The Weird West

  

No, I have not become the protagonist in True Grit in search of the Wild West and Tom Cheney.  Despite what the signs say, I'm not in the American Southwest. I'm still in Edinburgh and believe it or not, so is this Wild West Town.

The Wild West Town is a true anomaly with no obvious purpose other than kitsch. Absolutely none of it makes sense. Tucked away in the posh Morningside neighborhood known for housing the famous authors of the city, it's the last place you would expect to find something so delightfully tacky. It's certainly not an area that attracts many tourists, so why put a tourist attraction there? Especially one that is so hard to find once you are actually in Morningside. Directions: Wander down alley that leads to charming residential street, make friends with a cat, see more feline friends than cowboys, decide to give up, stumble upon what appears to be a parking lot, find yourself in the Wild West.  The geography of this city never makes sense to me, but this takes the cake (or should I say horseshoe ring?). And I haven't even gotten to the part where Scotland confused itself Santa Fe. Well, Edinburgh loves quirky tourist attractions.

 [Odd to see my local Minnesota bank in Scotland. If I had known it existed, I probably wouldn't have signed up for the inconvenient Bank of Scotland, but sadly, Edinburgh's Wells Fargo doesn't appear to have an ATM anyway.]

This is a city of stories though, so sure enough there is a story behind this oddity. The Wild West Town was solely designed for commercial purposes. Built by Michael Faulkner in 1996, it was a gimmick to inspire people to buy the Southwestern furniture originally sold in the area (or so the internet tells me because I have no idea what Southwestern furniture looks like. I doubt people use spittoons anymore.) Luckily enough, one of the workers was a former Euro Disney employee hence the "authenticity." (It does remind me of Park City, Utah, a real former "Wild West" town that I posted on earlier this year.) That was the last bit of luck they had because the furniture business petered out, as did the Springvalley Cinema that was hidden there (although the area looks like a movie set already, so why watch a film?), now all that is left is auto body shops covered by these Western facades. No wonder I mistook the area for a parking lot initially.

 

 

 

 Now the Wild West Town's function is seemingly to amuse bored students having a wander to the chagrin of the mechanics who actually work there. I felt like an outlaw wandering around snapping photos in someone's work environment, thankfully, no one threw me in the jail. I guess The Wild West Town does capture the ambiance of that inspired it in the end. One of the workers chuckled at me and said, "You aren't the first." Only in Edinburgh would people completely accept that their place of employment looks like a Disney ride. After all, the city does have a castle at its heart just like the Magic Kingdom.

 

 There's nothing to do there but take photos and muse in the sheer strangeness of it all. To paraphrase Neil Gaiman, it's like a roadside attraction. You aren't exactly sure why it's there and why you had to find it, but you did and even though it wasn't what you expected, you're still glad you went.

 

 I thought I knew Edinburgh, but it gets weirder and more wonderful by the day.

The Secret Garden

 It's impossible to live in Edinburgh without pretending you're in one of your favorite novels. When I ordered my graduation robes from Ede & Ravenscroft (Est. 1689) the other day, I felt like I was ready to join the trio at Hogwarts and then I remembered that Harry and Ron never actually graduated. Oh well. As long as the novel I'm living vicariously through isn't Trainspotting, all is well. However, I never expected to find myself in The Secret Garden.

Yesterday, it was uncharacteristically nice in Edinburgh (read: it actually felt like spring), so I knew I had to take advantage of Scotland's legal but unattainable drug, Vitamin D. It was a welcome reward after a week spent cloistered in the library cramming for my final sit down exam EVER. That's right I'm done with college (although I don't graduate until June 28, so you'll have to wait to see me look like a dementor in those aforementioned robes). So what did I decide to do with myself on a completely free Sunday afternoon with no work to do and no newspaper to edit? As a relapsed English literature student, I went to read, of course. Even though I'll never have to overanalyze another novel again, I can't help myself. However, on days like this the Meadows is over-run with people who believe the park is actually a beach- complete with bikinis (overly keen Scots, it was only 55F yesterday!), volleyball, and the detritus of discarded cans of cider and the occasional condom. After nearly getting beheaded by a stray cricket ball yesterday, I knew the Meadows was about as relaxing as a game of dodgeball.

