It can be rather startling at first, walking down a grocery store aisle with foreign brands staring back at you, each one ostensibly the same as the last. Where’s the Kraft Dinner? The peanut butter with the tiny bear on it?! Where are my rice cakes, man? My All-Dressed chips? ‘Don’t tell me you guys don’t have All-Dressed chips.’ ‘Well, sir, what’s an all-dressed chip taste like?’ ‘Um, it tastes like Red, mixed with a bit of Purple, salt, and uhhhhh, onion powder?’

Doesn’t take a wizard to realize that this was going to happen. You get accustomed to what you know, though. With those first couple walks through one of the 10 different grocery stores and you realize you’re going to need to change a whole heck-of-a-lot of what you eat because the fish is bonkers expensive except for the perennial Cod and Halibut (which 9 times out of 10 comes sealed in the package, already glistening in sweaty bread-crumbs, waiting to be fried to death) so you try the fish cakes instead (actually not bad on toast mushed in with some mayo and mustard and pickled veg on top) and then move to pick up some chicken like always and, wait, why is it so cheap?—so  you pick up 3 more and proceed to the chips, no crisps aisle and oh lord, oh no oh no oh no this isn’t good at all, you grab 3 different brands to try them out and they turn out to be all universally excellent and finally you decide you can’t pass up the cheapest chocolate you’ve ever laid eyes upon, packages upon packages, begging you to indulge and overindulge because look, what you’re eating is called a digestive and not a cookie so its ok to have several packages in your freezer and fuck it, it’s a biscuit, say you’re diabetic and just eat the damn thing before you seize up and fall down.

Which is all well and good until you forget to grab the produce and look down at your basket and realize that nothing is going to fit in between the chocolate pretzels and black pepper and haggis crisps. But in reality you don’t need to get another basket because when you get to the aisle you need a microscope to see the vegetables here, to even realize you’re in the aisle of good intentions as everything is, again, wrapped up in clear plastic wrap. And everything is tiny. I’ve never seen apples this tiny. Brussels sprouts from back home could pass off as whole cabbages in these places. Asparagus that look like they haven’t even started growing. And you call that a Zucchini?!

No, we call that Courgette.

Man, would you kindly fuck off like a tree and bring me some halloumi, please and thank you.

People obsess over halloumi here. And for good reason, that stuff is amazing. You can fry it and it stays together and grill it with some veg and put it in anything and oh man. It’s like a less salty, less combustible version of feta.  And sooo affordable. In comparison, it’s all rather affordable here food-wise, less-so if you go out a lot but still pretty reasonable (and similar to the grocery stores, lots of breaded/fried things).

I’ve been trying to cook most of my food and I have to say I’m occasionally surprising myself. It’s like I’ve unearthed some latent ability brought upon by the lack of solid produce (I mean, I kind of knew going into it, once you see the weather here it becomes pretty obvious). I’ve always enjoyed it, lately though it’s been meaning a bit more to me I think. The whole process surrounding the creation of something wholly your own, and that something tastes good! So good you want to make the same thing the next day. Food is on the mind so much that I’m doing everything in my power to try and connect the Gothic to Food (easier than you might think, just think of food in relation to the body and sexuality and you’re halfway home) so that my schooling can focus around what’s been taking up most of my brain.

My first or second day in Stirling, where that feeling of homesickness was at its height, I made a large meal for myself, big enough that I could share or have some leftovers for the next day. After making it I felt so much better. It was a meal I made back home, tweeked in order to accommodate some new ingredients. Food brings me back to a place where I’m at my most comfortable, where the anxieties fall away in favour of simply focusing on what’s going on in front of me, and trying to make it taste the best that it can. In the kitchen, if you happen to not be around anyone (which thankfully, doesn’t happen very often) at least you can say you’re surrounded by good food that’s full of flavour—if a little small.

Here are some pictures of food that I’ve made because I’m vain like that.

