One Year on...La Chronologie

How it shakes down:








Moves: 5
Countries: 3
Jobs: 5
Relationships: 1
Mental Relapse: numerous

On Scotland...

Part I.

As much as every Westerner (typically of the liberal verity), faces East for inner sanctum or South for better livin, espoused by other cultures and hemispheres; there is a place in our own imperial dynasty of stodgy O’dWM (Ol’dead White Men) that ceases to be less than alive, colorful, backwards, and most unique.

Scotland is such a place...

Here is the bird that never flew; Here is the tree than never grew; Here is the bell that never rang; Here is the fish than never swam. Glasgow Coat of Arms



After the winter of eternity in Prague—a record for a half-century, I left the cold for one of piss and rain. To a NW native, Scotland feels like home—a well-fed and watered malaise that thrives in heroine-poking, literary-flipping, Indy-rockin- climate. On that fertile soil, I found Scots to be most down to earth—qualifiedly: the real rock salt. My first two months spent in Glasgow was a modern fairytale: of thunderstorms and hot oat pies, trolls singing in arms, track-suited demons, sniper gargoyles, saris in flying colors, and ever-more, tender faeries traipsing in pointy leather boots and tight pants-- a flop of bangs perched at top of their heads to hide their legacy, ears. Scottish blokes are not as tough as their progenitors. After all, this is the land that lulled us to the sweet sonic of Belle & Sebastian.

“Judy and the Dream of Horses,” in fact, is the underscore to my time. In Scotland, every storm has its rainbow-- and a sottish man underneath it (yes, that antiquated term is strikingly a derivate of Scottish). Even the air in Glasgow is fortified with fermenting yeast; the streets sparkle of broken glass and the pastures are the most verdant of bowling greens!

And do the people breathe life! It was a shock first to realize that people were speaking the same mother tongue as myself, and second, that they were words were disarming and for the most part, kind. Scots have a voracious appetite for interaction. This joviality was wholly foreign after meandering quaint alleys in Prague without so much of a “Dobry den,” from anyone—not from the well-dressed elders rummaging through the trash, nor a sniff from their hatchet-dropping dogs. I suspect that life is enhanced in Technicolor after living in the grayscale that lies behind the former iron curtain. Where every Glaswegian bloke can strum his melancholy on an acoustic gee-tar, and every girl can and will throw a mean uppercut (see statistic on female-to-male violence are highest in Scotland). Where every man can drink like a whale and every woman can—well, also drink like a large aquatic specimen. (Statistics can also prove that, rather unflatteringly). Garrison Keillor, eat your heart out!

On the Scottish temperament...

#2 There is an unusual element of joy roiled in the Scottish ire. Some redder-than-most Scotsmen, broken capillaries and glazed-over eyes, say the drink makes them wither. Subsequently, I have met a number of lads who stray from the fine whisky beverage. The weather and rugged terrain also contributes to the Scottish temperament.

Lastly, pride put the fire in their loins. Their Highlander history speaks volumes for this. Thus their heritage withstands the Queen (and never ever, do you call them British before Scottish).

Theirs is personal.

Tracing Scottish descendants is fundamental to identity (and all inter-related in the end).

Your family name determines where you hail from, how you used your working hands, how thick the accent, how you hang your hat and what colors your kilt is woven in. Aye, for each McGuinness man and child, a unique a new tartan pattern is fitted.
In spite of all these assertions, Scots loathe themselves and “take the piss”—they live for a laugh and their quips are swift to the cheek. My Scots friends were cruel to each other’s individual ruminations yet permitted me, the spirited entrepreneurial American, to pontificate in public without fear of reprisal. Social structures are a tight unit, like family. Some units are old, long mates who might not have much in common any more, but remain close because they don’t look to difference as any talking matter. This is strikingly opposite of Stateside creative types who make great strides to demarcate themselves from “mainstream” (and suffer from their sense of “alienation”).

Thus, make that two tea bags in every pot; and two pints (or rounds) after work.

On Brawling and Sport...

#2.5 As Scots are quite sociable and have steam to blow before they come to the brink of sobriety, brawling is a common occurrence. Down at a corner pub, it is typical for a limerick to become a full-throttled elegy that will become increasingly louder and thicker in locution-- rolling “R’s” et al. But lest he or she lose their privilege of re-entry to their fine corner pub establishment, they won’t escalate any further. In the event that they’re really pissed (emotionally and figuratively,) the anger will come in the form of a broken beer bottle, a quintessentially British threat. At this point, bystanders are man-under. The situation is going to be bloody. This doesn’t borrow from the ridiculous theater of Talk, where the man knows he can bark all he wants in front of his backup dancers without so much as his hair-part shifting. No, in Glasgow, brawling is not billed for an entertainment value, it repels people, thus to make the institution of Drink more pedestrian-friendly, the law has cracked down.

