Topless Chicks (Welcome to the Rivera)

Nice is a beautiful little city, no doubt about it. You can see the wealth everywhere; people are dripping in Ferraris and Fendis…it’s like the last Sex and the City movie, a bit garish. In fact it’s a little too much wealth for my comfort actually.

On the black stoney beaches are four poster beds with mosquito nets hanging romantically from the tops. There is a lot of glitz and gold but it’s hard to feel any real heart of the city, unless you go to the Old City.

The Old City in Nice is where Italy and France meet and make everyone who loves one or the other happy. There are beautiful red, orange and cream building, tempting little alleyways, sidewalk cafes and little gilatorias everywhere. One the street is a man playing a violin and his partner is playing an acoustic guitar and singing. The restaurants are a lovely mix of Italian and French cuisine.

Mom and I eat a wonderful meal (Dad was sick in the hotel room) and for dessert, we went to the gelato stand. I had my favorite; cinnamon icecream. I first had it in Cinque Terra, in the Italian Rivera, three years ago and have searched for it ever since. It’s not a popular ice cream but its wonderful, creamy and spicy.

We sun ourselves on the black rocks and dip our feet in the water. It’s not cold but not particularly warm either. There are bevies of topless women everywhere and I feel dumpy compared to the tall, blonde and brunette tanned women laying out happily, revealing what god gave them. I feel like I’m the only red head for miles…

I fell like my style has always been pretty girly and not terribly sophisticated at times. I need to change that up a bit; I’m a divorcee (well for all intent and purposes, one more year to go!); I should dress in black more. Be more sophisticated…maybe take up smoking and cocktails (oops! Was that a martini in my hand? Already there!) and take a young Spanish lover named Jesus or something (maybe I’m thinking of another older divorcee…).

There’s nothing wrong with a bit of sex appeal but I’ve just either played up my cuteness (let’s face it, I’m not pretty or beautiful, I’m adorable, it’s a curse…) or played to other ehem assets. I’ve always been a bit of a “what you see is what you get” and on the low maintenance side (I haven’t blow dried my hair all trip.) But now I feel it might be time to wear eye makeup. Take up tango dancing. Saying less, listening more. Build a bit of mystery around me. The nice thing about traveling and about moving around a lot is that you can start from scratch again. You don’t have to always be who you have always been. You can be different. And maybe on second thought, blogging isn’t so good for the mystery…

Anyway, Nice is a good place to relax and just people watch. When you walk down the streets, you hear lots of different accents…a lot of American and pasty British people (my apologies to all my British friends, but you should all know by now that you are a pasty race).
My parents and I stayed in a student-esque hotel, with large holes in carpets and a dubious elevator that I secretly thanked all the deities I know each time the door creaked open (I took the stairs mostly). Thanks Pele! I know you only do volcanoes, but I appreciate you going out of your comfort zone for to get that elevator door to open.

Now, I’m usually a pretty unpicky person when it comes to staying places; I’ve slept in some very interesting locales and I try not to judge too much. But we paid a 100 euros for a pretty sad place. And it was with my parents…the fact that I picked the hotel, mainly on price and location, did not get me in the good books with my two favorite people.

But they took it in stride; Dad can’t get angry about that stuff, it’s not in his genetic capacity because it was cheap and Mom just laughed.

We got to the train station the next day to take, what we had read up on, was to be a three hour train ride. It took about 5 and half hours. At the point in my travels though, I can’t get impatient about anything anymore. I just can’t be bothered about those things. Plus the train ride was fantastic!

The Italian Med has much more to offer than the French one, hands down. Beautiful red, orange, pink and cream villas perilously perched on gravity defying rock formations. Little villages in valleys that end in golden, sandy beaches. The ocean is so clear; you can see the large stones metres down in the water.

And the language is beautiful…People always marvel at French but I have to say, I prefer Italian. It’s a language that speaks to me more; you have to use all of your mouth (lips, tongue, teeth…that weird flap of skin under your tongue) to speak it. It’s amazing the sounds that come out of the Italians mouths.

You can tell instantly the difference between Italy and France. France is all about QUALITY and sublime, perfected experiences over millennia. The cheese, the wine, the train stations, the buildings…there is an air of perfection and logic about the French systems. Everything works, everything makes logical sense. People know what is going on and they tell you, quite happily, if you don’t know.

In Italy, it’s not like that. Everything is a bit mad; there is chaos all over the show…but a chaos that everyone here understands and you don’t. The train stations are filthy and trains are rarely on time. It can be frustrating at times, but if you just go with it, it’s fine. There are no announcements on the trains about what the next stop is…you just have to wait in suspense, hoping that you can move you and your parents and all the bags out of the train car before the door shuts and you end of Rome or Milan.

But in the chaos is total calm, a complete surrender to the things around you. The Italians don’t really seem to be too interested in controlling much (except the Mob, they like to control everything). Things just seem to work, without too much fuss and new construction or toilet paper. Life just happens for them, easily. No wonder they annoy the French; the Italians make living a pleasurable life look so….easy.

I appreciate a good deal of chaos; it’s my nature. I thrive well in the unknown and unorganized. I like living unplanned mostly because I don’t trust plans at all anymore. I find that when I make plans, God or Pele or Shive or whoever laughs at me and completely changes them. So I have become an evolved appreciator of chaos. But I also appreciate hard work as well; I think in order to get something out of life, you should have to work hard at it. Nothing in life that was worth anything ever seems to be easy (at least for me) and honestly, I do enjoy a bit of blood and sweat now and then.

In Savona, I feel the same warmth in my dusty old heart that I did in Edinburgh; that sense of childlike wonder and pleasure of just walking down the street and taking all the sights in. I feel like I can breathe in this little, tiny seaside town nestled in a small valley, looking out at the ocean. It’s a place of peace and pleasure; the food, the sun, the sand and streets.