The coffee was really starting to hit me. I could feel that wave inside, undulating up from my abdomen into my brain coalescing into a shiver that makes your whole body shake. Your mouth gets dry and all you want is water, or maybe another sip of coffee because, *ahem*, if you were to take the coffee mug to your lips and drink some of it, maybe just a small sip, you’ll feel better. And then you do. And then you feel better until the next shake and the cycle repeats itself. All for want of concentration.

I like cafes. I like coffee. I like that there are people that also like cafes and coffee and sitting down in comfy sofas eating sandwiches that aren’t actually filling and drinking coffee (I’m sorry, we only serve espresso here, you can get the drip coffee a few miles outside the city) that by all accounts is routinely delicious.

I like cappuccinos. There is something about the mixture of foam to steam to strong espresso that I enjoy. Maybe it’s because I haven’t really given lattes a shot. Maybe it’s because cappuccino rolls off the tongue a bit better than latte. Maybe it’s because I accidentally ordered a cappuccino when I was 10 thinking it a fancy sugary drink from Second Cup and winding up with a foam moustache, a burnt oesophagus, and a memory that lingers on in the brain, insouciant, until  the moment (often around 10, usually around 2, sometimes around 5) where it makes itself known. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to ask what a cortado or macchiato or flat white or London fog is in fear of the possibility that someone else will wear the coffee-crown.

Maybe I just like what I like.

I wish I could enjoy and concentrate on a book while walking. Today, I sat for too long and my ass-bones are feeling it. I didn’t change positions enough, or maybe it was because there’s a particular button on my jeans that can really get up in there and raise a ruckus—especially if you have 700 pages to read for tomorrow’s class and you just got the reading list 2 days ago. No wait, you got it yesterday because you couldn’t see the list until you were fully enrolled which meant I had to obtain my student card which I could finally achieve because, hey, I’m here now. James McBride. Student of Stirling University. The man who gave me the card was a very bald and very Scottish man who appreciated that I had too many documents to give him. We talked about jet lag and Canada and America and Scotland and the letter M. In any case it was a nice interaction.

Of course, 700 pages is a lot to read in one day (Monday doesn’t count because it was Induction/informal meeting Pub day with everyone in the program and the professors and NO ONE was reading that day) and kind of impossible. It’s all going to be about prioritization here: what to read first, what to buy first when I’m here, when should I finally get my SIM card, when to explore the city, when to finally check out the sports facilities, when to make a nice, sit-down meal with more than 3 ingredients, when to go out at night, when to start working on that lovely, lovely dissertation?

I’m still getting used to it. There are so many different things here; so many different brands and weather patterns and types of food and ways of life. Exceptional fries though, and the people are quite nice.

A lot of it has been unexpected: the lack of class time, the weekly morning construction happening 25 ft outside my window, the difference in culture and language. I’d never expected it to become Home after one week. Perhaps I was overly optimistic. In any case, making nice meals that remind me of the past dinners we had together and the future memories we’ll share is a good way to keep the mind in an alright spot.

Next week is the club/sport societies ‘give-it-a-go’ week where you get to try out specific clubs and what not and see what you like before you register as a member. This was something I regret never doing in my undergrad so I’m pretty prepared to actually involve myself in my university. There’s a History, Film, Lord of the Rings, and International society that I’m thinking of joining and for sports I’d like to try out Squash, Curling, and maybe Quidditch (who am I kidding, I loved playing Quidditch in my Undergrad so probably Quidditch. I just want to fly around on a broom chasing after a guy dressed up in yellow and gold with a ball dangling off his pants while you try not to get tackled or hit by a ball ya know).

Also Campus is gorgeous—the scenery anyway. The halls themselves are a bit white and sparse; you half expect to see someone wearing scrubs rushing down the ways with a gurney.

Here are some pictures.

You get to walk over this bridge on the way to campus. If you choose to walk of course, ain’t that bad, only about 35 minutes

Campus

A Church where I had an emotional response on my 2nd day. Been praying off and on recently. It’s felt good

Campus

I probably should have expected this.

