The [February] winds lament around the castle of [Edinburgh]

Disclaimer: Camera's battery is dead. Will be stealing pictures soon.

So Roberto and I went to the castle yesterday. Oh, hey, America, that's all you're really lacking. Castles! Barack should build castles. That would stimulate the economy, and offer us fortifications should the Canadians ever decide to invade. We could employ all sorts of masons and architects to build the castles, and if we went back to the huge guns -- like Mon Megs -- then we would employ carpenters to follow the troops around, building and repairing the wagons for said huge guns. Plus, just imagine -- we'd be able to say, "Check out our huge guns!" Caleb would love that, I think.

So I love Robert. He's hilarious. (He's such a cross between Wisconsin and DC and I don't even know what to do with him.) We took pictures of each other in front of the castle, including in front of the big guns that I mentioned. I took his picture with some swords and he took my picture with a man dressed for living history. The castle is cool, but the weather wasn't ideal. Not really drizzly, but threatening, and cold. We waited in line -- oh, about that.

Robert wanted to leave early so we wouldn't have to wait in long lines. Nine AM. Fine by me. I even went to bed early! And set my alarm! I woke up at ten, horrified. My alarm had not gone off, because my phone was still on silent. I was ready by 10:18 and went down to his flat and apologized. He was wrapped in a blanket and looked... well, I interpreted it as irritated, but apparently, it was "sleepy." He muttered "That's okay," and began shutting the door. I got really confused and didn't know if he meant "That's okay, too late now, though," or "That's okay; hold on a second." I waited for a minute before I felt like a creep and went back to my flat. I figured if he still wanted to go, he'd come up and knock. Well! I forgot that I can't hear the door from my room when my door is shut. So at quarter past eleven I got a text from him asking where I was.

And we finally headed out.

Good advice: there is a "one o'clock gun." If you want to see them fire it, be near the entrance at one o'clock. Wear argyle. You'll be so glad you did when you stumble upon Argyle Tower. Susannah knows what I'm talking about. Will would love Argyle Tower, I know, as would J. Crew. The crown jewels were a delight, and an unexpected delight. Moving through the exhibit felt a bit like moving through one of the Salem witch museums, with the figures frozen in a moment and piped-in audio dialogue. There is a nifty family tree, but if you're going to look at the family tree please understand that James V was the father of Mary, Queen of Scots. And her son was James VI, I -- aka the best king ever, besides Bonnie Prince Charlie. The crown jewels gift shop was awesome. They had plastic crowns and tiaras that would have made sixteen year old Ashley freak right out. Margaret's Chapel, built in the 12th century, was tiny and beautiful. The prisons were... unsettling. Though there was a bit of an American Pride moment, when we read about Washington and the most glorious war ever fought. (American Revolution, what?)

It was trippy being in the room where James VI, I was born. I had just done a presentation on him and everything, so it was overwhelming, historically speaking.

This castle is a bit more expensive than you might expect -- if all the museums, or "galleries," are free, the castles are not. It's about ten pounds (not bucks) to get in. If you want a self-guided audio tour, it's another 3.50, and for a guide book in addition to the audio guide, it's even more. They have an extensive gift shop, I'll give them that. The array of Scotch is impressive for a gift shop, as is the selection of whiskey armor they offer. Robert the Bruce not your type? Go for William Wallace. Oh, still too noble for you? Choose the piper! Coming from a place where alcohol is not sold within two feet of children's foam swords, it was, let's say, a revelation.



I went to mass today, at the University's Chaplaincy. Nine AM. I had imagined that it would be entirely older people, but also, that it might be three students and no one else. Well, it was a pretty full mass, for an early morning mass in a city whose official religion is "not Catholic." I guess that just means that all the Catholics go to the same couple of churches. It was such a small room, without pews or kneelers. You decide beforehand if you want to accept the host or not -- someone actually confronted me about this today.

"Excuse me," he said, meaning well. "You forgot your communion."
"Oh, I'm not taking communion," I replied. "I haven't been to confession."

I didn't add "in seven and a half years." Though, the idea of accepting communion without having gone to confession didn't seem to bother him too much. But the mass was quick, without singing. I missed Father Mark's booming "How are you, my children?" and his glorious "Through him, with him, in him." Does it occur to anyone else that he has the perfect voice for being a priest?

Anyway, no kneeling, no singing, no procession. It's the ritual of Catholicism stripped of its pretty. I think, for the most part, I loved it. Except for not understanding most of what they were saying during the prayers. Every time I thought I had figured out what part we were at, they tossed in something new or there was a collective mumble and I lost it. Alas.

The chapel is an old drawing room, and sparse. There was an iron crucifix over the altar, done in avant garde style, and no other decorations at all. Large windows, lots of light, sunny yellow walls. And aside from missing Father Mark (and Father Paul, for that matter...) it was a really lovely ceremony. It was a ceremony without the ritual, I guess. Without the fetishism a more well-funded Catholic church, like Saint Joe's, can afford. The pretty embossed wafers -- though they did have simple wafers, at least, and not pita bread -- and crystal chalices of my youth were nowhere to be found. It actually sort of felt like Catholicism wasn't a huge denomination throughout the world -- which, compared to its prevalence in eastern Massachusetts, especially the South Shore (or, the Irish Riviera), it's really not.




Here's a fun fact: my classes end MARCH 26TH. Yes, you read that correctly. My classes are over March 26th. And then I come home in the first week of June. Chyeah. Three finals spread out over that time, of course, but, really now. What on Earth will I do with myself? Having all that time to write, and to read, and to explore. If you want to come visit me in April or May, please do!