Bus etickette

Queue nicely in bus stops that are designed like narrow tunnel systems with openings straight onto the road, with free sidewalks behind them. Let any exiting passengers get off in a timely fashion before you move onto the bus. Give correct money to the money hole by the bus driver, who won't give you anything back should you not have exact change. If you're not having a single ticket, you should say something. Otherwise, there is no need to talk to the person behind the glass. If you do talk, remember to say please, thank you!

Take ticket, printed from somewhere near you - it can come out in several places, keep your eyes peeled. Move towards some free seat, but not any of the priority ones. They are, according to the drawings, for people with walking sticks, children, a broken leg or similar afflictions. While moving through the bus, pretend to know what you are doing, show no fear. If you're really in the know, pick up a Metro. When getting closer to your destination, start preparing to leave. As soon as the bus leaves the stop before yours, get up, ring the stopper and move to the front of the bus, ready to get off. Try to remain standing while the bus starts and stops in traffic, and try to avoid swinging your bag in somebody's face or someone else's Metro as the bus turns a corner at high speed. When leaving the bus, make sure you thank the driver for getting you semi-safely to your destination. If you don't thank them, they are likely to drive past you next time you try to get on a bus. Actually, they may do that regardless. Or it could be that there is a secret sign to identify you as a potential passenger, not just somebody hanging out in an orderly queue at a bus stop. I just haven't found it yet, so buses tend to drive past from time to time.

During the two and a half years I lived in Dublin, I took the normal bus once, under friendly supervision. (I also bussed from Donegal to Belfast, and took the Aircoach several times. None of these count, you can just pretend to be a tourist, and there is no pressure to know any bus tickets or etiquettes.) The frightening circumstances of not knowing the many unwritten rules, with a total inability to decipher the bus routes and thus only being able to guess what bus would show up when and go where, proved too much for me. In Scotland necessity has proved to be a competent teacher, and as a public service to all of you: they are no longer unwritten rules, you can read them above and get on the public transport with no fear. (Unless you fear falling over on slippy floors after fast bus breaking - this is still a risk you have to live with, and happened to a poor woman on my bus only this morning.)

Oh, and the current adult ticket price is £1.20 for a single journey, £3.00 for a day ticket and you can get Ridacards for £15-£540 (from a week to a year).

Have a safe trip!

Fluid electricity

Ever since I moved to the great foreign lands of abroad, away from comforts and habits at home, some things have held particular fascination for me. One I've described the magic of before is self service checkout (still to this day a thrilling experience!), and now the time has come to marvel over leaking electricity. This is a concept that as far as I can grasp is only a problem in these islands, and may stem from the fact that the power produced here is a particularly flighty form of coal power. Or maybe it is just that they don't trust this new-fangled business of light and heating directly from the wall.

In any case, the fact that Irish and British people apparently think that electricity will steadily drip out of the sockets and add up on the monthly bills unless they turn it off at the root, is a continuous source of wonderment. So they have installed switched sockets, everywhere. I mean everywhere. Keep calm and carry on, lie back and think of England, and remember to turn off the socket switch. In one simple motion, no power will find it's way through to your heater or your TV or your bedside lamp. And no nasty leaks, you will want to make sure that the electricity company fat cats don't get hold of your hard earned money, for power you didn't even use. So the socket switch is ubiquitous. They come in all shapes and colours, and are often joined by fused plugs (in case the leaking electricity proves too much for the appliance, just blow the fuse in the plug so that you don't have to replace the whole thing. Pure genious!).

