Sunday, April 3, 2011
Moving house
Hi, everyone. I've moved this blog to www.fromsalem2standrews.wordpress.com. Hope to see you there.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
The Wildcat goes a-roaming . . .
It's been four months, and the Wildcat wanted to roam. So, on the way back from picking Jesse's mom, sans Murray, from Heathrow we went on a roadtrip. The Wildcat has asked me to post his favorite shots.
While there's no evidence that Wildcats were actually drafted into WWII, the Wildcat enjoyed checking out the weaponry at the Imperial War Museum (although the old men and boys standing around us wondered why this crazy American woman kept propping a stuffed animal on canon).
On the way to the Lake District in northwest of England, we stopped at York. The Wildcat checked out the 11th century city walls from the comfort of a backpack.
As we all know, the Wildcat is a mystical beast, able to command winning seasons by sheer force of presence. To return him to his magical roots, we hiked up to Arbor Low, the Stonehenge of the north. Too bad all of the stones had already fallen over.
Saxons ran rampant through England throughout the 10th and 11th centuries. They left an imposing series of churches, silent and somehow peaceful (considering that they're surrounded by death), across the landscape. It was hard to figure out how to photograph this, because it seemed somehow wrong to snap the Wildcat sitting on graves. This was actually an ongoing problem, which may lead to an underground book entitled, "Photographing your mascot in wildly inappropriate and depressing scenarios for Dummies."
Castles, castles, castles. Skipton Castle's unusual, though, in that it has a roof. If you ever have to choose between a castle with a roof and one without, go with the roof.
And finally, the Wildcat at his home castle, St Andrews. I thought about tying a string to him and lowering him into the Bottle Dungeon but couldn't think of a reasonable explanation for doing so in the case that I accidentally dropped him. "Lemme get this straight. You thought it would be a good idea to tie a rope to a $15 toy and dangle it down a 700-year-old well for a picture for your blog. How old are you?"
The Wildcat, pondering maritime defense strategies.
On the way to the Lake District in northwest of England, we stopped at York. The Wildcat checked out the 11th century city walls from the comfort of a backpack.
As we all know, the Wildcat is a mystical beast, able to command winning seasons by sheer force of presence. To return him to his magical roots, we hiked up to Arbor Low, the Stonehenge of the north. Too bad all of the stones had already fallen over.
Saxons ran rampant through England throughout the 10th and 11th centuries. They left an imposing series of churches, silent and somehow peaceful (considering that they're surrounded by death), across the landscape. It was hard to figure out how to photograph this, because it seemed somehow wrong to snap the Wildcat sitting on graves. This was actually an ongoing problem, which may lead to an underground book entitled, "Photographing your mascot in wildly inappropriate and depressing scenarios for Dummies."
Castles, castles, castles. Skipton Castle's unusual, though, in that it has a roof. If you ever have to choose between a castle with a roof and one without, go with the roof.
And finally, the Wildcat at his home castle, St Andrews. I thought about tying a string to him and lowering him into the Bottle Dungeon but couldn't think of a reasonable explanation for doing so in the case that I accidentally dropped him. "Lemme get this straight. You thought it would be a good idea to tie a rope to a $15 toy and dangle it down a 700-year-old well for a picture for your blog. How old are you?"
The Wildcat, pondering maritime defense strategies.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Murray in the sky . . . at all
As those of you with Facebook accounts now know, Murray did not get on the plane bound for Scotland with Chris, Jesse's mom. Here's what happened.
By the time Jesse and I left, Murray had been microchipped, vaccinated, blood-tested and documented -- more so than any child, certainly -- as per the official UK Pet Transport Scheme. We believed that all we needed was the correct proof of these treatments, plus a last-minute flea treatment and health certificate. Piece of cake.
Twenty-four hours before the flight, Chris took Murray to the clinic to get the final treatment and certificate. The vet refused to provide the certificate without USDA approval -- something that was never mentioned on the UK Pet Transfer Scheme website. It never occurred to us that there would be rules for taking Murray out of the US.
Cut to 12:00 am, Scotland. Jesse's on the phone with VCA Animal Hospital in Salem, talking the vet into hand-carrying a copy of the original documentation to the USDA office before 4:30 pm so that the USDA can authoritatively stamp it. She's willing, and even pays the $100+ fee out of her own picket. I'm on Skype trying to find someone willing to pick up the stamped documents from VCA and drive two hours south to Eugene to hand them off to Chris, who leaves at 7:00 am (US time). We also secure this poor soul.
So, astonishingly, all of this happens. I Facebook that we're in the clear and settle down to wait for my dog.
