since apparently I alway have to be the one who cynically sees things half empty) is that now I have to compete against SEVEN MILLION others for happy, successful jobs. Bah.

In other, happier news, IT'S FRIDAY!!! I managed to convince that man of mine (from here on named Scottie, like the dog) that he really wanted to treat me to a large sushi dinner. Proper sushi is pretty rare in Edinburgh, with an actual japanese restaurant opening up last year (note- not so delicious), and an AMAZING sushi restaurant opening close by to us just soon after. And it is AWESOME! Unlike the other place, they have rolls. Nothing as imaginative as the ones found in cali, but still, I take what I can get.

Then one of my best friends is coming in to town to visit. SAfriend (as she is from South Africa) is coming in Saturday night for (maybe more sushi), possibly a movie, and hopefully drinks, if I can convince her that she really isn't doing this not drinking thing.

Yay for weekend playtime!

Thursday 25 September 2008

For the next two weeks, you'll be getting a lot of blogs from me...like a lot a lot. This is due to the fact that I am currently temping as a receptionist and have way tooooo much free time on my hands. AND am blocked from a plethera of time consuming sites. I mean, facebook I can understand because a lot of employees might be using it for nonconstructive purposes, but gmail?!?! Seriously?!?! I can't even check my e-mail? While no one has told me the reason for this, I assume it has to do with the fact that I work for a big time investment corporation and they might be a little scared of their employees sending inside information that they can't monitor or trace...but then again I can blog, so maybe security isn't the reason after all. That being said, being here (for only 4 days now) has made me realise some inner life relevations:

1) I don't want to be a receptionist. EVER. I should be the person the receptionist connects a caller to, not the one who sits all day mindlessly next to the phone, waiting to get the chance to say 'Good morning/afternoon, B***** G*****,...one moment please while I direct your call.' No. I graduated Phi Beta Kappa and Cum Laude from a top ranked American university, and have a masters from a prestigious British one-I so do not want to spend my life doing this. Unfortunately, reception is all the temp agency thinks I am capable of at the moment, and I don't want to get a 'settled' job just now because I still need to get my legal work visa in December. The overwhelming boredom, coupled with the now insider knowledge of how much I don't want my life to turn into this and has caused me to (a) stalk people through their blogs and (b) read about how others have real jobs and ambitions. This has led to inner life relevation 2.

2) That I don't have a frickkin idea of what I am going to do in life. Up until now, this hasn't bothered me. For the past 6 years I have had a pretty relaxed attitude with my life ambitions, resolutely believing that I'd just 'fall into something' after graduation. Afterall, everyone (my parents, my friends' parents, etc...) all told me of how they ended up doing something completely unrelated to their major (apart from my dad), and how everything worked itself out. So what if you're an Art History major, Archaeology minor? You'll be fiiiiiiiiiine. Then after graduating and moving to the UK for 6 months in the hopes that someone would hire me, (supporting my visa, and allowing for me to continue working in the UK) FAILED to produce any said visa...I decided to run away back to school. Now with another diploma under my belt, I still have no job and no idea what I want to do. It doesn't help that I am reading copious blogs about very successful women no older than myself. One just got hired by an awesome, high paying, health care giving private company, another owns her own boutique, and hands full of others are pursuing high paying jobs in law and medicine.

And this makes me sick to my stomach. Why?

Because I am a constant compare-er. I know this is a major character flaw, but I can't help but constantly compare myself to others about everything- intelligence, fashion, weight, shoes, jobs, love, happiness, IQ...you name it. And after reading a few of these blogs, I look at myself and all I see is failure. It also doesn't help that there are loads of young girls where I'm temping who either did the graduate training scheme or are on it now, and I can't help but think to myself that I should be one of them, even though I really don't see myself as an investment manager-accountant-equity-risk assessor. But I am envious of their suits and that they are not sitting at reception.

When asked what I want to do, I seriously have NO idea. I'll vaguely mention heritage because I did history, but honestly, I have no idea what that entails.

