Getting up before dawn this morning was not nearly as agonizing as I anticipated. No husbands were hit nor bad words said when my alarm rang, and the sun was so shocked at my initiative that it decided to hide out for the day and do some serious navel-gazing. (My apologies to everyone in Italy hoping to enjoy the holiday outdoors, especially you, Liz!)
I love beginning stories, and it was almost—dare I say it?—fun getting this crazy project underway. Do I think the fun factor will last? Absolutely not. Novels are generally supposed to have endings, so the last week of November is going to be a kind of personalized creative torture for me. However, I intend to enjoy the buzz of satisfaction as long as it lingers.
And right now? That means not worrying about giving this post a proper endi—
I’m staring down November, but it shows no intention of letting up. It occurs to me that I am procrastinating before the month even begins and that this cannot possibly bode well. I add “Preemptive procrastination” to my list of Reasons Why NaNoWriMo Is Doomed To Failure. Other items on the list include “Motherhood,” “Inability to operate on less than eight hours of sleep (preferably twelve),” and “Being 99.9% certain that I cannot write a book in one month.” I add “Lack of confidence” several times to emphasize the scope of said lack, and I finish the list with a flourish: “Two days left, and I still haven’t decided.”
Each November, I think longingly of all the artsy, motivated writers adjusting their wire-rims and churning out page after page of latte-inspired prose. Every November, I would willingly jump into that world if not for the tethers anchoring me to reality—a child at home, social obligations, medically-induced depression—or so I’ve claimed, at any rate. Now that I actually have mornings to myself, a de-cluttered schedule, and the returned use of my mind, I see the real choke chain around my neck: a paralyzing sense of pessimism.
I simply don’t think I have it in me. I don’t think I’ll be able to play alchemist with the hours I have and turn them into something marketable, something worth letting the dust bunnies procreate for a whole month. I don’t think I’ll be able to sit at my desk on Day 13, look the remaining 30,000 words in the face, and find the courage to keep start writing them. For that matter, I don’t think I’ll be able to whip up 20,000 words during Days 1 through 12. Maybe if I’d already written a book, I’d see this as possible, but from here, it looks like Mt. Everest… and I’m a paraplegic. Without any gear. Mortally allergic to snow.
I add “Paraplegia” to the list, but it doesn’t really matter. No matter how long the list gets, it will never trump my one and only Reason To Go For NaNoWriMo: “Because if I don’t try, I will never live past the what ifs.” It seems I’ve reached a decision after all.
Forget Halloween. The day after is when the real terror starts.
Despite the theatrics of certain family members, we made fantastic time on the hike and still had a few minutes to preview the Royal Mile. Ducking through a hesitant patch of rain, we got a close-up look at Edinburgh Castle which was not the most welcoming of structures, squatting as it was on a heap of dingy volcanic rock half shrouded in fog. (10 points to it for being mysterious, -20 for sucking away cheerfulness à la Dementor of Azkaban.) However, we were all amused by bellboys standing awkwardly outside of touristy hotels in their kilts—“Mommy, why is that guy wearing a dress? And why does he look mad?”—and we passed just enough brightly-colored doors and intricate steeples to whet our appetites for some real sightseeing the following day.
This church was considerate enough to install peepholes at the exact heights of two- and five-year-olds.
We returned around 8:00 the next morning, and by 8:03, we had realized that we would need a month to properly appreciate all the history strewn up and down and above and underneath the Royal Mile. However, we only had a couple of hours, so we made the best of them. For you girls, that primarily meant running laps around Mercat Cross, climbing statues of famous Scotsmen, and trying to gain admittance to nearly every building we passed. (The only one open was The Loch Ness Experience: only £15.85 “to be dazzled by 3D effects!!!” As we had already seen Loch Ness in 3D—plus a few additional senses—that week, we passed.) We had only walked about half the mile before you begged to turn around; something about “too tired” and “feet hurting” and “hiking up a mountain yesterday”… excuses, excuses. We took our time heading back, but I’d dare say you had a pretty good time regardless.
And here Adam Smith was thinking that your tiredness would get him out of being climbed. Sucker!