But laugh as I may, and with a slight condescending nod of the head I may look at these paranoid creatures and their primitive ideas of fluid electricity, it now seems more and more that the idea is actually very good. No pulling out plugs left, right and centre before going on holiday, to ensure that your telly doesn't blow up in case there is a storm while you are gone (people still do that, right?). Just do a round of switch-switching, and you can leave the cables in there as much as you want. No more dragging the fridge out in the middle of the floor to turn it off when you decide to go au naturel for a week (OK, nobody does that!). No need to haul out a whole freezer to get to the wiring in the back to defrost, all you need is to switch off that handy, external socket on the wall, and poof! Electricity be gone. I'm amazed, not at the idea of leaking power (you don't need to turn the switch off when there is nothing in the socket. You just don't.), but at the practical nature of this genious device that maybe we should export further, to an electricity-poor Norway in wintertime, for instance. Turn off the driveway heater with the turn of a switch!

As my friend the Wichita Lineman Glen Campbell would say: Such are the dreams of the everyday housewife. But switched sockets, not just a dream.

Back home

After a long stay in Norway, which was fantastic, relaxing, enjoyable and beautiful, I do love being back in Scotland, back in the world that I now call home. The Anglo-Celtic (?) culture and tradition is sometimes wonderfully strange to me, but also more and more my own and my home.

Flying in over Aberdeen (in a charming Widerøe Dash 8 100 propeller, which gives you a feeling of proximity to your environment that is hard to get in bigger jet engine planes, and which is particularly suited to coming home somewhere), watching brick houses with long back yards and clotheslines, little high streets, open fields and granite, organised in a charming, haphazard way that Norway's ramshackle but sorted settlements will probably never be. On the other hand, even if the towns are plotted out nicely and ordered, there is a lot less structure and stricture there, unlike the cultured neighbours in a fjord-ridden country further west. What Norwegians cherish in being out in the wilderness, about being in a primitive cottage without electricity and water to relax, with getting away from it all: the freedom and naturalism, is maybe what they banish from everyday life, from homes and cities, where rules, etiquette and expectations are often the orders of the day. On the other hand, in Ireland especially, and in Scotland, at least outside of Edinburgh, the people and the world are less formal, taking yourself seriously is less important, breaking the rules is more fun than keeping them, and the attitude is that "it'll be fine!" - particularly when it probably won't.

A striking example of this is the attitude to snow, which for many parts of the UK is a pressing concern these days. Norway has -23 degrees and a heavy layer of snow in the rainiest city, but the buses run on time, the plough cars are out before dawn (which to be honest is easy to do, as dawn is about 2 o'clock in winter...) and no schools stay closed just because the layer of snow is taller than the kids. The education will be administered, the roads will be cleared, everyone wears practical puffa jackets and sturdy winter boots, and there is no nonsense about this. Over here, people expect 'snow days' when the weather forecast shows 0 degrees celcius, expecting to get a day off work because it's too hard to get there in 10 cm powder. The trains collapse, the heating doesn't work, the council runs out of grit, salt and gas, but are we worried? Nah, it'll be fine! In Yorkshire, people and sheep huddle together in the pub, in North East Scotland they find alternative solutions for Christmas dinner, and in Aberdeen the taxi drivers claim ardently that it's only 'down sooth' that they can't handle the weather. It'll be fine up here!

And you can't but love it. It also helps having the Norwegian sensible winter wear culture - layers and boots really do help...

Welcome to Scotland, please meet the NHS

When travelling or moving to a new country, I like to try to get to know it well, getting under the surface and connecting by trying to behave like a local, learn the language or attempt to understand it by being very enthusiastic about and interested in the history, culture and geography. When living in France I studied French and tried to be like a snooty Parisian, watched French films, read and wrote about seminal French writers like Stendhal, and worked hard on looking seriously in thought over La Libération, Le Magazine Littéraire and a glass of wine. In Dublin, I sat in pubs with pints of Guinness and servings of bangers and mash, went on road trips to Leitrim and Cork, I picked up a random Irish accent and got nowhere learning Gaeilge for a year and a half. In Scotland so far, while not attempting to start Scots lessons just yet, I have read a busload of Ian Rankin books, listened to The Vale of Atholl Pipe Band and had at least one pleasant meal of haggis, neeps and tatties. My integration scheme has also been fast forwarded by getting proper Scottish blood running through my veins, possibly resulting in a refusal to pay any extortionate amount to go home for Christmas (in turn leading to some twisted, but cheaper, travel plans, thanks to Skyscanner.net and their genius price comparison systems).