Scene: noon on Friday UK time, 7 am West Coast. Chris arrives at the airport to find that Delta has placed a surprise embargo on transporting dogs to the UK. While airlines will text, email and call you if your flight time changes by two minutes, they apparently cannot be bothered to let you know that the expensive ticket you purchased for your pet is no longer valid.
There's nothing Chris can do, of course, except get on the plane. Murray goes back to Cave Junction.
Kurstin dissolves into hysterics. For the next three days.
Within the next two days, of course, Jesse hired a company that specializes in transporting dogs. It's expensive, but seems to be the only way to be absolutely certain he'll get here safely. Naturally, though, that already has a hitch. Part of the documents were completed in black ink. They need to be in blue ink. And they were completed for a dog traveling with a companion. He's now going by himself, and so needs updated documents.
His arrival, even through with the help of a very competent professional, has already been pushed back yet another week. Keep your fingers crossed, my friends, that he's here safely by the end of the month. I'd hate for St Andrews to have to find a new Director of Annual Giving.
By the time Jesse and I left, Murray had been microchipped, vaccinated, blood-tested and documented -- more so than any child, certainly -- as per the official UK Pet Transport Scheme. We believed that all we needed was the correct proof of these treatments, plus a last-minute flea treatment and health certificate. Piece of cake.
Twenty-four hours before the flight, Chris took Murray to the clinic to get the final treatment and certificate. The vet refused to provide the certificate without USDA approval -- something that was never mentioned on the UK Pet Transfer Scheme website. It never occurred to us that there would be rules for taking Murray out of the US.
Cut to 12:00 am, Scotland. Jesse's on the phone with VCA Animal Hospital in Salem, talking the vet into hand-carrying a copy of the original documentation to the USDA office before 4:30 pm so that the USDA can authoritatively stamp it. She's willing, and even pays the $100+ fee out of her own picket. I'm on Skype trying to find someone willing to pick up the stamped documents from VCA and drive two hours south to Eugene to hand them off to Chris, who leaves at 7:00 am (US time). We also secure this poor soul.
So, astonishingly, all of this happens. I Facebook that we're in the clear and settle down to wait for my dog.
Scene: noon on Friday UK time, 7 am West Coast. Chris arrives at the airport to find that Delta has placed a surprise embargo on transporting dogs to the UK. While airlines will text, email and call you if your flight time changes by two minutes, they apparently cannot be bothered to let you know that the expensive ticket you purchased for your pet is no longer valid.
There's nothing Chris can do, of course, except get on the plane. Murray goes back to Cave Junction.
Kurstin dissolves into hysterics. For the next three days.
Within the next two days, of course, Jesse hired a company that specializes in transporting dogs. It's expensive, but seems to be the only way to be absolutely certain he'll get here safely. Naturally, though, that already has a hitch. Part of the documents were completed in black ink. They need to be in blue ink. And they were completed for a dog traveling with a companion. He's now going by himself, and so needs updated documents.
His arrival, even through with the help of a very competent professional, has already been pushed back yet another week. Keep your fingers crossed, my friends, that he's here safely by the end of the month. I'd hate for St Andrews to have to find a new Director of Annual Giving.
Monday, March 7, 2011
If you happen to see the most awesome phone campaign caller in the world . . .
You know those days when you're not 100% sure you're actually worth your salary? Where you feel like at least .5 FTE could be saved if people no longer had to explain to you how to do the things you need to do?
That was me today. Plus I accidentally wore painful shoes, so that didn't help.
But instead of complaining, let me tell you why I love my phone campaign callers. When I say "hello," they ask how I am and wait for a response. They tell me all the time how lovely things are, and how brilliant (American: awesome) their conversations are. They stop me on the street and ask how much closer to goal the previous night's calling brought us.
One stopped me today to ask if we could count inflation in the total.
They use capital letters in emails and always let me know if one of my "good job" notes brightened their day. When sick, they tell me that they've "dosed" themselves (don't be frightened -- it means they took some cold medicine) and drank water, and assure me they'll be fine by the end of the night.
They leave notes on prospect records like, "Very, very strange phone call. I think she was very tired or possibly delirious." Then they promise me they kept the woman on the phone for ten minutes anyway.
Most importantly, they really care about their job. They understand that the phone campaign is a chance to be a part of something really exclusive and special, and they appreciate being trusted to do good work.
Even if I spend the next ten years fumbling my way through the confusing waters of annual giving in a modern world, getting to work with students like these will make the weird age-spots worth while.
That was me today. Plus I accidentally wore painful shoes, so that didn't help.
