Moving house

Hi, everyone. I've moved this blog to www.fromsalem2standrews.wordpress.com. Hope to see you there.

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.

We tried another stone circle, this time with stones upright.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Try to avoid running AT the Prince . . .

The Wildcat waits for the royal visit.

My golden ticket

Imagine a town, made almost entirely out of 17th century stone blocks, with three cobbled main streets running parallel to each other and ending in a 13th century cathedral and graveyard. The town, largely pedestrian, has small shops, a 15th century chapel with a clock tower, an old fountain, tiny "wynds" or alleys leading to enclosed gardens and low houses with brightly painted doors.

Now imagine that town invaded by Matrix 3 agents dressed in black uniforms and glow-in-the-dark vests, like swarming, hostile crossing guards.

We’ve watched mysterious vans arrive and eject flocks of these men, only to scoop them up and dart away moments later. We’ve had bomb-sniffing dogs. Manholes and pipes are sealed shut. Bus stops have been removed. Classes have been rescheduled for buildings outside the perimeter. We saw someone checking the electrical panels on the street lights yesterday and marking them off with tape. And two days ago we received a security briefing which I cannot apparently share with you. Suffice it to say we should report anyone who alleges to have a bomb (as opposed to asking them in for tea?).

The University has issued 390 tickets, 300 to students and 90 to staff. Students call them "golden tickets." Each person selected has been background checked and issued a dress code (yes, you can wear official academic gowns if you wish) and a series of warnings regarding hats, bags, cameras, umbrellas and entrance and exit points. Everything has been royally and publicly ordained down to the very last niggling detail -- everything except what, precisely, will be happening.

I do have a few more details. In addition to the unveiling of the plaque, apparently Wills and Kate get to see the 600-year-old papal bull that started the University in 1413. So we . . . will be looking at them . . . looking at paper. Yep, we'll surely need bodyguards to keep the hysteric hordes out of that particular event.

But I'm dodging the most important point – I get to go. I have been selected as a VIP minder. Fortunately, I have experience. I minded Donna Brazile (Al Gore's campaign manager) when she provided training for librarians in Virginia. If I can handle one of the toughest, most powerful politicians and commentators in the country, I can manage a 29-year-old monarch. I think. Actually, I don’t know who I’m minding, but I’m excited. I’m to wear a dark, smart suit, which should make me look sufficiently like a flight attendant. A damp, cold flight attendant, according to the weather report, with tired feet, probably stuck holding an umbrella over (doubtlessly) a rather middling level donor who must be kept away from shellfish.

Never mind. Doesn't matter. Students are thrilled, rushing in breathlessly to pick up their tickets (official ID, please, and a signature!) and dancing out the door holding their cream-colored envelope with both hands. Store owners are thrilled – in fact, a local bakery has written “600” in the store window using cupcakes. And I’m thrilled. The Quad where the events will be taking place is only a couple hundred feet square. This is the closest I’ll ever get to a real, live princess.

Kate and Will -- Watch this space!

It's true -- the soon-to-be royal couple is going to visit St Andrews this Friday to launch the 600th campaign and anniversary celebrations. William (or Will, as we call him) has agreed to be the patron of the 600th celebrations, and it's their only visit to Scotland before the April 29th wedding (which is a national holiday). As I understand it, the visit will be covered as all their movements are by lots of press and royal-watchers. However, I'm beginning to think that they need only send Kate -- frankly everyone seems to be more interested in her shoes than anything Will does.

I am not certain I'll even be able to see the couple during the visit. Only 300 staff members and several hundred students will be allowed to attend the one formal ceremony that's planned, where William and Kate will stand in St Salvator's Quad and unveil a plaque honoring the anniversary. Names are being chosen by lottery. Even if I can't attend, though, I'm hoping they process down North Street in front of the Development office so that I can at least catch a glimpse of Kate's shiny, shiny hair.

It would probably serve the University well if I wasn't chosen to attend, to be perfectly honest. First, I can't bow. Remember trying to get your Barbie doll to bend over or sit in a chair or get into her Ferrari? That's what I look like bowing. And it's just possible that I actually should curtsey, which would be even more ridiculous. Second, I have the uniquely American tendency to call everyone by their first names, and appeals to colleagues regarding what one calls a future Princess have yielded nothing but confusion. I already know I'm not supposed to call her Kate (that's only for close friends) but Catherine? Miss Middleton? Is it possible . . . your royal highness? My populist roots might cause me to choke. Or snicker. How disgraceful. Best to save that opportunity for a royal subject.

Anyway, massive roadworks have begun in St Andrews . We have begun intense office discussions about whether or not a royal visit necessitates a new outfit. Pubs have a fresh coat of paint, and locals been notified that downtown parking will be closed off from Thursday night (which honestly appalls the Brits in the office, who seem offended that they are not trusted not to assassinate public figures). As an American, I expect road closures, metal detectors, secret service snipers, bullet-proof glass, invasive background checks. But several of my colleagues who attended University and graduated with William (who was a lackluster scholar, as it turns out) insist that his commencement arrangements required attendees to bring proof of identity -- and that's about it. Either Brits are just less homicidal than my people or -- and this is more likely -- tight gun control makes a safer society. Maybe guns do in fact kill people.