In between rescuing you from phone booths and rescuing 18th-century philosophers from you, your dad and I enjoyed the architecture and the city’s vibes. (Your dad told me more than once that if we ever had to move to Edinburgh, he wouldn’t mind, honest.) I particularly admired St. Giles’ Cathedral, not so much because of its impressive design or its status as the High Kirk of Edinburgh but because it was presided over by the “Very Reverend Dr. Gilleasbuig Macmillan.” (The writer in me wished so badly that she had come up with that name herself.) Sticking out like a tourist usually bothers me, but we had both the language and your plentiful charm in our favor, and the locals generally seemed happy to see us. Well, we did get some funny looks when we posed for a family picture on the Heart of Midlothian. Come to find out, that lovely symbol of affection is a marker for the infamous 15th-century Tolbooth prison execution site. Oh yes, and walking across the Heart means we will never find true love.
Fortunately, we’ve already got that covered.
We almost made it back to the car without an impromptu detour, but we just so happened to have parked in front of the National Museum of Scotland. Maybe it was the way the doors swung open as we walked by or the giant “Free!” sign, but we felt compelled to take a look. I’m glad we did, considering the two familiar looking monarchs we ran into on the first floor. The dresses alone would have made your day I think, but you also had a blast at the various hands-on exhibits. We checked out a rocket, played music, taunted prehistoric wildlife, and at one point very nearly attained somewhere in the neighboring vicinity of something similar to capable of operating a catapult. It seemed a fitting farewell to Scotland.
“In the 14th century, queens spent their days putting together needlessly complicated pottery puzzles. Also, bloomers had yet to be invented, so their undergarment options were limited to Old Navy Jeans.”
By our second full day in Edinburgh, we were beginning to adjust a little too well to apartment life. Staying in a tent had allowed us to be outdoors from the moment we threw on some clothes, and our mornings had snapped with fresh air and the tang of adventure. In an apartment, however, we just couldn’t seem to get out the door. Between fixing breakfast, finishing cartoons, coordinating showers, deciding on clothes, packing snacks, making the beds, checking e-mail, and padding from one end of the building to the other thirty-five times trying to find the right set of keys, we hardly managed to leave before naptime, which was itself pretty well confined to the indoors due to a lack of comfortable logs on the city sidewalks. We were in desperate need of a good old-fashioned hike. Fortunately, Holyrood Hill stood just outside our back door.
You, Natalie, were a little less than enthusiastic about the climb, by which I mean you considered it cruel and unusual punishment. Every few minutes, you requested a break—or rather, every few minutes, we granted your unceasing requests for a break—and you amused passing hikers by moaning “Ugh, what a tired day!” and “This is the worst day EVER!” I do see your point… After all, strolling hand-in-hand with one’s loving family over lush green grass sloping gently upward toward a breathtaking summit is pretty much the most horrible experience one can have.
Your finely-tuned sense of drama is a wondrous thing to behold.
However, as much as the rest of us admired your commitment to misery, we did not succumb to it. The path really was lovely, flanked by flowering meadows and overlooking mysterious ruins. Plus, I’m pretty sure it was handicap accessible. Thespian naps notwithstanding, we reached the top fairly easily and found ourselves looking down from Arthur’s Seat across all of Edinburgh, the surrounding regions, and the Firth of Forth (say that 10 times quickly!). We had a bird’s eye view of abbeys and alleyways, towers and tollbooths, castles and cathedrals and distant crags. What can I say? It drove me to alliteration. The boisterous wind and staggering view took our breath away for a few moments, and then you, Natalie, announced jubilantly, “I am having the GREATEST DAY!” Your dad and I responded with synchronized facepalms.
The trip downhill was much more enjoyable, though you, Sophie, set a truly terrifying pace. In your opinion, balance and caution are optional as long as someone is holding your hand; why not try a freefall or two? Thank goodness for your strong daddy and tender mercies (in no particular order). I often vacillate between worry that we don’t allow you girls enough freedom and anxiety bordering on full neurosis-packed panic that we allow you girls too much freedom and that you will be killed in the course of fun. I hope the vacillation means that we’ve found a good niche between paranoia and recklessness. Besides, I can’t do much more than pray that your guardian angels are on duty… and make sure you have a strong hand to hold when you go flying down an old Scottish volcano.
It was even nice having people to bid goodbye to the next morning, though we were all a little disappointed to be leaving the Highlands. It felt like we had just arrived in Scotland, yet our trip was already more than halfway over. Loch Ness was appropriately moody for the occasion, and petulant clouds spit at our car as we drove away. We only knew of one surefire cure for that kind of slump: 1) Turn up the Fratellis, 2) headbang in four-part harmony, and 3) get ourselves to the water park stat! Dinosaur water slides were clearly called for, and Edinburgh wouldn’t be going anywhere yet. Over the next two hours, we discovered that you girls are decidedly not fans of wave pools and that Italian swimsuits look out of place in the UK. (Oops.) However, that did nothing to dampen (ha) your enthusiasm for splashing around. I was especially impressed when you, Natalie, voluntarily went down the Three Story Tunnel Slide of Dizziness and Possible Death… and immediately did it again. My adventurous streak didn’t strike until I was old enough to guzzle coffee, and I’m thrilled that you found yours early on and without the need for recreational caffeine.
