Tea, Crack, and other ambiguities...

I’ve been in Edinburgh and the Northeast of England for about a week now.

Admittedly, I’m a bit shocked at the learning curve of simply existing over here. One would think that the transition from the decidedly colonial Canada to the decidedly imperial Britain would be smooth. Not the case.

I’ve learned so far that tea can mean actual tea (but this is also often referred to as “brew” as in “cuppa brew?”) that can be imbibed at any hour of the day in any quantity. I must say that black tea over here is much better than at home. Much. Much. Better. I think I would give up coffee if I lived here, if not because most people (thank god, not the people I’m living with) drink instant coffee. Now, I am being a bit judgy here, because I haven’t actually tried the instant coffee here, and if tea is any example, it might be better than at home. I’m not risking it.

Tea can also mean supper, which is also called supper and dinner interchangeably. Questions like “what would you like for tea?” and my response is “sugar please” have caused some confusion. Because I never know what word to use, so I’ve adopted a typical North American stance of just using what is best for me, so I say supper.

Last weekend R. and I visited S. and R, also known as my BBFFs (British Best Friends Forever). They are also my only friends over here aside from the people I’m living with, so luckily they are extremely high quality. We were heading down to Alnmouth for the evening to hang out with family and friends, and S. and her brother were suggesting different pubs we might try. Her brother offered up a suggestion with the qualifying remark that “you can get good crack there.” S. then asks what R. and I think. My response (from the backseat): “ummmm.....”. R’s response: “sounds good.”. What!?

Now, here’s the lesson. Crack is not crack. It’s “craic”, which means essentially gossip. There’s apparently lots of local gossip at this pub. [insert sigh of relief here]. This pub was a blast, complete with local eccentric and extremely cute terrier (who knew dogs were allowed in pubs here? Amazing.]

Alnwick and Alnmouth are totally beautiful—near the sea and while both quite small, have really good links into Newcastle, which we visited on Sunday. Newcastle is probably around the same size as Winnipeg, with a really big pedestrian only sector, and two urban university campuses, which makes the city seem really alive. S. and R. have just moved into a really beautiful home in Alnwick, and they are so lovely that they insisted I come back this weekend for their housewarming party, which is what I’m going to do!

Meanwhile, back in Edinburgh, I’m getting settled in (sort of) to the archive. It’s about an hour between Livingston, where I’m living and the archive by bus, but it’s also $100/month cheaper to go by bus than train, which would only take 30 minutes or so. I just don’t think at this point my time is that valuable. However, one shocking thing for my ‘historically rooted in Puritanism’ cultural comfort zone is that one is allowed to drink on the bus. So when two obviously totally drunk already stinky guys get on the bus at 4.30pm and crack a couple of king cans, no one bats an eye. These guys weren’t quite as yucky as ‘totally drunk with one tooth in his head cotton candy harasser’ from London, but they came a close second.

I’ve been trying to get the hang of my cell phone and phone card. What I’ve learned is that cellphones over here are absolutely extortionate. I bought a phone card in the hopes of avoiding this problem. Apparently when I complete my PhD, I will also get instructions as to how to use this bloody phone card. The real salt in the wound is that just when I think I’ve dialled correctly, a voice comes on to say the number isn’t valid. Now this simply isn’t possible, since as far as I know, my parents have had the same phone number since 1977. I know it by heart. Truly, I do. The voice prompts are all given by a woman’s voice with an ambiguous, upper-middle class English accent. However, once the voice comes on to explain that your number is “invalid”, it changes to an American accent. Why? This phone company is taunting me. It’s as if they know how frustrated I am, and they just want to give you that last little poke.

Last night C. And A. took me to Tesco Extra, which is the Scottish equivalent of a Walmart Supercentre. Because our money is basically decorative over here, I thought I would put my anti-Walmart sentiments aside for frugality’s sake. Everyone always says that things in North America are on such a huge scale compared to Europe. This Tesco Extra would put the biggest grocery store I’ve seen to absolute shame. This Tesco (which is currently being expanded to *double* its size, by the way), is probably about the size of a football field. I’m sure everyone thought I was nuts, but I took a bunch of photos by way of evidence.

I’m slowly getting into a rhythm over here, and despite being a bit lonely and missing Canada at times, I am having a great time. Next time, read the blog right before bed. I’ll give you an update on my research, which could prove to be a cheap and effective soporific for most of you...
xo