"Fraternity"

Brawling has resulted in the removal of bottled-beers sold in pubs, and in other towns, the limitation of how close men can rub elbows. Even more severe, the house where every man takes off his hat in, the football stadium, prohibits alcohol consumption altogether. The football stadium is a place of worship, but like any

zealot, heaven and hell are the only boundaries.

Football, like so many other parts non-North America, is the real all-purpose metaphor for nailing a culture. So, elaboration is unnecessary. Watching the World cup was great fun, like an athletic U.N. bar in which I could play ignorant while rooting on the mite of Ukraine. What euphoria!

Now, to participate in national or local football (as an audience member of course), you had to be a little more conscious for which team you were rooting on, not to mention minding the colors you blindly put on that day. Once in attendance of a live game, I was shocked just how surprisingly safe the whole excursion is.

To hear men in number sing to a chorus with lyrics like these, well it's quite touching:

Away up in Gorgie at Tynecastle Park,
There's a wee
football team that aye makes its mark,
They've won all the honours for
footballing arts,
And there's nae other team to compare with the Hearts

H-E-A-R-T-S !
If you cannae spell it then here's what it
says
Hearts glorious Hearts!
It's down at Tynecastle they
bide...

Well, you have swat police at the helm and horses from behind, plus the opposing team enters and exits the stadium on the opposite side. You can’t even bet with the visitors come halftime. I was really impressed by the worldliness too. I found that we were seated at the behest of every other foreigner, Japanese, French, Polish and the lot, all in our section in the far corner of the world! No lie, watching live football is pretty riveting.

Foul Play

#3 In all the code of behavior and manner, there are no red cards issued in the streets. The open space and park expanse is wild. This is the territory for the ruffians in tracksuits to piss on. Typically youngish and bullish in stature, these men are denoted as N.E.D.’s (Non-educated Delinquents), which is a sociological phenomenon and epidemic historical to Britain’s working class. In Liverpool, they are Scally’s, in Leeds, they are Chav’s, and so on.

And the drink of choice for Ned’s is one with potency of another level that only someone close to God could create. Buckfast, an outlawed drink in many parts of the world, is made in fact by monks, and is most popular among Ned’s. Once in effect, the beverage turns man to moron. Speech recognition and motor skills are impaired with great aerodynamic imprecision. In as much as Ned’s fill in for every politically incorrect joke, Ned’s are a real menace. Certainly this population is not one to be curtailed by condoms. Despite being mired in rampant alcoholism and abuse and residual sunburn, they occupy a big place in the tax code and low-income council estates. I spent a week observing a tribe from a kitchen window. From 10 am, they hung out in the foyer, swilling beer and high-fiving while their ladies hung up the sheets to dry and their kids crashed into each other on their 3-wheelers. Aye, there are female equivalents to Neds. Arguably, Nedette, Nedwina, Senga, and so on. Try as I may to summon understanding, their fight is not necessarily understood…

Under a Scotland Nation...

#4 “You a Celt or a Ranger?”

This would determine if you are either an unpracticing Protestant or Catholic, which is initiated typically by a Ranger. It is the Ranger in blue and orange who waves the Union Jack and stands behind the beloved Queen, even though this is a sojourned battle championed by Northern Ireland, which seems to be getting on quite well sans Queen, me thinks. Yes some Saturday jubilees were not like the parades I knew. These were smaller in scale, and the audience was not receptive to their passage. Orange Marches are not uncommon to Glasgow, where Rangers and members of the Protestant club organize around major holidays or but once a month, decked out in uniform and run select streets. Those are the streets where Catholics live. It is utterly tacky, absolute nonsense.

Apart from the declared Celts, (who also suit up in track attire,) there is no underground separatist group. Independence is out on the bargaining block. Scots are notoriously serious and in a Hobbesian plea to Tony B., it would seem that someday is near. To be English is not the same pour as being Scottish. Of course, the English and the Scots are good company in their shared misery. They both put the pint down the same pipe with alacrity and endurance. From the noble beginnings though, on which the great William Wallace stood, to the present day, Scotland is uniquely different and prosperous in its own right.

To begin with, their higher educational system, is of the highest caliber. Secondly, unions are surviving in perhaps one of the last vestiges of a spirited working-class. Glasgow is still under a socialist framework with a small net-economy that was painfully difficult to crack as the city looks out for the welfare and (mental) health of their own first.

More remarkable, scholars and artists are well respected. The most dilettante of college kids studied art history with sincerity. Many of my friends were practicing artists, who lived in bohemian lore, but faired far better than those stateside.

Why?

The state supports public artists and uses them accordingly for public programs.
My friend Guyan, who started the artist union in Scotland, would howl to read this, but comparatively, there are a plethora of aptitudes and grants out there. At the very least, it demonstrates that there is no need giving inspirational speeches about the necessary good of art proliferation. It is understood.

In sum, there is richness in Scotland both figuratively and literally. From the oil empire in glum Aberdeen, to the real estate and design industry in the two major cities, not to mention the tourist economy in the Capital, the market is an attractive one.