Almost a month after arriving in Scotland, and only a week after starting my new job – which I love, so far, although I have really not been able to work enough to completely get my head around everything, something I am truly sorry for! – my body decided that a medical emergency would be just the thing to get me settled properly. Off I went, then, in agony, first to our new excellent GPs, which we found randomly in the old trusted phone book (as we still did not have our Virgin Media internet installed, thank you very much for the delay, grrr) and who helpfully got us registered quickly and I want to say painlessly, but that would be a blatant lie. The consultation was great, and free, the referral to the hospital simple and efficient, and when we got to the Royal Infirmary of Edinburgh (I love hospitals with proper, posh-sounding names!), they were absolutely amazing there too:

“A spot of bother you say? We’ll cut you up and sew you back together, no problem. We’ll also be very professional, exceptionally friendly, helpful and competent, and make sure you are comfortable in every possible way we can. And it will all be free, even the drugs and the blood we kindly bestow upon you in exchange for all that of your own that you lost throughout this nonsense.” Scottish doctors and health staff (including the Irish, American, Indian and English ones who work here) are possibly the best ones I have ever met – and I’ve met a few. The nursing staff work 12,5 hour shifts, which is unbelievably long, but they are still insanely friendly, compassionate and knowledgeable. The hospital buildings are clean, modern, warm and spacious. I had a single room for my whole stay, and although the food wasn’t amazing, it was nutritious, healthy and generous.

And here, dear Norway (and Ireland, for that matter), is the real kicker: Even though I have not paid a single penny in taxes, even if I did not even yet have a National Insurance Number (PPS number/Social Security number/personnummer), treating me for free was the least they could do. For six days the NHS paid for my bed, my food (when they finally allowed me to eat, although I guess the intravenous stuff counts too), my care and my comfort. The scar might even be turning out to be almost invisible. I know there are debates about the NHS, but this is seriously the best health scheme I can think of. It also seems the Scottish way of running hospitals, more as smaller, independent units than giant factory machines we seem to prepare in Norway, are even more cost effective, as well as providing better care. And did I mention I was treated for free?

Imagine my joy, then, when I finally come home from hospital, stitched up and with less blood than I started out with, and find a significant bill (and I mean significant, we are talking several months pay here!) from the Norwegian government for taxes owed them. Taxes, what taxes? Tax on money I earned in Ireland, and for which I paid tax in full to Ireland. That should be enough, surely? No, Norway insists that I pay them taxes too – in addition to whatever I pay in my country of residence. They want to have whatever extra they ‘would have taxed me if I lived and worked in Norway’, regardless of whether or not I do live there. And it’s not like the money I have to pay will give me any benefits, like pension rights, health care or any of the other things tax payers’ money usually go to – no, this is just money I get to pay for ‘having lived in Norway for more than 10 years’. So, in my long-lasting recovery period, while focusing on resting and recuperating, one of the very annoying things I unfortunately have to do is fight with tax servants in Norway, which I can tell you is quite a bit more painful than being operated on in a nice NHS hospital in Scotland. I don’t necessarily recommend either, but I know which one I’d choose again...

Image from www.sxc.hu

New function - Find your flights here!

As a service to those of you who urgently feel the need to come visit wonderful Edinburgh after reading the blog, or to those who spend their work hours perusing the net and dreaming of the big escape, I have just made your day so much easier. At the bottom of the page, you can find a very useful tool to search for cheap flights around the world, and Skyscanner.net will help you find the cheapest or most flexible options. You can then proceed to booking with whoever gives you the best offer. Neat? Absolutely!

Please give me any feedback on this function, I want to hear what you think!