Here is my want list in order of importance:
1) Something that makes me excited to go to work each day
2) That helps people/society
3) That requires some form of problem solving/creative thinking
4) Something with change- I am SICK of monotonous jobs and want something that incorporates some form of change
5) Good working conditions/staff- yay for friendliness, boo to stuck upedness, rudeness, and office bickering
6) Benefits! I HATE being uninsured when I go back to the States and not having dental coverage
7) Travel- optional, not required, but preferable. I LOVE traveling, especially if someone else is paying for it. Plus, I would help feed my technology craving for fun little gadets that obviously I would need if I wanted to get any work down traveling (small ASUS web computer, I am talking to you).

I read in one blog that one person is pursuing a career in intelligence. Hmmm...that got me thinking...Criminal Intelligence...helping to put the baddies away by researching and investigating their crimes, patterns, profiles...

This leads to revelation numero 3
3) That I will most likely have to go back to school. Again. While I like going to school and learning new things, particularly if they'll lead to a better job, what I don't like is paying for it. Again. As if milking my poor grandma dry to pay for grad school wasn't enough. As if milking my parents dry for my undergrad education wasn't enough. Nope, this is something I'll have to pay for myself, and that will require probably a year or two of monotonous suffering and a few night/internet courses to meet the pre-recs. And who knows, maybe after spending all my saved up money to learn about intelligence, I won't want to do it anymore and will be looking for something else.

It's freak out times like these that I sometimes wish our world was controlled a la The Giver style.

Monday 22 September 2008

I'm not sure if this happens to anyone else while either traveling or living abroad, but I find that I can't help being constantly reminded that I'm foreign. This normally isn't a problem when I'm traveling abroad because I'm obviously traveling- but when you've been living in a foreign city for more than a year (or two, or three), you can't help but want to fully acclimate yourself and sharpen the distinction between you and that obnoxious group of baseball cap, bin liner bag poncho wearing yanks over there who say embarrassingly loud things about the country and the people in the middle of the street. However, doing so has led me into sometimes uncomfortable spots that are completely my fault.

The accent: Now, I don't want to brag, but I can put on a pretty convincing accent, both English and Scottish, but English is by far easier. And it's something I tend to do only when speaking to other locals because let's face it, I sometimes get embarassed about my nationality. A lot. This seems to be fine when I'm dealing with the guy at the cafe or the woman in the shop- people I will never have to see again but for reasons unknown want to apprear local towards. Then there are those who I get thrust in a conversation with even though I know I will never see again. This is a bit more tricky, because if I use the accent, things go fine until the awkward moment where they ask where I'm from, and I have to either fess up or lie. When I fess up and say 'California', I get met with a surprised looked, almost always followed by 'Really? I couldn't place your accent, but I'd never guess American,' or ' Wow, you don't have a very strong accent, have you lived here long?' This again leads me to lie and say 'aye, about 4 years,' or come across as a weirdo who has only really be in the country for about two years and shouldn't have picked up the accent at all. Although honestly, there have been times, like when visiting the wee museum on Mull when I just lied and said I was from 'Edinburgh,' no questions asked.

I know, it's stupid, but I have to either continue the accent lie or get called out on it to wallow in embarrassment. But another factor is that I panic. Sometimes it's easier to lie when panicking than to just be honest. Take today for example.

I have an hour off to lunch and went up the road for a Quiznos sandwich. I've not had Quiznos since highschool and thought giving it a try in Scotland would interesting. I go up to the counter, order, pay, and sit down. Just as I'm finishing my ridiciously pricey meal ($10!!! For a sandwich?!?!), the man who made it came over to clean the surrounding tables and have a chat.
'Do you like your sandwich?'
'Yes, thank you.'
'Have you been to Quiznos before?'
Quick, what do you say? 'Yes, in the capitalistic country that invented chain stores and mass consumer culture', 'No, never.' Crap, pick one.
'Err, yes.'
'Oh, where?'
'London.' What? London? You've never had Quiznos in London! You're lying!
'Oh, are you from London?'
Crap, now you've done it. Don't mess it up, be truthful.
'No, California.'
'Oh, California. They have a lot of Quiznos over there.'
'Yeah.'
AHHHHHHHHH. I know that there is no shame in going into a place like Quiznos or Subway or Starbucks in the UK, but for some reason, I hate myself for doing it. It's as though these places exist to cater to the horde of American tourists who want a sense of the familiar in a far away local. I don't want to be discovered for what I really am in one of those corporate chain cancers, especially after trying to hard to distance myself from the image of the visitor.

