By Eric Eisenberg
EDINBURGH, Scotland – For the first 11 weeks of my 12-week stay in London, every Friday and Saturday was spent doing something different. Almost all activities were fueled by alcohol and ended in the same fashion, with drunken stumbling, vomiting and eventual loss of consciousness. But each outing had its own individual charm, aided by new locations and new British people to talk to. Sunday evenings, though, were the same, and were a constant reminder of what I was missing.
Up until the last week, I sat in my flat’s shared kitchen and overheard conversations about creepy hostels in Barcelona, disappointments in Dublin and over-sexed Italians in Rome from other students. My bank account dwindling, not helped by the egregious exchange rate, I could only be part of the audience. It was my first time out of North America and I was realizing that despite its 7.5 million inhabitants, London was a blip.
This was how I ended up on a Friday night train to Edinburgh to celebrate the Fringe Festival.
Arriving in Edinburgh station at 1 a.m. with a 20 pound backpack, I walked along Prince’s Street, the main drive in the city, trying to find my hotel, which, a map told me was a mile away from the station. I took the time to both look at the late-night activity on the streets and stare up at the castle on the hill.
With very few lampposts, much of the city’s light comes from spotlights around the various monuments that line the street, and, though dim, the view is stunning. Halfway down the street, the Sir Walter Scott Memorial stands towering over the street, lit from within and creating an orange glow that escapes through the statue’s various arches and its steeple. Sorting through my photographs later, I found 10 different angles of the statue just from that night.
I arrived at my hotel after about half-an-hour of walking and the Scotsman behind the desk greeted me. My eyebrows quickly shifted and my head turned. Anyone who ever tells you that they speak English in Scotland has never heard a Scotsman talk. With syllables running together like a train crash and words escaping their lips at full sprint, the idea of full comprehension after even two repetitions is remote. What should have been a five minute check-in ended up as a 10-minute conversation where every other sentence was a lilted, “what?” At the point of exhaustion, I fell asleep as soon as I entered the room, not even bothering to unpack.
Waking up at 8 a.m. the next morning, I knew that I had to get as much done as possible in my only full 24-hour day. Taking out a small guidebook I had purchased back in London, I decided that the section of the city known as Old Town, including beautiful Edinburgh castle, the famous Royal Mile and St. Giles’ Cathedral.
Despite getting what I thought was an early start, the Royal Mile was jammed by the time I arrived. Vendors on both sides of the street made huge signs advertising their discounted prices for tartan wool scarves and kilts in various colors. Hundreds gathered in semi-circles around jugglers, gymnasts, singers and living-statues. While the Edinburgh Fringe has always been looked down upon, especially in comparison to the more legitimate Edinburgh International Festival, there have been few places where I have felt so much concentrated energy.
Walking between the large stone buildings on the cobblestone streets of the Mile and peeking in on the various performances, I felt a few drops from above land on my arms. Knowing what was coming, I rushed to an archway where at least 20 people already stood. The region is notorious for its rain, but as the clouds broke, even the archway was unable to keep me, or anyone else, dry. My polo shirt soaked through and my jeans considerably darker, I couldn’t help but smile and look around for a similar reaction. But nobody was fazed. Fringe Festival performers continued their shows in the streets, most spectators waiting out the weather. Slowly, I realized that the only people under the archway were tourists like me. Five minutes later, the rain stopped and it was as if nothing happened.
The sun beginning to set, I began to feel my stomach. Trying to skip meals as to save money for tourism, I knew I was going to be unable to go the full night without eating. Just as I had done in London when searching for cheap food, I began to search for local pubs. Finding a place called “The Spotted Dick” (named for a type of pudding, not a venereal disease), I sat down, ordered a glass of scotch, and searched the menu. But tradition outweighed my light wallet as I stumbled on a curious listing: haggis and black pudding. A notorious dish, haggis is made from sheep intestines and oatmeal, while black pudding is congealed blood in a sausage casing. Naturally, I was compelled to order it. Served with a side of coleslaw, both “meats” were round in shape and colored brown and black respectively. First taking a bite of the pudding, but fork slid through it easily. Its soft, spongy texture and mild taste, in addition to my overwhelming hunger, allowed for it to be eaten quickly, and before long, only the haggis remained. Very similar, if not softer and more like the oatmeal it contained, it was equally unique as the pudding, and, ultimately, I found that both were surprisingly enjoyable and satisfying.
Even after just a day in Edinburgh, I feel I can safely say that no American can have a true sense of history, if they leave the country. Edinburgh Castle was built in the 11th century. The Royal Mile has stones that are older than the United States. The expansion of the city was being designed 10 years before America declared its independence. Outside my hotel window, fireworks went off, celebrating the beginning of the military tattoo. I had had spent a full day sightseeing, rain-dodging, scotch-drinking, and haggis-eating, and I still had the second half of the city to see the next day.
© Eric Eisenberg, All Rights Reserved