I'll take photos of course but can only promise blurry shots of passing Rolls Royces. If I am selected to attend, I'll try to represent us Yanks as behooves a former colonist whose people, frankly, won. If you see me on the next episode of Locked Up Abroad, you'll know how I did.

Shipping in a material world

In several posts I have complained bitterly about the fact that our boxes had not arrived. I moaned about shoes I couldn't wear, utensils I couldn't cook with, unfamiliar towels and linens.

I take it back. I take it all back.

Our boxes arrived this week -- sixteen huge, battered, torn, squished boxes, stacked on top of each other and all sitting in our living room (we've moved the furniture to the dining area in desperation). Many of them rattle mysteriously or are missing corners. In an honest moment I must confess to being mildly excited at seeing the box labeled "18 pairs of shoes." It was like Shoe Santa Claus arrived in our home. Each layer of shoes I peeled back revealed another set of shoes that I hadn't realized how much I missed.

We did not have the same reaction to the contents of all boxes. Let me itemize for you some of the utterly ridiculous things we packed, on that far-off and long-ago day of Salem materialism:

• 2 sushi plates -- because god knows normal plates won't suffice if there is some kind of norimaki emergency
  


• water bottles that must be three or four years old (and look it)
  


• a shot glass -- and not a normal, free-with-liquor-purchase kind but a hand-decorated, handwash-only one
  


• a box of power bars -- worth at the most $15
  


• measuring cups that measure in ounces and measuring spoons that measure in tablespoons (think about it)
  


• seven (seven) usb cables
  


• 125 hangers (I can actually remember a conversation where one of us said, "Honey, we need to at least bring our good hangers")
  


• six pillows (which brings the total number of pillows in this 800-square-foot, two-bedroom house to twelve) and about a thousand towels in varying conditions of wear
  


• clothes I don't even like that much including several pairs of jeans that don't really fit



• a pair of sandals that tear the skin off my heels when I wear them -- but were bought in Aberdeen in 2005 so they had to come -- and a pair of boots I literally last wore in 2006 but seemed appropriate as they are lined with fake fur
  


• two silicone liners for cookie sheets . . . but only one cookie sheet . . .
  


• a 23-year-old copy of Little Women
  


• a substantially older game of Scrabble that I'm pretty sure is missing an "a"

In sum, although the British have the second highest rate of consumption in the world, this volume of stuff seems completely mad even by British standards.

And what didn't I bring? An extra pair of mittens, a cupcake pan, a regular pan, an ice cream scoop, a decent razor, logic, a reasonable sense of what is truly necessary to sustain life in 95% of the world. The outcome? We are actually donating clothes to charity shops. We brought clothes 5,000 miles so that we could donate them to charity shops which, because they are not registered 501c3s, cannot issue us a receipt for a tax deduction.

Sigh. Well, off to visit my shoes. They've gotten lonely after two months on a Chinese freighter.

Crypts, pirates and other mysteries

There's nothing much mysterious about Valentine's Day. Chocolates, cheap jewelry, candles -- corporations have made very clear what our expectations should be.

So that's why today's post is about mysteries. This Valentine's in Glasgow weekend was full of mysteries for JFG and me. Perhaps you can figure out the answers.










Will the meringue epidemic ever end?

















Why would Victorians, capitalists who defined the meaning of the word for Marx, waste property with a view like this . . .















. . . by installing thousands of uber-creepy crypts?











Even in Scotland, is there such a thing as a hotel with too much plaid?














Why would JFG volunteer to take this picture?

How many fake rats do you need to make the point that 19th century merchant ships were disgusting?

What was this supposed to be?

If you needed a place to put your gigantic Bible, would you choose a statue of the Muppet eagle judge?

But most spectacularly: what did JFG and I, two people who are spiritual on good days and agnostic on bad ones, do to deserve a miracle like this in the chapel underneath a 13th century Glasgow cathedral at 9:45 am on a Saturday morning?

Whatever it is, we should do it again.

Kurstin and Jesse went to market

One sunny Saturday morning, Kurstin and Jesse went into town to get collect food for their supper. They walked down Lade Braes (bonnie ladies) path . . .

through Boase Wood, past the old mill and across the bridge . . .

and to the market at the far end of the town (or toun).

But they weren't sure what to eat. They looked at smoked fish (or smokies) . . .

and brussels sprouts . . .

and organic eggs . . .

and three kinds of hot chocolate.

Finally, they bought chicken (from the poultry man who also sold guinea fowl and goose) . . .

and cheddar-and-ginger cheese (although, truth be told, they considered the cheddar-and-whisky option) . . .

and a chocolate bar with Snickers in it . . .

and gluten-free sausage stuffed with sage and onion . . .

and were home in time for tea.