It doesn't make it any easier when you leave the shop, only to be met with 'Oh look, Frank, they have Subway over here,' or 'Thank God, a Starbucks! I am totally craving a Frap!' from the bumbag/camera wearing tourist who has abruptly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, obscuring foot traffic, and causing many hateful scowls from those trying to get by. Myself included.

Wednesday 17 September 2008

So I met with the temp agency lady today, and voila! Instant job...working in a BIG SCARY CORPORATE OFFICE OF DEATH!!! EEEEEEK! I figure that I'll pick up the stuff like Microsoft Office easy enough (have a wee bit of experience with that), but this whole business of using a switchboard scares the crap out of me. I already failed 'How to use Phones with Buttons 101' so the idea of me working a switchboard is paralysing. But enough of all this scary being employed stuff (although thankfully it's only for 3 weeks), in other news, I have no hair anymore.

Do you every just wake up one day and go, 'Huh, I want a change...maybe cutting off all my hair would be a good idea'? No? Well then maybe you have more sense than me. I've been flipping this idea in my mind for about a week and phoned up on Monday for the soonest appointment. I've been letting my hair grown since August, aka the last time I was in a hairdressers and had them chop off what was then quite long into a mid-neck bob. This meant that my hair from top to end was about foot and 5 inches long.

I ran into the haridresser's after my interview with the temp agency with seconds to spare, but it naturally being Edinburgh, ended up waiting about 15 minutes. This gave me time to stroke my fingers through my hair for the last time...to think about that one time my friend braided it...and how I completely failed to be able to braid it myself. In fact, for having long hair a majority of my life, I am astonishingly bad at styling it. I drool in envy of those who have the ability to braid their own hair. Seeing someone being able to whip their hair up into an impromptu messy bun makes me want to kick a small child in frustration, and witnessing someone using chopsticks or even the humble pencil to pin their hair up sends me into a dark desire to use their chopstick/pencil/stick as an eye extraction tool if they don't reveal unto me the secrets of how such seemingly simple hair feats are done. If it's that easy, why can't I ever do it?!?! EVER!?!?!

But when you look around, the majority of girls here have long hair- hair they take time to style, to straighten, to curl, to fix with assorted products, and while I wish in my soul that I had the time and patience to play with my hair every day, the fact of the matter is that I would still fail, even if I had years to play around with it. So there I was, lost in thought about the pros and cons of hair and how long it would take for my hair to grow back after I had it cut, when the hairdresser called my name. I sat in the chair and showed her a picture of a short Katie Holmes bob- after she was brainwashed into the super straight bob with massive fringe, but way before she was talked into getting it suuuuuper short...

The hairdresser looked at me with a somewhat maniacal smile and said 'you're sure? That's like 8 inches...you're sure?' 'Yeah, yeah, I need a change. Chop it off.' And off it came. Now, I won't say it doesn't look anything like the picture, but I can't decide if I look a little too much like John Denver than any person in the 21st century should. I have to admit- it's short. And shows quite a lot of face. I can no longer hide behind my long tresses. I'm hoping that it will look better in the morning, but I just washed it and it's dry already...and not looking any better.

But hey, hair grows. In two months, it will be a perfect length and I'm sure I'll love it. In the mean time, I'll have to do my best to not look like an 15th century page boy (even though page boys probably had longer hair), and hopefully no one at the new corporate job office hell will mistake my sex.

xx

EDIT: Okay, I think I like my hair a little more now...It's taking a while to get used to, but I think I'm making it work.

Saturday 13 September 2008

We arrived in Fionnphort at around 10:15 and caught the 10:30 ferry over to the Isle of Iona. The ferry ride was pretty rocky despite the relatively calm looking waters. We landed on Iona in 10 minutes, and then headed off to see the sites. Iona is thought of as the birthplace of Christianity for Britain due to a man named St. Columba, although there is some dispute over whether he was responsible for bringing Christianity to the Picts, or if it already existed in those parts and he just helped it along. Regardless, Iona is a religious site that owes its Abbey to him. St. Columba was a Christian monk born in Ireland in the 500 AD area. Word is he got in a dispute over a psalter and ended up being exiled to Iona, where he forced the Picts/Druids over into Christianity (or word has it, buried them alive if they didn't convert).
This is a picture of the Nunnery on Iona, now turned into a garden.
And this is the Abby of Iona. Although I'm sure having the Abbey full of randy monks next door to a nunnery of randy nuns led to some interesting times on the island.
This cross is from 800 AD!Here is the Abbey. It's been redone numerous times.