Thanks - and have a great trip!

Not Too Late to Remember November

Fireworks and nightly displays of bonfires have many occasions: in Norway we have New Year’s Eve as the big explosive night, and St. Hans for bonfire fun in the middle of summer. Ireland celebrates Bealtaine in May with fire and, while there is nary a rocket on New Year’s Eve, there are official displays on Halloween. In Scotland it seems they do like their big bangs, as will be experienced during Hogmanay, Edinburgh’s much renowned New Year festivities, but one also gets a good taste of the displays during Bonfire Night, or Guy Fawkes Night, or the fifth of November as it is known in the poem:

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I know of no reason
Why the Gunpowder TreasonShould ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;

By God's providence he was catch'dWith a dark

lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
And what should we do with him? Burn him!

For film buffs, V for Vendetta is also tightly connected to the story of Guy Fawkes, who conspired to blow up the Houses of Parliament. The Gunpowder Plot failed as Guy (or Guido, as was his real name) was grassed to the officials, and caught with ‘match in hand’ on the 5th of November 1605, near 36 barrels of gunpowder meant to destroy the State buildings and the royal family. The bonfire celebrations around the old Commonwealth mark the deliverance of the King and the failure of the plot to destroy the parliament, and traditionally an effigy of Guy is burned on the fires. The Gunpowder plot was led by Robert Catesby, a prominent English Roman Catholic, and with the experienced soldier Guy Fawkes in charge of the explosives, a group of Catholic rebels had planned this as a revenge against King James, who had promised to treat the Catholic community better than his predecessors Mary, Queen of Scots and Elizabeth I, under whom Catholicism had been penalised and marginalised.

After failing to keep his promise of greater religious tolerance to the Catholic community, the group led by Catesby decided to strike, but with the discovery of the plot, strict anti-Catholic legislation was imposed and Guy Fawkes and seven of his fellow plotters were sentenced to be hanged, drawn and quartered.

Events like these mark the fact that I have clearly moved country, and that with this comes different traditions, altered celebrations and new events to commemorate and remember. Although a lot is similar, being in the UK rather than in Ireland means for instance that history is scattered with kings and queens who shape history, and that royalty all of a sudden plays a significant part in so many new ways. But for those of us with no belief in the current power of royalty, events like Bonfire Night at least offer a great night out with fantastic views and beautiful displays of fireworks. Like us, many people found their way up to Calton Hill, which offers good views of many of the public firework displays, without the harrowing climb up Arthur’s Seat in the dark.

Looking across the Forth of Firth to Fife, taking in Leith and Granton, turning around to catch glimpses of Duddingston and maybe some of the fireworks in the Meadows, I realise that there is so much to get to know in Edinburgh, but that the vantage points of higher spots like Calton Hill and Arthur’s Seat give you a chance to take it all in before you set out to delve deeper into it. While standing on this neo-classical hill, with Greek and Roman architecture to mark Scotlands role in the Enlightenment, on a cold November night, looking over a city where the black spires and towers of gothic and neo-classical buildings are carved out against a red sky, where monuments and mountains dominate the skyline, and where you can feel the city plummet from the precipices, with buildings shooting up like rockets and the ridges of the hills in and around it shape the landscape and winding roads, you tend to forget the people who have forged history, royal or not, and for a while you can see only the city of Edinburgh, majestic in her own way, and celebrated with fireworks, darkness and light.

Two-faced city or multifaceted gem? Both!

Only now is this becoming Scotland Stories, in plural, because although Edinburgh and Scotland are full of stories (more on well known ones later), finding the time to record them is still a challenge. We’ve been almost three weeks in Scotland by now, and according to legend this is already more time than it took for me to feel at home in Ireland – even to pick up an Irish accent, it is said. The accent is still firmly with me, as many more or less officials comment on (“You are sure you do not have dual citizenship?” – Immigration and Passport Services, “You sound more Irish than [the Irish writer]” – Vodafone guy from Northern Ireland, “You don’t sound Norwegian” – Front desk in IPS and three different banks), and maybe the adopted Irishness has also followed me, for as of yet Edinburgh does not strike me as my home town, like Dublin did surprisingly quickly.