 

 I sought a quieter locale and took a tip from my friend Helen, who only recently discovered the secret garden even though she's an Edinburgh native! The Secret Garden is one of those pesky secrets that actually isn't so clandestine as it seems. It cheekily hides on one of Edinburgh's busiest and more commercial streets, The Royal Mile. I'm embarrassed to admit I've walked by it half a dozen times on my way to usher a visiting friend to Arthur's Seat or for overpriced fudge. After all, you wouldn't think much about a random close (Edinburgh slang for alley) next to a Starbucks. Usually, they lead to a parking lot or potentially murder (there's even an Ian Rankin murder mystery named after Fleshmarket Close), not a secret garden.

 But if you're looking for it, Dunbar's Close (okay, I gave the secret away. I can never join Fight Club now.) is actually quite welcoming. It's a relic from the past or even another country. The 17th century garden was named after the owner of nearby tenements (the one part of this story that is less than romantic), but was stuck in the past and fell into disrepair until The Mushroom Trust (yes, really) revived it in the 1970s. It's a charmingly manicured Italian garden, which is both atypical and quintessential Edinburgh simultaneously. Yes, it looks nothing like the rest of the city, but if there's one thing I've learned about Edinburgh after living here for nearly 2 years, it's that it's full of secrets. You can never quite know it. Edinburgh is a place of perpetual discovery if you're looking.

 [It also has some of the best views of Calton Hill. You feel removed from the city, but right smack in it at the same time.]

 I didn't find Colin Craven, but I found something much better.

  It was the perfect place to get lost in the city and my book (Chad Harbach's The Art of Fielding, which reminds me that reading for fun is possible.) for a few sun soaked hours. I had a bench all to myself and only a dozen or so visitors between, who were mostly tourists. Somehow, Dunbar's Close is in their guidebook, but none of the locals know about it. I think the few who do would like to keep it quiet. (So much for my big mouth on this blog post.)

 

I have over a month left in Edinburgh and I haven't seen the half of it, which will keep this blog plenty busy (after all, I need something to keep me occupied between now and graduation. I feel unemployed.) Expect (hopefully) daily discoveries.

 

My Paris

 

 Right now,  every moment in my life feels monumental. I wrote my last English Literature essay ever last week. I take my last sit down exam ever on May 18, good ridden to blue books. I turn 22 on June 11 (I take donations of cupcakes, preferably red velvet). And finally, I graduate from the University of Edinburgh on June 28, which still seems far away. That's a lot for two months. I'll be an "adult" after, whatever that means. It's a bit daunting, to say the least.  

 

 As exciting as this all is, it's very easy to find myself looking at my planner more than what's around me. This is when I pull up my photos from Paris. I spent my too brief trip trying to take a non-cliche photo of one of the most photogenic cities in the world and the best way I found to accomplish this goal was to search for details: that balcony set up with a cute table I could picture myself eating a baguette on (hey, I didn't say I stopped thinking in cliches), the lamp post that had more personality that whatever it was lighting up, or even just a reflection in a puddle (which what the last photo of this post depicts).

 

  

Paris is an easy city to get overwhelmed in. The winding streets are so picturesque that sometimes you don't even notice you're lost. There's more culture than anyone can absorb in a lifetime there, yet I still tried to pack it into less than week. Delving into the details saved me though. Searching for the beauty in the banal ended up being more interesting than what I saw in museums and gave me something more unique to bring back than just another postcard of a painting.

My goal on every vacation is to not feel like a tourist and finding things myself that locals don't even notice because they see it every day is one of the best ways to do this.  I made my own Paris.

This will be my last Paris post, but I'm planning to extend its theme.

