Yesterday I spent all day telling myself I was about to be productive: “It’s going to feel so good to have read the entire book before class tomorrow. You’re going to feel so accomplished and academic!” As I continued to scroll through newsfeeds, chat with my girlfriend, unnecessarily hunt for apartments, and watch Grapefruit League baseball, I repeated those ideas to myself. I did this from early afternoon, straight through when I should have attended two lectures. I was so busy procrastinating I didn’t make myself dinner until after 8 p.m. even though I was hungry at 6 p.m.
Eventually I picked up the book (“Wise Blood” by Flannery O’Conner) and read seven and a half pages, which I enjoyed. I stopped mid-sentence as I ran my fingers through my hair and decided I needed to shower. I put the book down on my desk, spine up, poised for me to return to it after I cleaned myself, but then thought more realistically and stuck my Metro card between the pages before relegating it to the windowsill.
Since getting to Edinburgh, I occasionally have days like this. I’ll sit around, telling myself to enjoy my time here, or at least to be productive. I posted a list above my desk titled, “Things I’d Like To Do Every Day.” At least I will have done something with my day if I:
1. Eat breakfast.
2. Write one letter or journal.
3. Pleasure read.
4. Do 1.5 hours of work.
5. Exercise.
I may not be realizing the potential of studying abroad, and the potential is rich in Edinburgh. The city is small enough to walk everywhere, which I prefer to do in any city. The buildings are stone and swoop around curved streets as they do in all the classic European cities. But the stone is dark and the roofs are interrupted by small, slate-covered gables and conical turrets. The city centers on Edinburgh Castle, which rises from the top of a natural platform and can be seen from almost anywhere. To the east is Arthur’s Seat, a similarly visible hilltop, which everyone ascends at some point when visiting Edinburgh. As the days get longer than a mere few hours of daylight, the rain and wind subside a little as well. Increasingly more people sit outside cafes rather than in them, still wearing jackets and hats, but happy to see the sun and calm of early spring. Museums old and new are scattered throughout the cobblestone streets, and, in my experience, they are all free and rarely crowded.
Nonetheless, I find myself sitting around quite often, not knowing what place to enjoy, and not knowing many people to enjoy them with. And over time, my list has become less effective than it was when I wrote it down; days like yesterday are an example of this.
What made last night memorable, though, was a knock that came on my door after I showered. I knew it was Lucy, my flatmate, because it was soft and quick and she’s the only one who ever knocks anyway. She stood in the hall wearing a pink, fuzzy bathrobe. Harry, a friend of hers from Dublin, stood with her wearing his German army coat.
“Do you want to get booze?” she asked.
Earlier in the day she invited me to her friend’s birthday party in the common room. I said I didn’t have any alcohol and needed to get this reading done for my seminar tomorrow.
“Are you going now?” I asked, conspicuously looking at her bathrobe.
“Harry is,” she answered.
“Uhh… sure,” I said. “Yeah. I just need to put shoes on.”
We drank the beers we bought out of orange juice glasses and Lucy had rosé in a small glass goblet that did not survive the evening. Orla, another friend of Lucy’s, joined us for a drink. She’s from Glasgow, has an eyebrow piercing, good sweaters, and a passion for conservation. We went over to the common room, where I knew no one beyond our group. I played a couple of games of pool with Lucy and Harry, making up most of the rules as we went.
After candle-less cake and a drunken announcement from the birthday girl, most of the party went out into the night for clubs and the like. Not being a part of that scene, Harry and I decided to go to The Golf Tavern, a cozy pub near our dorm that sells cheap pints to students.
Harry is a wild-haired literary type. He’s in a band that plays what he considers to be boring suburban rock and he laughs freely. While walking through the Museé d’Orsay on a visit to Paris, I spotted his doppelgänger in Henri Fantin-Latour’s painting “By the Table.” Harry appears on the right side of the canvas, bearded and sulking, while his aristocratic peers pose on the left. Though he usually drinks Guinness out of Irish pride, we each had three Caledonian Bests—his choice—and left the pub when the lights turned on.
Back at his place we tried his flatmate’s home-brewed beer, which we all agreed tasted a bit sandy. Harry finished off half a fifth of vodka that was left in the common room and we played Super Smash Bros. on a GameCube. I lost miserably.
Eventually I made it back to my room, sufficiently drunk.
I woke up this morning hungover, having not done the reading for a class that I feel too ill to go to anyway. I haven’t left my bed other than to fetch a bowl of cereal, but I think last night was good.