Edinburgh Days, or Doing What I Want to Do
Publication Year: 2012
Published by: University of South Carolina Press
I got to the dentist’s office early and, sitting down, looked at my fellow patients. Across the room a large woman sagged into a stuffed chair, the June number of Connecticut Magazine balanced on her diaphragm like a screen, on the cover of the issue the phrase “Summer Times” brighter than noon, beneath the words fat hunks of watermelon, red as sunburn. ...
Up from Boston
I flew from Boston to London on Virgin Atlantic. The flight was a children’s excursion. Classrooms raced around the terminal as if they were at recess, all the students enrolled in foreign study programs in Britain. Clots of students were so thick I felt like a hall monitor. No aisle seats were available when I checked my bags. ...
“Dear Invisible Man,” the note began. I’d been in Edinburgh two weeks. Since the day of my arrival, Barbara Phanjoo, my landlady, had not seen or heard me. “I just wanted to be sure that you were well,” she wrote. In the old days when gods wandered the earth pursuing nymphs or during more restful times granting wishes, ...
For dinner last Tuesday I slathered Coleman’s English mustard over a Scotch egg, toasted and buttered bread, brewed a pot of Earl Grey tea, and opened a can of Baxters Royal Game soup, this last containing, the label said, “Highland venison and pheasant in a rich stock.” ...
At breakfast every morning I swallow four tablets: a small gel resembling a golden blimp fat with fish oil; a vitamin the color of red sandstone, the ingredients a gravel pit of mysterious, invigorating minerals, the print on the bottle too small for my eyes to sift into words; ...
“I’ve seen you a lot. Are you a tourist?” the woman behind the container at Bonningtons delicatessen asked. “I am not sure,” I said; “I live in the United States, but I’m in Scotland for four and a half months. Is that too long to be a tourist?” “I don’t know,” the woman answered. ...
“Have you become an anchorite?” my friend Josh wrote after I said I didn’t plan to leave Edinburgh. Anchorites were Christian hermits. In the fourth century they settled in the deserts of Egypt and Syria. By retiring from society they hoped to mortify the devil and control temptations of flesh and the world. ...
A Traveler in Little Things
At the beginning of the twentieth century the English writer W. H. Hudson spent a night in a commercial hotel in Bristol. The next morning he ate in the hotel’s coffee shop. A manufacturer’s representative joined him, assuming Hudson was also a commercial traveler. The man was successful. ...
In “Little Gidding,” T. S. Eliot got things wrong when he wrote, “the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” Exploring does not weave experience into a carpet that enables a person to fly back through years into diapers and knowledge. ...
In THE RIGHT PLACE (1924), C. E. Montague described “knowing a road.” To know a road entailed more than “seeing it all once or twice from a seat in a car.” On the other hand, a person did not have to “learn it by heart, to the last house and tree.” “There is a mean,” Montague explained, ...
Things That Interest Me
In the 1920s Arnold Bennett, the British man of letters, published three collections of occasional pieces, all the volumes entitled Things That Have Interested Me. While the first collection contained 121 short essays, the second and third each contained 38. Almost nothing Bennett wrote about interested me: ...
Eliza flew from Boston late Easter afternoon. She traveled to Frankfurt, cramped between “two gigantic German Goths who spilled over their seats and smothered the arm rests.” Because she bought an inexpensive ticket, she had an eight-hour layover in Frankfurt, after which she flew to Edinburgh, arriving at noon on Monday. ...
No Place like Home
Oceans separate Connecticut from Scotland, only one geographical. In part I came to Edinburgh in hopes that different surroundings would affect my thought. My ideas were weary, and my metaphors dusty. Political doings blighted optimism, and instead of bouncing through days marveling at the wonder of fall and winter, ...
Fast Falls the Eventide
“Abide with me, fast falls the eventide,” Henry Lyte wrote a month before his death. In three weeks I leave Edinburgh. As soon as my plane turns west, place and event will start drifting from thought. Experiences lodged along the shoreline of awareness will slide into the sea. Life is not shingled, and the tide will strip Scotland from mind. ...
“You’ll regret it if you don’t travel,” my friend Jay wrote. “Go to St. Andrews and visit the Isle of Skye.” Travel would have shattered both budget and me. Shouldering the anxiety caused by visiting strange places alone was too heavy a burden. If Vicki had accompanied me to Scotland, I might have traveled. ...
In February I registered for the Great Caledonian Run, a ten-kilometer road race held early in May. Training, I told fellows at the institute, imposed structure on days, a necessity when one was away from home. I said I planned to finish in the last 5 percent of the runners. ...
The course of a person’s days, to draw from John Addington Symonds, depends less upon intellect and planning than upon “sentiment, emotion, involuntary habits of feeling and observing, constitutional sympathy with the world and men,” and “tendencies of curiosity and liking.” ...
Page Count: 208
Publication Year: 2012
OCLC Number: 808376163
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