These are some of the grave markers that were moved inside for conservation. A ship represented power, since those who controlled the waters also controlled the land. Archaeologists believe that this grave marker belonged to a king.
The beaches on Iona were also lovely...cold, but lovely to look at. I have spent my whole life no more than a 15 min drive from the ocean, and I have no idea who people in places like Kansas can live being landlocked. We ended up winging it after Iona. The bus took us back to Craignure, and we got on the ferry 5 minutes later. We arrived in Oban slightly after 5 and found that the tourist information centre was closed and the hostel I was planning on staying in was full up. We ended up finding a one star hostel that Barbie was extremely hesitant of entering, but before we had a chance to decide if we wanted to stay there or move on, an erratic German lady came busting out asking if we were the two girls who had just enquired about the hostel. That pretty much sealed the deal. I personally thought the hostel was rather nice- free contental breakfast, we ended up with a room to ourselves, and honestly, I've been in dirtier showers. Barbie was scared to sleep under the covers and said she felt dirtier after staying there than before we went in.

This is the lovely Oban from the top of a tower lookout point. Actually, Oban isn't very lovely at all. But at least the beer there was cheaper than anywhere else we've been! Righty, well, that was the trip in a nutshell. For more pictures, you can check out my photos

xx

I don't know how long these things can be, but I'm breaking the blog up into bits because the next half of the trip is when things get more interesting. Anyway, the sun was *attempting* to shine, the birds were singing, and I was in a mood for some fresh air. I love hiking, and luckily I managed to find a country that considers 'hill-walking' a normal, popular past time. The walk from Torosay to Durat is roughly 3 miles, a distance I know I can easily do in less than an hour. My travel companion, on the other hand, has never had to walk more than a mile in her life, and was much more wary.


I'm not sure if you can see it, but Durat Castle is the wee splodge on the right hand side on that little jetty of land. Anyway, I wasn't going to let Barbie let me down, so I gave her a friendly, 'come on, it will be fun and burn off those calories from the pub' smile, and started out. However, before we had even gone two miles, a friendly car of Spanish tourists pulled over and offered us a ride. And I know I'm being horrible, but I have to take a moment here to be smug. Barbie (as I think I will call her from now on) always makes a point to prove how Mexican she she. I'm not sure if it's an L.A. thing, or what, but she is always spouting things off about her Mexican roots, throwing lots of heavily accented Spanish words into normal conversation, and talking about how in her culture you do this, that, can't do this, yada yada...so I couldn't help but smirk when the Spanish driver asked 'habla espaƱol?' and Barbie replied 'un poco.' Then the driver went on in Spanish, and all Barbie could do was stare blankly.
Anyway, besides calling Barbie out on her lack of Spanish, despite being so hardcore Mexican (although none of the Mexicans I know own Prada, Gucci, Channel, a boat, or take taxis to go two miles), the Spanish couple were really lovely and we appreciated them for offering us a ride. It really made me wish that one of my friends who studied abroad in Spain was here to translate...and on that note, I want to take a second here to reflect on something a friend of mine observed. She felt that growing up in Orange country, although I would like to extend that to Southern California in general, raised people to be accustomed to comfort beyond what exists in 99% of the rest of the world. Such circumstances, she argued, produced one of two outcomes. Some were raised to crave a life of material luxury, involving the perennial search for Beemers, frappuccinos, and pedicures, while the rest, who she felt were the lucky ones, grew up to spend their adult years pursuing simplicity, as if to shed the layers of excesses they were born unto. (see here for citation) Being in the presence of Barbie made me see how true this observation is. Having gone to school in Southern California, I made a large handful of friends who hailed from the OC and LA, but even though they shared a common location with Barbie, their ideology is completely different, and I have to say, while Barbie is a nice girl and I enjoy the odd night out with her, I cherish my SoCal friends even more knowing how awesome they are to have realised that there is more to life than having to own designer labels. And all this is making me homesick for those friends and wishing that they were here to go traveling with. Anyway, enough ranting and moaning.