But instead of complaining, let me tell you why I love my phone campaign callers. When I say "hello," they ask how I am and wait for a response. They tell me all the time how lovely things are, and how brilliant (American: awesome) their conversations are. They stop me on the street and ask how much closer to goal the previous night's calling brought us.
One stopped me today to ask if we could count inflation in the total.
They use capital letters in emails and always let me know if one of my "good job" notes brightened their day. When sick, they tell me that they've "dosed" themselves (don't be frightened -- it means they took some cold medicine) and drank water, and assure me they'll be fine by the end of the night.
They leave notes on prospect records like, "Very, very strange phone call. I think she was very tired or possibly delirious." Then they promise me they kept the woman on the phone for ten minutes anyway.
Most importantly, they really care about their job. They understand that the phone campaign is a chance to be a part of something really exclusive and special, and they appreciate being trusted to do good work.
Even if I spend the next ten years fumbling my way through the confusing waters of annual giving in a modern world, getting to work with students like these will make the weird age-spots worth while.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Flu fit for a king
Just in case it seems like JFG and I live a wildly-exciting life, full of glamorous celebrities and hob-knobbing with royalty, you should see me now.
For the second time in two months, I have the flu. Not a cold, the flu. I creak around the office, refuse to shake hands, try not to lean over people and pretend that I'm going to actually leave the office early. I've had toast for dinner for a couple of nights in a row and can't be bothered to put clothes away. It's pathetic.
Here's my office-mates' interpretations of the situation: I am being exposed to dangerous, predatory European bugs to which my weak and untested American system is absurdly vulnerable. This does, of course, bring to mind Pocahontas and all of the other foreigner that Europeans brought back to the UK from their travels and accidentally killed with minor viruses. Whoops.
It also makes me wonder what these small, closed-in towns were like when the plague hit. The outer edges of Scotland managed to rebuff the Black Death -- at least the island's first bout with it -- simply because of the thinly-spread populations and the cold, which tended to put the virus into hibernation. However, as towns like St Andrews became popular pilgrimage sites and as the bacteria had to travel further and further to find people with susceptible immune systems, plague became a more familiar occurrence.
Fortunately, these days, Scotland is a country that still sells Pseudoephedrine without CIA clearance. You can get some decent painkillers over the counter, and no one thinks much of dosing with sherry. Plus people here still use hot water-bottles for warmth and comfort when feeling, well, "peaked" as my boss described me this morning (what to get for the person who has everything? A stripey, knitted hot water-bottle cover, of course).
Too sore to sleep. Too tired not to sleep. All I can say is that it is a darn good thing I didn't meet Kate and Wills. Their illness immediately after their St Andrews visit could have caused an international incident. Dodged a bullet there.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Long live the King
Well, after all of that fuss and kerfuffle – worrying about seating arrangements, soggy ground, security, each blink of a two-hour visit – the Prince and Miss Middleton have come and gone.
We reported for duty, dark and smart with our official St Andrews scarves on, at 8:45 this morning in St Salvator’s Quad (the oldest architectural landmark on campus, dating to the mid-fifteenth century). Clipboards in hand, we stood shivering in the rain and wind for an hour and a half, although I spent a fair bit of that time in the bathroom by the radiator. Students and staff trickled in and were seated by student ambassadors dressed in their red gowns by strict St Andrews caste standards – gown all the way on for freshers, on one shoulder for second year, the other shoulder for third, and worn hanging off the elbows for soon-to-be-grads – with careful deference for anyone old enough to be a VIP.
At 10:45 the choir began to sing, beautiful Latin hymns broadcast throughout the quad. And then at 11:15, right as we had all decided that we would patriotically freeze to death, the sun burst from behind a cloud. The bells rang. The estates gentlemen, dressed in full regalia and carrying the University’s six maces, marched in formation through one of the gates followed by the Prince and Miss Middleton.
She is SO thin, but stunning. He is actually more attractive in person than in pictures. He gave a lovely (short) speech about how nice it was to be “home,” how St Andrews was the best university in the world (followed by a rousing cheer from the attendant students) and how honoured he was to support the University’s 600th anniversary campaign.
Ah-ha! Now comes my bit. As Wills and Kate recessed from the dais (left the stage) I organised my eight VIPS – all tutors, house cleaners or residence hall managers for the Prince during his University days – into a horse-shoey shape next to the green carpet, shallow enough so that no royal feet must tread upon the grass while they shake hands, but not so shallow that we take up too much room. Thusly organised, I stepped back behind the rope.