 If I can find the hidden gems in Paris, then I should look for them in Edinburgh too. I'm not someone who pessimistically counts down the days and thinks to herself, "This will be my last latte at Artisan Roast ever." However, Edinburgh really is a city I've made my own and it's worth photographing my Edinburgh before I leave it. So just like I showed you "my Paris," for the next few posts I will show you "my Edinburgh", as well tying up loose ends around the parts of Scotland I still need to see.

 

Yes, They Really Do Wear Berets

Hate to break it to you, but the stereotype of the Parisian wearing a beret does exist. Pictured below in all his cliche-ridden glory:

 

Normally, when I travel I like to debunk stereotypes. After all, if you could learn everything about Europe from visiting Epcot, why would you bother going to real place? For example, despite how my German class last summer led me to believe that Germans couldn't live without bread, when I actually visited Berlin I learned that Germans only start the morning off with rolls if they have visitors to impress. Nevertheless, sometimes stereotypes exist because they're true. Fortunately for Paris, most of the cliches are in their favor. Like Gil Pender proclaims in "Midnight in Paris", Paris really is beautiful in rain. So here I am to verify a few more stereotypes.

The Parisian Waiter: France is a country that prides itself as much on its food as its art, food almost is an art (as demonstrated by the title of Julia Child's famous cookbook, Mastering the Art of French Cooking) and the waiters are the curators of it. They aren't broke college students trying to make an extra buck for beer runs (they work at Starbucks). This isn't a part-time job for them, it's a career and like all careers, there's a craft to it and certain amount of respect demanded from it.  So just like you wouldn't run screaming through an art museum (unless it was performance art), here is one simple rule for how not to irk your Parisian waiter so you can enjoy the delicious slice of chocolate torte above:

1. NEVER seat yourself. In France, the customer is not always right, they're at the bottom of the hierarchy and must defer to the waiter. They know what's best for you. Regardless of how many open tables there are, this is not musical chairs, you must be directed to your seat by your waiter.   My mother and I witnessed an American couple learn this the hard way Cafe de Flore. It was a quiet afternoon at the famous cafe with only old Parisian men reading papers (yup, that cliche is in full force too), so there were plenty of tables to enjoy the legendary chocolat chaud at and this couple sat themselves at one. Unlike my mother and I, who got a table from the waiter and were served within 15 minutes, this couple was ignored for 15 minutes until the husband was so annoyed that he huffed out of the cafe with as much attitude as a Parisian waiter ironically. Where were the waiters? They were giving this couple the silent treatment until they left and then the waiters started laughing and rolling their eyes at each other. See, the waiters do have a sense of humor, except the joke is on the customer if they don't follow the rules.

 

The Luxembourg Gardens is the place to people watch in Paris. The artists sketching, check! The old men playing chess like it's a competitive sport (well, to them it is), check! If you want a relaxing afternoon and some intriguing characters to observe, look no further.

However, even if Parisians wouldn't like to admit it, Paris is a tourist city and sometimes it's fun to mock your fellow travelers. After all, my goal is always to mistaken for a native (not so sure if this was accomplished when some Spanish tourists stopped me to ask if I knew where the Starbucks was. Sorry, it's not like all Americans have a GPS in them that locates the nearest overpriced corporate coffee chain.) So I couldn't help but laugh at this tourist at the Rodin Museum who looked exactly like the bust he was staring at.

 

The birds of Paris exhibit all of the stereotypes of their human counterparts.

 The royals may have been ousted from the Luxembourg Gardens, but this bird has all the attitude of Louis XIV.

 

Like many Parisians, birds enjoy relaxing in parks too. Despite how most statues have spiky crowns to prevent birds from perching (and inevitably pooping) on them (as pictured above), the pigeon below didn't mind risking being impaled.

Like lovers strolling the Seine, these duck paramours were enjoying the view too. However, I'm concerned about their precarious placement. Perhaps they're about to embark on a suicidal leap?

Part of the experience of going to Paris is people watching. I know it's not a good trip if I don't feel like a total slob after seeing so much "je ne sais quoi" Parisian chic around me. It's one stereotype that the Parisians live up to.