Maybe it is the complex nature of Edinburgh that makes it harder to get under the surface of it and feel included, compared to the straight forward welcome from Dublin. Many tell tales of the duality of this city, referring to dichotomies such as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, written by a son of the city, which many refer to as an image of the capital itself: Outwardly and publicly neat, moral and well to do, while secretly harbouring dark fantasies and partaking in activities that do not stand the day of light. Its nicknames may also be said to reflect the same complementary contradictions: Auld Reekie is one, alluding to the smelly and dirty air hovering above the town in older days, a result of Nor Loch (where Princes Street Gardens are today) being a common waste pond for sewage and discards, even serving as a execution place by drowning, as well as the strong wafts from breweries and distilleries in the city, and mining works across the river in Fife. Another nickname, referring to a different side of the city is Athens of the North, telling the story of Edinburgh as a central place in the Scottish Enlightenment, source to many philosophers and writers (David Hume, Adam Smith, Robert Louis Stevenson, James Watt, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns etc) and even with its own Greek temples and pillars, both on Calton Hill and throughout the city as inspiration for many an official building.

Just as striking is the doublet of the Old and New Towns, Old Town consisting of the now touristy strip down on the crag down from the Castle Esplanade, the Royal Mile as it is known, and surrounding streets, closes and gates. This part of the city is characterised by tall buildings, many 15 stories high, long, narrow closes that are but a metre or two wide, many now underground as the centuries have built on top of them as foundations for government buildings and the like, and buildings coloured dark over the centuries by the weather and the activities of Auld Reekie. The New Town on the other side, literally, is a well planned, geometrically organised and mainly Georgian part of town, built with the well to do in mind, who had had enough of the filth and crowds of the Old Town, and escaped the hustle, bustle and sewage of the dark alleys on the south side of the old Nor Loch.

They moved in to wide avenues, fashionable crescents with private gardens, bright and light windows that would see the sun as they were not obscured by clothes lines and next door neighbours across the road so close you could touch them by leaning out your window. And still today the New Town is more fashionable, sober, prim, proper and grandiose, with specialist boutique shops, hunting outfits and organically grown free range fair trade courgettes, while the Old Town is where tourists flock to aaw and coo over kilts, pipers, famous pubs with historical names alluding to the seedy underside of Edinburgh, murderers and body snatchers, where they look for ghosts and quizzical literary Inspectors, go on staggeringly drunk stag and hen parties, mass walking tours and to strip clubs (often also named after the aforementioned murderers), and where they can fill up on baked tatties and deep fried anythings. Personally, I am a big fan of both – in moderation.

And there is a lot of otherness in Edinburgh as well, that these stark contrasts fail to incorporate. The city is a lot more than the black and white, dark and light, old and new that these characterisations suggest. As well as Old Town and New Town, there is Leith, a formerly slightly run down docklands area with social housing and immigrants, now turning this into an advantage, with exotic shops (and the only place I’ve found the necessary Chinese supermarkets), alternative cafes and cool pubs and bars. There is Broughton, Edinburghs gay central, with everything from leather nights to great restaurants, many good second hand bookshops and quirky, organic cafes. There is the Scottish Parliament at the bottom of the Royal Mile, a mashup of architectural traditions and a congregational centre for the BBC around the corner, and across the road from Arthur’s Seat and Holyrood, the Queen’s castle in the Scottish capital. There are big shopping centres plotted around the city catering for every need, real or advertised, there are theatres, film centres, restaurants of the traditional nationality mix, there are all the makings of any European city, and while the dichotomy still stands, it is not the only (two) aspects of a city which can boast of so much more – and being beautiful while it does so. (Pictures to follow...)