We arrived at Durat castle, one of the most defensive fortresses in the Isles. was originally built in the mid thirteenth century, but underwent heavy renovations in the 1920s to make it more of a home, including the thinning down of the 15ft thick wall to accommodate for a 'modern' kitchen. It was one of those castles I love, with fake mannequins, plastic food, and recreated scenes inside to help give visitors a taste of what it was like way back yonder.
This is the view from the top of the castle. We weren't allowed to take any pictures inside the castle, but loads of people were anyway. I managed to control my desire and be good for once.
Anyway, we decieded to catch a coach back to Craignure for the ridicious price of £4...and this is where the rest of the day gets more interesting. Because we had arrived early in the morning to catch the little itty bitty train to Torosay, we hadn't had time to properly check into our 'hostel' and had left our bags at the reception. We gathered our bags and our £2 bag of bedding and went off to see what it was like. *Note- When shown on the map where our tent was, Barbie stared in horror and asked if there was anything closer. There wasn't. When asked about safety, she was told that since it was a tent, all there was were two zippers. She then preceded to freak out about robbers, rapists, and stalkers.

The tent was actually not that bad at all. It was tall enough so that you could stand, it was secured into the ground atop a tile and rug floor, so no water could flood it, and best of all, it had cots and electricity inside! Now to me, camping is more like roughing it, and I freaking love camping! When I was little, we would always go camping, but since we always had the cheap tents from Target, they would flood if it rained, we always got bugs trapped inside, and no matter how careful we were, dirt and leaves always managed to find a way inside the tent and often inside our sleeping bags. Now the funny thing is that Barbie and I talked about this on the train ride up. She made sure to emphasise how outdoorsy she was, how they would always go camping and hiking in the summer, and how she really was a tomboy despite what other people may think about her. Anyway, we walk the 250 meters to our tent, unzip it, and Barbie stops dead. 'Oh you have got to be kidding me! Is this a joke?' 'What?' I replied, this is like 100 times better than camping! We get hot showers and even electricity!' And then she says it- 'I always camped with hot showers and electricity- oh my god, is that a BUG?!?!' It took all I had not to bust up laughing. In my world, camping is anything but having electricity. Sure, you have your flashlights, maybe a lantern, and your gas stove. Luxury camping is when you get to park your car next to your camp site so you can bring whatever you want for food (and drink), and don't have to carry it more than 10 miles.
Suffice it to say, we didn't stay there again after that night. Barbie said that she would rather wing it in Oban than stay another day on Mull as we had planned, so the next morning, we got all our possessions together, packed them away, and decided to take the early bus down to Fionnphort, ferry over to Iona, see the sites, then ferry it over to Oban for the evening. We were, however, treated to a very lovely dawn at 7am that morning that made putting up with Barbie's moans almost worth it all.

And I'm back! After four days of being in a state of almost constant sleep deprivation, I finally back in Edinburgh with pictures aplenty. The day began for me at 5:40 am. After sleep-walking though my breakfast and getting ready, I kissed my boyfriend good bye and headed out the door to walk to the train station. Fortuitously for me, it was at that exact moment that a taxi pulled up and my travel companion opened the door, motioning me inside. I was well prepared for the walk in the morning to wake me up some more, but you don't turn down fate like that, so I jumped in- besides, she was paying.

We get down to the station and because of the quicker taxi ride, have half an hour to kill before our train arrives. However, I'm a bit wary, since our intended train would only give us a 9 minute layover at the station, and with British trains being what they are, I felt 9 minutes was cutting it close, so I convince my friend to get on the next train, giving us 20 mins. at Glasgow. We get to Glasgow, my friend goes off to buy her breakfast (Burger king chicken sandwich meal deal that filled the whole train car with the aroma when she tucks into it), and soon we are off.

The train ride from Glasgow to Oban is incredible. I always like taking trains because not only are they still a novelty to me, they are also more scenic, less cramped, and just all around more magical than the bus.This is what the day looked like as we made the 4 hour train journey to Oban. Along the way, we passed some lovely lochs, forested glens, and glistening green hills. We finally arrived in Oban at around 12:30. Everything relating Oban and the Isles is symbiotic, which makes everything work out very nicely when there are no delays. The train arrives in Oban 10 minutes before the Ferry leaves for Mull. The buses in Craignure, the ferry terminal 'village' wait for the ferry to arrive before leaving, and arrive at the ferry terminal 10 minutes before the ferry leaves.
The ferry ride over from Oban to Mull is just as lovely as the train ride, but much shorter (only 45 mins). However, the ferry snakes pasts many of the much smaller isles, and we were treated to beautiful images of lighthouses, fort ruins, and endless rising mountains shrouded in the clouds. Apparently the Sound of Mull is chockablock full of marine life, including 4 different kinds of porpoise, humpback whales, orcas, basking sharks, sea otters, and seals. They apparently were all on holiday because we never saw any.

We arrived in Craignure and immediately jumped on the bus to Tobermory, the so called 'Capital of Mull' because it has the largest population on the island (aprox.700). Tobermory is a very quaint little town that you can tell caters to the tourists. Either that or the people in Mull have a deep obsession with scented soap, because there were soap shops everywhere selling about 500 different kinds of soap, from lavender bars, to heather scented soap on a rope. They also had this amazing bakery that sold fresh bread for the same price as a store bought loaf, and had super delicious baked goods.The town is split between the main street, which is one long street of coloured buildings, and the residential area, which is up this massively steep hill and over looks the town. It is no wonder that even though everyone in the viliage seems to get their dinner from the Fish & Chip van and follow it up with a few pints at the pub, they still have amazingly tight butts and thighs- who needs a stairmaster when you have to haul yourself up 400 meters of a 45 degree hill? Besides burning calories, it also affords lovely views of the town below and the harbour.We stayed one night in Tobermory, then caught the 9:30 bus down to Craignure, where my friend had managed to find us accommodation. Which turned out to be tents. We were given a little tent with two cots in it, and had to pay £2 for bedding, which turned out to be a sheet, and 3 blankets...but more on this later. We were in a rush to catch the little train which went from Craignure to the 'castle' Torosay. I say 'castle' because it is really a stately home. Castles are built for defense, and this was definately built for beauty. The amazing thing about Torosay Castle is the freedom visitors are given to explore. You can open the books in the library, sit in all the chairs, and poke around in all the little nooks and crannies.
All of it was very stunning, and the gardens of the estate went on for acres and acres trying to mix in a variety of different styles. The major one, popular in the 18th century, was classicism, so Grecian columns and statues dominated grounds.

We were incredibly lucky and even though the forecast had predicted heavy rain for the entire week, it only really came down a few times. The day we visited Torosay was overcast, but nice, and we figured we would be adventurous and walk to the nearby Durart Castle. Durat castle is a 11th century castle built as one of the most defensive castles in the Isles. It is also still the currant residance of the Clan Chief of clan the MacLean, a nice old man who greeted visitors in the gallery.

Continue the fun in part two!

Monday 8 September 2008



This is it, the night before my mini-holiday. I got my little backpack packed and ready, the same one I used in college, and my travel companion has completely filled her 65kg backpacking pack. For a 4 day, 3 night mini holiday. She has also informed me that she has waxed her arms for this trip, I assume in the hopes of meeting Mr. Right...who obviously will be a rural Island man with a deep abhorrence for arm hair.

I've always considered myself a tomboy, and growing up, I don't think I was every very clean. I always wanted to hang out with the boys and do interesting things like see who could climb the highest tree, dig the deepest trench, and eat the most mud. As I got older, I got jealous of my 9 year old little brother's Boy Scout troupe, and figured that if I just bought the Eagle Scout manual, I would know everything Eagle Scouts knew before any of those little twerps even made it to middle school. And if I have to brag, I know how to make a damn good fire, rain or shine, even if it means my face soon resembles a miner from 1958. Hell, I even backpacked 60 miles last summer and camped in a scary ass forest next to the trail, filled with bugs of death and growling, grunting, wild boars. And it was all in the rain, I might add! But enough of this, the point is that I am going with little miss Barbie- someone who has never eaten out of a can, can't leave her hair straighteners behind, and thinks walking more than two blocks is an effort.

So off I go! Wake up call at 5:50, train departure at 7:15, arrival on the island at 3, and up to our hostel by 4. It's gonna be a loooooooong day.

xx

Saturday 6 September 2008

The weekend after handing over that bound, 67 page dissertation fell on one of the fortnightly dinners with my boyfriends parents. While we all sat down to one of the few authentic and delicious Chinese meals in Edinburgh, I was naturally bombarded with thousands of questions about where my life was now heading. 'Erm...,' I paused in between bites of beef with garlic sauce, 'well, I only handed my dissertation in 2 days ago, and haven't really thought much beyond that.' 'Well,' by boyfriend's dad replied, 'you should have a wee holiday. You've worked so hard all year, you deserve a few weeks off to rest and enjoy yourself.' And boy did I plan to.

The following two weeks, as was expected, was spent consuming large amounts of alcohol and pretending that it was well deserved or that since this was the last time everyone from our course would be together, we might as well go out guns blazing on a major rager. But honestly, two weeks is enough for me. I'm not what you would call a workaholic, but I get antsy when there is nothing to be done...and so far, when I am not recovering from the night before, I am puttering around the house looking for something- anything- to do: wash all the dishes, dust all the furniture, scrub all the mould from the shower, wash the windows, iron every article of cloth that exists, etc, etc, etc. And all the while, while at least one of my old coursemates is busy recovering from the night before by planning the same night out and complaining about her dwindling funds, I am secretly applying for as many jobs as I can find.

The depressing aspect about my degree is how utterly useless it is in life. While my boyfriend studied infectious diseases in the hopes of one day curing HIV, all I can pretty much do is confirm that things look old. Or at least argue that old things are somehow relevant to the modern age. This leaves a lot of uninteresting job opportunities for me, such as the exciting world of secretarial work! The fascinating life of administration! The mind-boggling merriment of sitting day in and day out in an office somewhere doing something completely unrelated to what I worked hard to succeed in for 5 years.

Actually, in all honesty, I would be working right this very minute if I wasn't so damn susceptible to peer pressure. I know I need money ASAP, so the logical, smart thing that I would have done, having spent a week 'relaxing,' would have been to go to the temp. agency. I've used temp agencies before, and guaranteed, I was always given some sort of clerical job that paid well within that week. It was wonderful...constant employment and a cheque every week. But then I let myself get talked into going on this trip to the Islands....

So, here is where it stands. 1) I have no money and am putting everything on my credit card. 2) I am utterly annoyed with the incompetence of my fellow traveller, who quite frankly wouldn't be able to figure out which direction to take a bus on a one way street. 3) It means that I am delaying my sweet temp agency job for another week, and thus reiterating that 4) I have no money!!! I keep telling myself that this trip will be fun, that seeing the islands will be a new and unique experience, and that I might as well do this while I'm young because I'll never get the chance again, yada yada yada. But so far, planning this trip, though not my idea, has ended up being left up to me to plan. I researched the hostel (only 2 folks, on the whole island, and an hour apart from each other), researched the bus time table (one bus every 2 hours going from tip to tip), and figured out how we would be able to get our butts from the hostel to Iona and back without being stranded on the bloody little island, population 700 (ferry leaves at 1500, after that, find a warm sheep to cuddle up with). Meanwhile, all my companion has done is look to see what castles exist on the islands (not noticing that 80% of them can only be accessed with a car), whine to me that I'm making her walk 3 miles in order to see two castles in one day ('why can't we take a taxi?'), and go on and on about the new boots she just bought specifically for this trip (her Calvin Kline and Jessica Simpson boots would 'so' not work).

All this trip planning naturally had to go hand in hand with a major allergic reaction I had with a newly purchased makeup, which left my face swollen with a thick cover of small, itchy little bumps that haven't quite all gone away, leaving me perpetually feeling like Quasimodo. Great. So stressed about being poor, stressed about going on this trip with L.A. Barbie, stressed about my deformed face, and stressed about how poor the combination of everything is making me.

I am so going to need a vacation after all of this.

;;

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