On our way out, we caught a rare glimpse of the Loch Ness monster looking *remarkably* like your souvenir doll, Sophie, and sporting what you, Natalie, referred to as “an awful hat.” The legend lives on!
By the time we arrived in Edinburgh that evening, you had finally gotten over the injustice of not being allowed to spend the rest of your lives at the water park. The sobbing had stopped at any rate. However, you both refused to try the fried chicken at supper, and your dad and I had a sobering moment of realization that you are growing up without KFC. On the bright side, though, you also get to grow up away from the fashion atrocities we witnessed there. Keep in mind that Edinburgh is not the warmest place on Earth; in July, its temperature is equivalent to that of a February night in Texas… inside a meat packing plant. However, the local women seemed not to notice. Not one but two of the other restaurant patrons were wearing only shirts and shoes. Oh yes, and thongs. One green and one blue. In between exclaiming to your dad, “Did you see that? Wait, don’t look, don’t look!” and wrapping napkins around me for warmth, I admired both their stylistic bravery and their imperviousness to cold while fervently hoping you girls never acquire either.
On second thought, a meat packing plant might be warmer.
The reason we had come to Scotland in the first place was for your dad to attend a conference there in Edinburgh. The downside was that he couldn’t spend much time with us over the next few days, but we did get to trade in the tent for an apartment, and you girls got to brush up on British cartoons (which seem to revolve around poo more often than not). I also sucked up my fear of driving on the wrong left side of the road and shuttled you to various playgrounds and bookstores. Oh, the bookstores! Towers of Roald Dahl and buffets of Enid Blyton garnished with tales of Terabithia and Narnia and presented with a smile by pretty shopkeepers who grew up loving “Ballet Shoes” as much as I did. I still haven’t gotten over the injustice of not being allowed to spend the rest of my life there. You girls appreciated the parks much more, though, and I can’t say I blame you. The one closest to our apartment was actually several playgrounds in one sprawling complex of fun. There were zip-lines and bulldozers and rock walls and bicycle-go-rounds and tire swings and fire poles and a hundred other colorful, creative ways to injure yourself. While I navigated the delicate balance between smothering you with attentiveness and letting you break your own necks, you had the time of your lives.
The only shot I managed to take before you ran off in search of something more dangerous.
You also loved our stop at Gorgie City Farm which, true to its name, was a farm nestled in the heart of the city. I thought the appeal of wildlife might have worn off by then, but you were thrilled to hand-deliver snacks to the goats. Of course, half an hour later, we got a stern lecture on how goats should never, ever be fed such a horrible thing as grass and how we were basically the worst people in the world for inflicting it on them. And here I thought goats would eat pretty much anything occupying physical space. Ah well; live and learn. You girls remained unfazed and ran around the vegetable garden pretending to be fairies while the farm lecturer kept a wary eye. (Maybe she was worried you would cast a blight on the tomatoes? I guess we are the worst people in the world and all…) We tried our hand at tractor-driving, paid our respects to the other animals (the turkeys were your favorite, Soph), and survived an attempted mugging by a wily pony named Red. Yes, that makes three attacks by partially domesticated animals in one vacation. Perhaps the universe is trying to tell us something about our future in agriculture?
You girls really had been troopers (ha) considering all the hiking we had subjected you to, and your dad and I wanted to surprise you with a trip to an indoor water park in Inverness. Our intentions were noble and all, but we had completely forgotten to take into account how worn out you would be from said hiking. By the time we pulled into the parking lot, you were miles away in Dreamland, so we just kept driving… and an unexpectedly delightful afternoon was born. Overhead, cloudpuffs tumbled over each other like puppies in a vast field of blue while wildflowers dripping with color rushed past our windows. You girls slept, steeping in loveliness, as we rattled down country roads and I snapped illicit photos of Cawdor Castle.
I had to hop a fence to get this shot, but I figure Shakespeare, not to mention Lady Macbeth, would approve.
