To Dine or Not to Dine..?
The other day I was invited to a dinner at my housemate’s classmate’s house. I was enticed by the obvious fact that it would be very traditional. Just an intimate setting in the house of a Libyan and his wife and little baby. I must say, perched upon my little pillow on a sheet that had been laid out on the carpet in the living room, being served a cornucopia of exquisite dishes: lamb, chicken, kus kus, some little dumplings and salad I felt like a queen. The only problem was the woman whose house I was a guest in was the servant. And not by choice.
I could not believe that the woman who had prepared all of this for everyone was forced to sit alone in the kitchen watching TV hidden behind a black shawl while the men and I had a lavish conversation and dinner. I don’t want to judge this, but I was so surprised and disturbed by this facet of arabic culture.
After dinner, where I admit I was scrutinized and instructed in the correct order and manner to eat each dish (hey, I lived in Spain so this is nothing new) and my hands were washed before and after for me, which I had never experienced, we then had some tea poured in the same style as one of my favourites, mint tea, a strangely black tea with that familiar overwhelming sting of sugar, which when met my mouth I was happy again.
We had successive cups of tea in tiny glass cups and a flavourful conversation about religion, our host taking the side of an open-minded moderate. But, your wife is locked up…We were not allowed to leave until nearly midnight with bursting tummies, and I bid farewell to the little 8 month-old daughter I already loved and I alone said goodbye to the wife as my housemate, was not allowed to even lay his eyes on her. Is this a form of flattery…Well, my mind was confused about these customs, but I suppose it’s not for my mind to grasp since there is nothing I can do to change things, or is there? I was grateful for this experience and for all of their hospitality, but left with a bittersweet taste I still can’t quite wash off.
All About Scotland
My holidays have ended but my parents are continuing their revelry in Edinburgh. Well, not really. They have gotten stranded until at least Monday due to the volcano in Iceland. But, we had a fantastic time doing a loop around this British isle. Thus, I shall recount some of the events.
On Thursday the 1st I arrived to a surprisingly sunny Glasgow and couchsurfed with some PHD/Masters students doing a major in Theatre, devouring books on sociology and European history. I stayed low-key, simply walking the streets, which were very ungritty and strolling through the park along the river Clyde.
It was a very nice city and by the time my parents arrived the following afternoon I was so accustumed to it I easily led them to all the sites of interest. After attending Easter mass in tiny room set in a circle in a giant cathedral where we passed the goblet of wine and broke peices of bread in this my first european holy communion, we drove off north to discover what this old country had in store for us.
We landed in a little toll bed and breakfast beneath the train tracks and between two great lochs; Loch Lommond and Loch Long. I realized forlornly there that I had forgotten my computer cable so I would therefore be blasted further into the past than I had hitherto expected.
We had a sunset walk from loch to loch. We soon realized we were completing the very walk that our ancesters the vikings had done centuries before only they had lugged their boats accross to the land-bound body of water and ramshacked and pillaged the villages, stealing its fairest maidens along the way. The lochs were beautiful and still, deep blue and mysterious, endlessly long lakes.
The next morning we headed for the islands, making a journey to the isle of Mull. There we stayed on a bed and breakfast which was also a family farm run by one strong country gal who made us homemade breakfasts of poached free-range eggs, fresh-baked bread and porridge any style. The Scots prefer theirs with salt and sometimes a drum of whiskey.
We visited the neighbouring isle of Iona, the so-called birthplace of Christianity there, which had a beautiful ancient abbey and a small community of monks. It was neat and also gruesome discovering its history and how the vikings had savagely murdered them, forcing the remaining monks to abandon the place and go into hiding in secret seaside caves.
Coming off the isles we spent our most unprivileged night at a youth hostel in the port town of Oban. The following morning we escaped back up lochside to Fort Augustus, at the base of Loch Ness. There, we were informed that the hunt for the monster was still very much alive. Over a third of the locals, along with our host, had seen something inexplicable lurking in the nearby waters, which were a darker shade than any other loch. We, unfortunately, didn’t have enough time to either confirm or discredit the legend in our two days there. Mark fell a bit ill and my mom and I made a precarious trip of it up to the top of the loch to Inverness where we enjoyed french tea and arabic pastries. We visited the little alternative seaside town of Findhorn, had sickeningly greasy fish and chips and returned back down the loch in time to admire the artist’s palet of shadows and mountains cast upon Loch Ness by the cool twilight. Mark was in high spirits when we returned and we had a nice seafood meal at a local pub.
We then visited several castles, an old whiskey distillery and then took a tour of the last battlefield-Culloden. We ended up staying in the biggest little town in the central highlands: Pitlochry. I was thrilled to find a hydroelectric dam in town and so I had my fill of water infrastructure touring when we discovered the Falkirk Wheel further down the road, which used an modern engineering of the solar rotation along with water displacement to carry boats from a lower canal, the firth of Forth to an upper one, the Union Canal in a rotating bath of water.
We landed back headlong into the historic city of Sterling, visiting three more castles: Sterling, Duone (of Monty Python fame and our family favourite), and finally, Edinburgh Castle; the mighty military defense of its day. In Edinburgh our remaining two days were spent wandering the plush capital, stopping in the oldest pub that had inspired the likes of Burns and Scott, a cafe where the more recent J.K. Rowling had written part of the first Harry Potter and taking in one of the city’s many ghost tours. Well, it seems even God considered the offenses deemed worthy of a good hanging or two petty by his standards and some townsfolk were brought back to life. But for others the possession of life wasn’t even necessary for them to continue roaming about the once filthy, plague-ridden streets. One resident’s (an abbot) midnight impulses was the source of Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde. But oh, two weeks ended and I barely had time to show my parents my university and abode before they had to hurry back to Scotland to catch a flight that wouldn’t let them board. But all in all it was a brilliant time and I am so grateful to have the family I do.
