It’s that time of year in Edinburgh when the weather improves (really, it does), the university students head home, and the tourists who’ve been visiting in a steady stream all year arrive in a torrent. Some locals grumble about this. Princes Street is heaving. You can’t make your way down the Royal Mile or the Bridges. Coaches clog streets designed for horses and carts. There’s hardly a Scottish accent to be heard. To be fair, the latter is par for the course in cosmopolitan Edinburgh. This is no brogue I’m sporting.
I say, bring it on. I love tourists. Really, I do. Perhaps it’s because of my status as foreigner in this country; tourists help me blend a bit better. Perhaps it’s that I find socks and sandals endearing. Probably, it’s my distaste for hypocrisy that does it. I love tourists because I love being a tourist. I can’t have that one both ways.
A few years back, I went on holiday with my best pal who is a five-foot-ten blonde. She snorted with disdain at the all-inclusive resort wristbands we had to wear, loathing the fact that they made us look like tourists. I hated to break it to her that in Mexico, she and I, her ginger friend, weren’t ever going to look like anything else. Since most of Scotland’s visitors come from the rest of the UK, maybe you think that makes them harder to spot, but tourists stand out no matter how they may try to blend.
This time of year, I enjoy spotting the tell tale tourist signs - guidebooks, maps, cameras, and confused or amazed impressions. It makes me feel proud to live in a city so many people want to see. They save, plan, and wait for this opportunity. I have to look at the castle anew when I see someone photographing it, a loved one in the foreground. I want to climb up Arthur’s Seat again when I spy the figures atop the famous rise. I want to join the queue at the National Gallery and see the latest exhibit or just look at some old favourites again. I want to hear bagpipes and eat tablet. It’s inspiring to see so many people inspired by my city.
Undoubtedly, my favourite thing about tourists is the opportunity they bring for random conversations. Certain boundaries and constraints are removed when you become a guest in another locale. Getting lost, especially when you don’t speak the language, motivates you to get to know the locals. I must have a non-threatening aura, perhaps due to my small stature, because I often get asked for directions. My language skills are poor, but my pointing is top notch. Sometimes the accent disappoints people, but this is Edinburgh after all.
Let’s face it; people will either be locals or tourists. Once you travel outside a certain radius from your house, you become the latter. And that’s a good thing. Life is about new experiences, expanding your comfort zone, spending your money. When I travel abroad, I take my money with me. When tourists come to Edinburgh, they bring their money with them. From a purely economical standpoint, tourists are a plus. Scotland brings in about four billion pounds in tourism revenue each year. If that won’t make you hug a tourist, nothing will.
Sunday 27 May 2007
Sunday 20 May 2007
Parents' Night - Gripe
So I've just survived another parent night at my sons' high school. Just. Please do not misunderstand, for I am very keen to attend parents' night and to see my sons' teachers. I'm very keen. Oh yeah. I want to spend five hurried minutes discussing an entire year's worth of progress or lack thereof in each subject (there are 12) with each teacher my son sees. I want to be stressed for two hours on a Thursday evening, while I try to see all said teachers and ask all the questions I have. It would have helped if I'd brought the list. The report came in handy, but that is another gripe.
Actually, kudos to the teachers because they seem to know my sons (this week it was the younger one who is in his first year at high school) even though they teach hundreds of young people, sometimes more than one subject. They also seem to know exactly how he is doing and to be able to offer suggestions for his improvement. He needs it. Most of the teachers were willing to discuss things further over email because, let's face it, five minutes just isn't enough.
No, my gripe is not with the teachers. It's with the other parents. To be fair, each one of them is probably as stressed about the whole night as I am. But the fierce competition that arises for vacated seats in front of teachers is unparalleled anywhere in the animal kingdom. This year, I had a big gap between appointments and tried to slide in ahead of schedule where I could. Big mistake. I was attempting to get finished early since it was also the poor young son's birthday. How's that for a present? A report card and parents' night? When I was nearly physically run over for a seat, I decided to stick to the appointment times.
When I was a high school student, my parents had to meet each teacher in the classroom, alone, in private. Nowadays, that isn't deemed safe for parents or teachers, so we have to convene in the assembly hall and library. Teachers sit at small tables, sign posted with their names and subjects, and parents sit in rows of seats facing the teachers. This means that while you have your meeting, others can potentially hear what is being said, but worse, they stare at the back of your head, boring holes while they mentally oust you so they can make their own time slot. I try not to let that bother me, but I also try to keep to the five minutes. There's a small, spiteful part of me that wants to take the entire five minutes even on the rare occasion that only three are needed. However, unless someone's been really nippy in the queue, I don't let the small part take over.
Every year I tell myself to just relax, go in, sit down, wait for the teacher to call me, take my five minutes, and move on to the next appointment. Every year, within two minutes, I blow it. There's just this whole edgy vibe that I succumb to despite my good intentions. It's a little like boarding an EasyJet plane. Once one person moves toward the gate, everyone goes, including me, shoving my way to the front lest I be shoved.