You woke up about the time we hit Nairn, so we followed signs for its main beach and pretended it had been our plan all along. It should have been our plan all along. Turquoise highlights sparkled in the Moray Firth around splashing beachgoers while moms in sundresses hosed down sandy babies and chatted. Children dashed around the pirate-themed playground in their flip-flops sliding, swinging, and dripping strawberry ice cream. It was the perfect summer holiday. Never mind that the sparkling water was two degrees removed from an iceberg and that the sundresses were dancing in a ferocious sub-Arctic wind. Just that morning, we had met a family from the Orkney Islands who couldn’t bear to travel any farther south because of the heat. Meanwhile, we—acclimated as we were to sunny southern Europe—were quickly becoming popsicles.
This is what we call a juxtaposition.
However, we weren’t going to let a little thing like potential frostbite stop us from enjoying ourselves. If we could survive a hurricane on the Isle of Skye, by golly, we could survive a beautiful summer afternoon at the playground… with the help of extra undershirts and some hot drinks scored from the ice cream shop. (Bear Grylls would be so proud!) Sophie, you parked yourself in a swing and then graciously offered to let us push you for the next infinity. Natalie, you put the fabulous beach slide to good use, commandeered the pirate ship, and tried more than once to speak Italian to children whose accents you couldn’t understand. (You get that from your mother who has to turn on subtitles for British films and would like to take this opportunity to apologize.) We gave the kites some air time (ha) and then ran pell-mell down the grassy dunes together shrieking with laughter.
We do not hold ourselves responsible for damage incurred on anyone’s eardrums as a result.
Back at the campground, we watched the World Cup with a Dutch man whose wooden shoes enthralled you, especially when they were running circles in celebration of a goal. We washed the dishes alongside a nice Polish lady, and you socialized at the playground with the Orkney kids who had finally donned long-sleeves over their tank tops. We met an American family in the laundry room, and the owners of the campground offered you some Beatrix Potter books to read before bed. Despite being so far from home, we were part of a little international insta-community, and it was lovely having friends to say goodnight to… even if we couldn’t always understand their replies.
Irrelevant anecdote: As you girls were getting ready for bed that night, your dad and I tried to settle a dispute from the previous night in which he had insisted that malted milk tastes like bread (and not in the positive way that Guinness does), while I had maintained that malted milk is reminiscent of Whoppers and thus wonderful. You, Natalie, were the objective arbitrator. I gave you a warm mug of malted milk which you promptly gulped down. Sensing victory, I exclaimed, “Wow, you must really like that!” You wrinkled your nose and replied, “Not really. It just tastes a bit like… hay.” Cue your dad cracking up.
The next morning, we determined to visit Loch Ness. We were already visiting Drumnadrochit (whose economy is solely dependent on the sea monster we knew to be lurking near a castle three hours west), and it shouldn’t have been that difficult to take a stroll along the lakeside, right? Wrong. So very wrong. After searching in vain for some kind of walkway among all the souvenir shops, we popped into the tourist office to ask the easiest path to the water. The couple behind the desk confirmed that we actually did mean on foot and then whispered conspiratorially for a minute. “Well, there is one path,” they finally conceded. “We’re not supposed to tell anyone about it… You have to cross a river… It’s not an official path… Maybe don’t let anyone know we told you…” “Sounds great!” we replied, and we set off on our officially unauthorized adventure.
Boldly going where no tourists have gone before.
We understood pretty quickly why the tourist office had been reluctant to advertise that path. For one thing, it wound in and out of swamps, splitting itself through the thick foliage and reuniting farther ahead when and if it felt like it. For another thing, every horse in Europe had apparently made a pilgrimage to that very trail and each left a sizeable memento underfoot. (We inadvertently made up a catchy hiking song that goes like this: “Whoa, horse poop! Watch out, horse poop! There’s some more horse poop! SO MUCH HORSE POOP!” repeat x infinity.) And then there was the river. It really wasn’t as difficult to cross as we had been led to believe—just a leap, a quick splash, and we were over. We felt pretty proud of ourselves until we got to the actual river.
Warning: bodies of water may be wider than they appear.
Okay, so I’ve already acknowledged that we lack wilderness survival cred. However, I think we deserve some bonus points for finally making it to the lake safe, sound, and [partially] dry. To be honest, Loch Ness didn’t look particularly mysterious or hostile, which was a bit of a disappointment to your story-seeking mother. I guess with Nessie on vacation, the traditional spookiness evaporated leaving a rather ordinary loch. Not that this was such a bad thing though. We picnicked on the shore watching local fisherman putter past, each boat proudly displaying the Scottish flag. We plopped stones in the water and watched the ripples roll smoothly toward the opposite shore catching glints of sunshine along the way. We giggled and explored and at least got to dabble our fingers in the subject of myths.
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