Of course I miss home. How can I not? There was great food, a welcome house, people who I loved; all providing me with a sense of belonging and warmth and comfort. Daily displays of affection becoming the pattern and nothing but Love, Love, Love! Family and Friends and Food: the great triumvirate.

It didn’t take long for the thoughts to seep in.

Walking along and noticing the differences: speech, dress, food, architecture, how people move from one point to another, and how they spend each moment with a pace that’s set between apathy and anger.

At times you think this is the reality and then you remember your drive in with the man whose name you couldn’t really understand and the way he casually talked to you and the two other students (one from Alaska, another from Taiwan) about the stories of the Kelpies and why that one town smells awfully of sulphur or about his wife’s friend who was rather large (two meals for everybody else’s one) but was then caught embezzling and went to jail and left a couple years later leaving half of himself behind. You think of the way he answered his phone during a roundabout and solemnly looked behind us to mouth, ‘I need to take this.’ You remember the way the three of us in this truck-car-bus hybrid seemed so eager and wide-eyed and wanting to get this underway. And you feel better. I feel better.

Going to school in Scotland means so much more to me than just school or travel. It means taking a risk, and becoming comfortable with that risk even when it’s a situation where the anxiety can roam and feed and where eventually, hopefully, it becomes nothing more than what it is.

Time for the new and uncomfortable and wonderful and sad. It’s all here, waiting, in Scotland.

It’s nice out.

I can actually see a little bit of the sun through my window and the stone and the concrete. It’s there, it’s not always overcast here. I mean, it was freezing and damp and dreary when I arrived and continued to be that way for the following 10 hours as we waited on the steps for (SOMEONE/ANYONE) the Porter to arrive and let us into our dorms.

But at least it’s nice out right now.

Better not lose it.

I didn’t actually go outside. Maybe you thought I did but actually I just enjoy line-breaks.

I couldn’t right now anyway. My head feels like I’ve been up for 30 hours which is quite true. If anything, I’m enjoying the peace and quiet ala Thistle Chambers Flat 3 Room 4 as nobody else has arrived (except for the PhD guy [he’s getting it in aquaculture and finds it very boring] who was already living here for the past year). I’m thinking about the stuff I still need to buy: pots, pans, crockery, utensils, like, one bowl probably–oh, and toilet paper, and a shower caddy, and a garbage pail, and food that isn’t fruit or smoothies or water or leftover Canadian brownies that I will save and store like the wine your grandma leaves in the cellar for when the Pope comes calling.

And I need to get the BRP, obtain my student ID, and finally become enrolled so that I can access the Portal/Library/School-work thing and get to work doing what I’m supposed to be doing here. Which I guess amounts to reading. And watching.

It’s called The Gothic Imagination.  My program is the study of Gothic literature and film and everything in-between. The weird and wacky and wonderful and slightly off-centre genre (I will find a better word in the next few weeks) that encompasses everything from the horrific and slightly sad works of Mary Shelley to the terrifying and slightly sad works of Stephen King, et al.

I mean, it can’t all be Robots and Rainbows around here. Eventually, when you get enough young people together who all seem to have the hots for one another and you’re in a cottage on a lake in the early 19th century in late spring and someone mentions that you’re all going to have a ghost story competition you’re bound to come out of there with two (at least) great novels that just so happen to be cynical and sad and romantic and creepy and emotional and all of the above, again, and again, and again until you’re left with something new and uncanny and not of this world and maybe just a little bit sexy.

We’re also going to watch movies; some Horrific, some Romantic, some so Horrifically-Romantic you just have to call it Love.

Oh, and I’m paying and doing all of this so that I can eventually learn how to become Gary Oldman–er, I mean a Vampire.

This will be a blog for some of this and some of that, maybe some traveling here and there, some pictures, some food, some people. A blog for me as much as it is for you.

P.S: Hopefully not all of them will be done on 30 (now 31) hours of no sleep and a diet of pure fruit and smoothie and water and more fruit.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton