I've been living in Scotland for just over a month now. You haven't heard from me in a while; I don't want to overwhelm you with Heil (really, it's in the mission statement, page 4). But I've also been MIA because, well, how can I even begin to talk about the billions of new experiences I've had since moving to Edinburgh?
I do have one solution, which involves a warm pub, many hours and several pints of bitter… but my editor said it wasn't in the budget. So here I am, attempting to form a coherent column about life in another country.
In the spirit of Billy Joel's immortal anthem "We Didn't Start the Fire," I will forego the antiquated notion of "coherence" and give you some of my thoughts and feelings as übersleek, postmodern info-nuggets. Here's hoping you won't spontaneously set your newspaper afire in frustration. Ready?
The UK drinking age is low (18), but the lack of keggers or cheap booze is prevalent.
The pubs are cozy and very nice, but the strength of the Pound Sterling versus the U.S. Dollar is just painful.
Canned Tesco Value beans are my best friends (30 cents a pop!), but it's embarrassing to discover that my flat-mates, all freshmen, make dishes that put my bucket of beans to shame.
My academic adviser made my life hell the first week of registration because he assumed I am a know-nothing American who has been studying underwater basketweaving for two years. And, according to him, I certainly don't know anything of academic value, because any course of mine that did look semi-legitimate were probably taught by highly trained monkeys. (Of course, if you're still reading this column, you might agree with him.)
Edinburgh is cold and rainy. I definitely have a newfound appreciation for the Arizona sun. It is a relief to see that the rest of my fellow students are as pasty-white as I am and don't spend 30 minutes a week at Sun Daze tanning salon.
People do hold Bush's war on Iraq against me personally, and European anti-American sentiments are palpable. But I do have one Parisian friend who doesn't think we are a contemptuous, evil, imperialist power, so I think there's hope.
Traveling to another country is a wonderful way to force oneself into trying new things, abandoning the comforting womb of familiarity. (Wombs, by their nature, are comforting.)
I am performing sketch comedy for the first time in my life, learning to tango and I make a mean Indian curry—with Tesco value beans of course. I also decided to dye my hair. It is red and it freaks me out sometimes.
My classes are mostly fascinating, though I don't advise taking Art History at 5 p.m., four times a week. Hiking in the hills when you were born below sea level in New Orleans is a bad idea.
I went up to the Pentlands outside Edinburgh, and I was so out of shape I nearly punctured a lung. Meeting people here is a breeze, because everyone is legitimately friendly, fun and interesting. This is despite the fact that British people mysteriously call Band-Aids "plasters" and Jell-O "jelly." Honestly, what is that?
Every day here is full of something new, and you go to bed feeling like you've been ridden into the ground. It's great.
I have to go, lest I violate the mission statement's Heil-overload clause.
Yours, Kathleen.
Kathleen Heil is studying abroad in Scotland. Look for her column the first Monday of every month. Reach her at kathleen.heil@asu.edu.