The Prince and Kate stopped in front of my humble charges (about eight feet from me), greeted each, and shook hands. I believe I caught Kate’s eye, and I like to think she either admired the shape my people stood in or, more likely, loved my coat.
Bells rang. A bagpiper played, and Wills and Kate left the Quad. You could tell when they reached the street, because the gathered crowd set up a loud cheer. Many of them had been waiting for hours, soggier, colder and prouder than I.
The amazing thing is that they were like . . . well, people. They joked with students about writing bad papers, playing sports, living in residence halls, going to parties, school pride. Up close, they're as fragile as you and me (except that they were being tracked by snipers at the top of city towers). I looked at them, especially her, and wondered how two frail human beings can possibly stand the tests of normal life, let alone the challenges of being a powerless monarch during a point in history when all megaliths -- economies, tyrannies, nationalities -- are challenged and crumbling under the pressure. If they want to survive the next fifty years, is the ability to show up, say a few words, and take great pictures talent enough? For his parents, it was not.
So, that’s it. I didn’t fall over, blurt out anything, call anyone by the wrong name, organise my people in the wrong geometrical shape, speak to anyone I should not have spoken to or otherwise jeopardise an incredible moment.
I couldn’t take any pictures, but there are some cracking ones on the Daily Mail (in the shots from today, Kate’s wearing a red suit). It’s nice to feel like I was a part of something important. Tonight, tomorrow, next week, ten years from now it will be nice knowing that, once upon a time, I stood eight feet from royalty -- human, breakable and flawed in all its glory.
We reported for duty, dark and smart with our official St Andrews scarves on, at 8:45 this morning in St Salvator’s Quad (the oldest architectural landmark on campus, dating to the mid-fifteenth century). Clipboards in hand, we stood shivering in the rain and wind for an hour and a half, although I spent a fair bit of that time in the bathroom by the radiator. Students and staff trickled in and were seated by student ambassadors dressed in their red gowns by strict St Andrews caste standards – gown all the way on for freshers, on one shoulder for second year, the other shoulder for third, and worn hanging off the elbows for soon-to-be-grads – with careful deference for anyone old enough to be a VIP.
At 10:45 the choir began to sing, beautiful Latin hymns broadcast throughout the quad. And then at 11:15, right as we had all decided that we would patriotically freeze to death, the sun burst from behind a cloud. The bells rang. The estates gentlemen, dressed in full regalia and carrying the University’s six maces, marched in formation through one of the gates followed by the Prince and Miss Middleton.
She is SO thin, but stunning. He is actually more attractive in person than in pictures. He gave a lovely (short) speech about how nice it was to be “home,” how St Andrews was the best university in the world (followed by a rousing cheer from the attendant students) and how honoured he was to support the University’s 600th anniversary campaign.
Ah-ha! Now comes my bit. As Wills and Kate recessed from the dais (left the stage) I organised my eight VIPS – all tutors, house cleaners or residence hall managers for the Prince during his University days – into a horse-shoey shape next to the green carpet, shallow enough so that no royal feet must tread upon the grass while they shake hands, but not so shallow that we take up too much room. Thusly organised, I stepped back behind the rope.
The Prince and Kate stopped in front of my humble charges (about eight feet from me), greeted each, and shook hands. I believe I caught Kate’s eye, and I like to think she either admired the shape my people stood in or, more likely, loved my coat.
Bells rang. A bagpiper played, and Wills and Kate left the Quad. You could tell when they reached the street, because the gathered crowd set up a loud cheer. Many of them had been waiting for hours, soggier, colder and prouder than I.
The amazing thing is that they were like . . . well, people. They joked with students about writing bad papers, playing sports, living in residence halls, going to parties, school pride. Up close, they're as fragile as you and me (except that they were being tracked by snipers at the top of city towers). I looked at them, especially her, and wondered how two frail human beings can possibly stand the tests of normal life, let alone the challenges of being a powerless monarch during a point in history when all megaliths -- economies, tyrannies, nationalities -- are challenged and crumbling under the pressure. If they want to survive the next fifty years, is the ability to show up, say a few words, and take great pictures talent enough? For his parents, it was not.
So, that’s it. I didn’t fall over, blurt out anything, call anyone by the wrong name, organise my people in the wrong geometrical shape, speak to anyone I should not have spoken to or otherwise jeopardise an incredible moment.
I couldn’t take any pictures, but there are some cracking ones on the Daily Mail (in the shots from today, Kate’s wearing a red suit). It’s nice to feel like I was a part of something important. Tonight, tomorrow, next week, ten years from now it will be nice knowing that, once upon a time, I stood eight feet from royalty -- human, breakable and flawed in all its glory.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
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