The Other Side of the Tracks...

#5 Every city has another side to it. For those Trainspotting fans, Edinburgh’s Leith neighborhood, a dockland cum loft space for urban fauna sipping pretty on spritzers, this area is no longer a haven for needles.

Back in Glasgow, though, there remains a skid row. This would be Glasgow’s East End, where some of the more alarming statistics come from. In that corner of the city, one would hardly mistake it for a First World. If the papers were consistent in coverage of one area, it is the poverty and rampant abuse stories in rural areas and in unidentified parts of Glasgow.

One such brief, sealed the fate of six unlucky Phillipino teenagers who were going to do a cultural exchange and live in the East End. Their chaperones have warned them for a life unlike what they imagine the West to be. In fact, they will only relive their Third World in a different kind of climate where people talk funny. They will be lucky if they make it out of there unscathed.

These stories start to desynthesise a person, day in and day out, six'incher "SCANDAL," "PERV," ETC. But more gratifying, sinkers like " PONY DOPING SCANDAL!" "SHEEP IMPERSONATOR ALMOST FOUND," were delectable. British media is of a different penmanship indeed, smart and pestulant. And people do in fact read, even if it is cheeky like this one.

In some alleys and street markets, I have come across this poverty, and have walked away unprepared. People who have no teeth and prattle in some language of the hillside selling lids of casserole wares and mismatched socks. It is of another world, this kind of poverty—not one easy to romanticise. But allow me to broach the subject of romance…

On the subject of Gents…

#6 Much to my surprise, and yours, I did not fall into the barreled arms of a healthy Scotsman. As it happens, an American fella named Nick, who I acquainted with in the Expat circles of Prague, came round early for a visit, and subsequently, awestruck over Scotland and presumably drunk on the finest whisky, we toasted to our bright future—together.

Shortly thereafter he packed his bags up in Prague and we started fresh on the East Coast in Scotland’s Capital, Edinburgh.

The Capital

#7 Two months of ordinary hustle. This time, chasing precious Sterling—a value that is twice that of the GW dollar. (George WA, dammit). Edinburgh is somewhat ho-hum, pretty castle in the center of town, numerous bridges, pubs, stairwells, students and so forth. The "East Coast" is far more conventional and affluent. But personally, Glasgow has far more diverse architecture and beauty as well as an incomparable amount of art and music happenings.

Certainly, the rivalry of Glasgow v. Edinburgh was present. Edinburgh locals speak with far more aristocratic accents and snubbed Glaswegians quite openly.

What Edinburgh lights up for, but once a year, is the festival season, when the population doubles in size for the largest art festival in the world, the Fringe Festival. During these summer months, all is aglow, street performers line the cobblestone, the bars stay open til 3am, and
foreigners with cash to spare pour on in. At night the castle that sits on this cradle precipice of rock, is lit up with torches rendering a Transylvania-like illusion. Besides that aspect, the Scottishness was really imposed for tourists and the shows that we went to were way too rehearsed. (Apart from a local friend who is a talented ghost tour guide, the festivals were overrated and overpriced. Surprisingly, Comedians are really showcased, somewhat of a dying profession stateside. But this is another mark of the British, comedy, which is another sport—at times painful to witness…

What I did make my pint tokens on, is teaching English, thanks to my "esteemed" TEFL degree, which was first put into practice in Prague—hardly a rigorous student body. But Edinburgh is where all the well-off Europeans send their ornery and special teenagers to get their tongues disciplined to an English pitch. In addition to delineating from the Spanish lisp, I also worked with vonderful Germans, Italians, Japanese, Syrian and most memorable, the Saudi royals, with whom I tutored the art of humility-- to a fault. In an oft tutoring one-on-one, I took on a princess with a diamond in her front incisor, which she shined at me with a coy grin and a coquettish wink. Needless to say, we were not a good match, and that whole arrangement ended in vain. You can’t win them all...

(In the Ben Nevis Valley, cred. NGuettler)

The rest of the summer was spent exploring the coastline and the majestic mountaintops, including the highest peak in Britain, Ben Nevis. Notably, there was a lot of pedestrian traffic there, which apart from my backtalk, the ponies and sheep could give a care. It was on our descent that we realized, the traffic flow was organized-- a famous race was in effect. A three-mountain, 24-hour deal that National Geographic has covered. We toasted pints afterwards at the foot of the mountain with the best of them, including 16 truly Irish men of whom we hardly could understand a word. Between their serenade of song and Yankee taunts, every other word was some Catholic jeer. These boys were from the North…

Between Tunnocks' caramel logs and tea cakes (do visit this hyperlink, it is one of the best sites in around), and Tennet’s fine lager, kuntry and urban grit, hugs and headlocks, Scotland is a place that I hold very close and friends not far behind…

But sentimentality must head forward to the future where Nick and I from Day 1 had centered around: living and collaborating in the Balkans...