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.