What happens after my zen state promises get broken is that I, too, look at other people's appointment sheets to see who's got the earlier slot. I, too, edge closer to the backs of the parent chairs so that I can jump in as soon as the parents in them get up. I begin to stare at the backs of heads. I, too, ask if the people who've beat me to the jump actually have the time before mine. I, too, become someone I can't stand. It's ugly. It's parents' night.
This year, once I decided to let go of the competitive spirit, I did manage to relax and actually have pleasant conversations with other parents' night weary mothers and one father. It was kind of fun. It was also nice that some of their kids knew my son and said nice things about him at home. I couldn't say the same. My son's comments about school hover around the "I don't know," or the "I don't remember," region. That's why parents' night is important. Someone's got to tell me what he gets up to and how he is doing. Luckily for me and for him, he does have good teachers who can do just that, even in the short space of five minutes.
Actually, kudos to the teachers because they seem to know my sons (this week it was the younger one who is in his first year at high school) even though they teach hundreds of young people, sometimes more than one subject. They also seem to know exactly how he is doing and to be able to offer suggestions for his improvement. He needs it. Most of the teachers were willing to discuss things further over email because, let's face it, five minutes just isn't enough.
No, my gripe is not with the teachers. It's with the other parents. To be fair, each one of them is probably as stressed about the whole night as I am. But the fierce competition that arises for vacated seats in front of teachers is unparalleled anywhere in the animal kingdom. This year, I had a big gap between appointments and tried to slide in ahead of schedule where I could. Big mistake. I was attempting to get finished early since it was also the poor young son's birthday. How's that for a present? A report card and parents' night? When I was nearly physically run over for a seat, I decided to stick to the appointment times.
When I was a high school student, my parents had to meet each teacher in the classroom, alone, in private. Nowadays, that isn't deemed safe for parents or teachers, so we have to convene in the assembly hall and library. Teachers sit at small tables, sign posted with their names and subjects, and parents sit in rows of seats facing the teachers. This means that while you have your meeting, others can potentially hear what is being said, but worse, they stare at the back of your head, boring holes while they mentally oust you so they can make their own time slot. I try not to let that bother me, but I also try to keep to the five minutes. There's a small, spiteful part of me that wants to take the entire five minutes even on the rare occasion that only three are needed. However, unless someone's been really nippy in the queue, I don't let the small part take over.
Every year I tell myself to just relax, go in, sit down, wait for the teacher to call me, take my five minutes, and move on to the next appointment. Every year, within two minutes, I blow it. There's just this whole edgy vibe that I succumb to despite my good intentions. It's a little like boarding an EasyJet plane. Once one person moves toward the gate, everyone goes, including me, shoving my way to the front lest I be shoved.
What happens after my zen state promises get broken is that I, too, look at other people's appointment sheets to see who's got the earlier slot. I, too, edge closer to the backs of the parent chairs so that I can jump in as soon as the parents in them get up. I begin to stare at the backs of heads. I, too, ask if the people who've beat me to the jump actually have the time before mine. I, too, become someone I can't stand. It's ugly. It's parents' night.
This year, once I decided to let go of the competitive spirit, I did manage to relax and actually have pleasant conversations with other parents' night weary mothers and one father. It was kind of fun. It was also nice that some of their kids knew my son and said nice things about him at home. I couldn't say the same. My son's comments about school hover around the "I don't know," or the "I don't remember," region. That's why parents' night is important. Someone's got to tell me what he gets up to and how he is doing. Luckily for me and for him, he does have good teachers who can do just that, even in the short space of five minutes.
Sunday 6 May 2007
Sunday Papers - Gold Star
I love reading the Sunday papers. I really do. For me it’s like respectable escapist fiction. No one would scoff seeing me read the Sunday Times, but I get to indulge my imagination as I read about jobs I can never apply for, homes I’ll never be able to afford, trips I couldn’t possibly take, cars I won’t buy, and clothes that I will never squeeze into.
Take for example a job posting for “Games Testers.” Now I don’t even like video games, but the only requirement is to be over 18, which I am, so technically, I qualify. Maybe my application would read something like, “As someone who hates video games because the men on the screen don’t do what I tell them no matter how much I yell, I can determine the frustration level of any game for new gamers within seconds. You will not find a more efficient tester anywhere in the current market.” Who knows, it could be fun, or it could be more stressful than my current job. Spending all day with young, male game nerds who probably shun soap like I shun stilettos may be more than my nerves and sense of smell could handle. All right, I’ll give that one a miss.
Perhaps the fashion sections offer the most mind-boggling information of any section in the Sunday paper. Last week a model was wearing £34000 worth of clothes. Now, this really gives me pause to wonder, who the hell is meant to be buying this paper (not the Times)? If any single outfit I own costs £340… well no single outfit does, including shoes and accessories. The Herald’s cheapest outfit is £134, but it looks a little like the model forgot to put on trousers. Sixties mod apparently took minimalism to the extreme. While I enjoy this element of the Lifestyle section, it doesn’t help me with my shoe dilemma. Again, it offers a bit of escapism. If I only had the money, they body, the high-heel tolerance, I too could look half dressed, but thin and young.
When I’ve finished with the recruitment pages, I spend ages scanning the property section. Why, I don’t really know. I can’t afford to move and like where I live, if not some aspects of my particular communal stair. I do like speculating how much a place will actually go for in this odd Scottish offers over system. Besides, I can plan my lottery winnings allocation. For example if I won two million on Wednesday, I could buy that six-bedroom townhouse in Bruntsfield and have change to furnish it and perhaps take a few years off work. Let’s say 30. That’s a few.
One of my favourite sections is Travel, or even better Escape. That is after all why I bought the Sunday papers, to experience a bit of a reality break. This week’s Herald magazine was really useful in fact, with a cheap – gasp – and interesting holiday to France featured. Who knows, we may go. I’ll probably not be heading to Japan’s Shimoda, featured in the Observer, but it has now become one of my “maybe someday’ destinations. Now, I've got even more opportunities to give my mind a treat during the daily, long commute.
There are a few columnists I enjoy reading, and I appreciate the restaurant reviews. Going out for dinner is something I do actually do once in a while. The food sections always have great wine buys, but other Sunday paper readers can deplete the shelves if I'm not quick off the mark. Some of the recipes look fantastic, but I'm not into that whole recipe card thing, and keeping endless pages lying about the kitchen causes some aggravation. Usually, I give it the old college try though before throwing the section out a few weeks later. Basically, the food section is a bit too useful to be much fun. I'm not going to fantasize about making risotto primavera.
One of the best things about Sunday papers is that I never finish them on Sunday. Actually, they end up lasting most of the week. By Saturday, I end up having a flick through Sports, once Reviews, Autos, Business, and the newsy bits are exhausted. It’s an interesting catalogue of priorities actually. Perhaps my section preference shows the areas of life I am looking for the most change in – job, home, wardrobe. Suffice it to say, I am glad it’s Sunday and I can get stuck into my week’s reading. Maybe this week, I’ll shake things up and read the Sports section first, that is if Graeme will swap me for Travel.
Take for example a job posting for “Games Testers.” Now I don’t even like video games, but the only requirement is to be over 18, which I am, so technically, I qualify. Maybe my application would read something like, “As someone who hates video games because the men on the screen don’t do what I tell them no matter how much I yell, I can determine the frustration level of any game for new gamers within seconds. You will not find a more efficient tester anywhere in the current market.” Who knows, it could be fun, or it could be more stressful than my current job. Spending all day with young, male game nerds who probably shun soap like I shun stilettos may be more than my nerves and sense of smell could handle. All right, I’ll give that one a miss.
Perhaps the fashion sections offer the most mind-boggling information of any section in the Sunday paper. Last week a model was wearing £34000 worth of clothes. Now, this really gives me pause to wonder, who the hell is meant to be buying this paper (not the Times)? If any single outfit I own costs £340… well no single outfit does, including shoes and accessories. The Herald’s cheapest outfit is £134, but it looks a little like the model forgot to put on trousers. Sixties mod apparently took minimalism to the extreme. While I enjoy this element of the Lifestyle section, it doesn’t help me with my shoe dilemma. Again, it offers a bit of escapism. If I only had the money, they body, the high-heel tolerance, I too could look half dressed, but thin and young.
When I’ve finished with the recruitment pages, I spend ages scanning the property section. Why, I don’t really know. I can’t afford to move and like where I live, if not some aspects of my particular communal stair. I do like speculating how much a place will actually go for in this odd Scottish offers over system. Besides, I can plan my lottery winnings allocation. For example if I won two million on Wednesday, I could buy that six-bedroom townhouse in Bruntsfield and have change to furnish it and perhaps take a few years off work. Let’s say 30. That’s a few.
One of my favourite sections is Travel, or even better Escape. That is after all why I bought the Sunday papers, to experience a bit of a reality break. This week’s Herald magazine was really useful in fact, with a cheap – gasp – and interesting holiday to France featured. Who knows, we may go. I’ll probably not be heading to Japan’s Shimoda, featured in the Observer, but it has now become one of my “maybe someday’ destinations. Now, I've got even more opportunities to give my mind a treat during the daily, long commute.
There are a few columnists I enjoy reading, and I appreciate the restaurant reviews. Going out for dinner is something I do actually do once in a while. The food sections always have great wine buys, but other Sunday paper readers can deplete the shelves if I'm not quick off the mark. Some of the recipes look fantastic, but I'm not into that whole recipe card thing, and keeping endless pages lying about the kitchen causes some aggravation. Usually, I give it the old college try though before throwing the section out a few weeks later. Basically, the food section is a bit too useful to be much fun. I'm not going to fantasize about making risotto primavera.
One of the best things about Sunday papers is that I never finish them on Sunday. Actually, they end up lasting most of the week. By Saturday, I end up having a flick through Sports, once Reviews, Autos, Business, and the newsy bits are exhausted. It’s an interesting catalogue of priorities actually. Perhaps my section preference shows the areas of life I am looking for the most change in – job, home, wardrobe. Suffice it to say, I am glad it’s Sunday and I can get stuck into my week’s reading. Maybe this week, I’ll shake things up and read the Sports section first, that is if Graeme will swap me for Travel.
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