The food is wonderful; a passionate slathering of sauces, pastas…no dish, even ordered on the same day, the same thing, is ever the same. It’s all thrown together and somehow, it just works. Or not, I guess.

I remember in March I got the daft idea of taking a Med. cooking class with my friend Tynan*. Poor Tynan; we were so inappropriately matched cooking buddies. I hardly remembered any of the ingredients and just sort of throw stuff in, while Tynan, having been brought up a tidy and good kiwi boy, had everything ordered nicely (even if he did forget an ingredient or two. Hey nobody is perfect).

One time, he asked me for two table spoons of basil. I grabbed a hunk of fresh, crunchy, basil and threw it in his dish.

“Um…are you sure that was two table spoons?” He looked at me, a bit appalled.

“Sure, why not?”

Later I felt bad; Tynan probably wasn’t used to my Laissez-faire way to cook or my attitude, which has always been, with cooking, about having good ingredients, throw them together and see what happens. He had come here to learn and I was still just improvising my own thing, rarely reading the recipe, making huge errors all the time. I can be a pretty frustrating bitch.

It’s probably because I mistrust plans. I don’t have amazingly intricate plans about my life anymore, like trying to take over the world through the domination of the coffee market in Papau New Guinea (but now that you mention it, it might not be a bad idea…) or anything.

I think my philosophy now is to work hard, jump and hope I land on something soft. Preferably not just my ass, although its getting pretty soft because of all the pasta I’ve been eating! Maybe I should just subcontract my life to the Mafia; they might be able to plan better for me and only take a 15 percent cut…

*Name has been changed to protect the innocent friend.

Mind the Gap

When I was in Syndey in March of this year for my birthday (THANKS MOM!), I was walking home one night to the Metro Station. I was listening to my music and rocking through, when I misjudged the walking rhythm of the woman in front of me and my left leg fell through the crack between the train and the platform. Look, I’ve always been a bit of klutz.

As I desperately flailed to get my leg out, the train made the sound that it was going to leave. I was panicked; I didn’t want to lose my leg and I had no one with me; I was completely alone as Mom had flown out the day before.

The train was stopped right before it left and some friendly Australians helped me out. We sat in silence for the rest of the ride and when they left they called back,
“Don’t do that again, mate.”

Thanks.

Today, as I watch France roll along on the train, I think about our gaps in perception and how we change. The perceptions of a child are so different than from the perceptions of an adult. And with the change of perception comes changes of relationships and relating. Like the last blog that I wrote about my grandmother, who felt responsible for me when I visited and as such, was more authoritarian in nature than a softer, sweeter grandmother. That was my perception as a child based on a few encounters that weren’t as positive as I’m sure either of us would have liked.

But I also remember the Meme who watched all the episodes of the Thornbirds with me and who braided my hair almost every day I was in France. I remember the woman who would walk with me in the gardens or in the woods behind her house too.

I think the hardest part about ageing, at this stage of my life, is the concept of authoritarian figures changing and sometimes needed our help instead. It’s a shift in dynamics.
The other day, I sat next to Meme, holding her soft hand, she recounted to me the stories of her childhood. Meme had an Aunt, Aunt Asounta (T’Sounta for those of us in the family), who helped nurse her through a childhood illness, pneumonia, which was very serious before antibiotics.
She spent three months with T’Sounta. T’Sounta was an incredibly tough woman; one day she went to my grandmother, who was nine at the time and said,

“Right, no more French and Italian…now we speak Spanish!”

My grandmother didn’t know any Spanish. But she learned quickly. T’Sounta had married a Spaniard and wanted to help Meme learn as many languages as possible. Meme can speak five languages: French, Italian, Spanish, English and German.

I remember T’Sounta; she was full of life and spunk; up till her mid eighties, she biked everywhere. At 80, T’Sounta challenged my father to a race; his car versus her bike. She beat him home and gave him a slap on the ass and said,

“I showed you, Ameriloush (slang for American).”

Meme said how strong and tough and autocratic T’Sounta was with her as a child. She also stated that every summer, she looked forward to the 20 kilometer bus ride to visit her aunt, but as soon as she got there, she wanted to return to her mother.

“No! No calling your Mom…you are here for one month…now Spanish!” Aunt T’Sounta replied (according to Meme).

Everyone loved T’sounta; she was brash, strong, a straight shooter and just plain fun at times. She loved a good laugh, her chickens and her family. And Meme adored Aunt Sounta, just like everyone else.

T’Sounta actually saved my great grandmother, Rose, from a life of servitude. When Rose was 12, her family lost their business and became extremely poor. Rose was shipped off to a family about 80 kilometers away to work as a nanny and house servant to a wealthy family. Every morning, she took the kids to school in a cart that she was strapped to and at night, she ate anything that was left over by the family.

When T’Sounta got a good job at a local factory in Italy, she looked at her family and said,

“Right, I’m off to get Rose.”

She walked 80 kilometres and found Rose taking the kids to school. The kids had a horse whip and were whipping Rose to go faster. T’Sounta took the whip and beat the kids with the whip, released Rose from her harness and brought her home.

Meme always appreciated T’Sounta, especially as an adult but when recalling childhood memories, she had a little fear of her. Just because we see someone as some way as a child doesn’t mean our perceptions doesn’t change over time about that person; it’s just how we saw them and I think it’s good to be honest about that reflection.

Now, I am not particularly good with children. I had a brief flirtation with babysitting at age 13 but struggled babysitting my cousins. After one particularly hard day with my cousins, I cried to my mother:

“Rip out my ovaries now! I don’t want any children!!! They are horrible.”

I’m sure my cousins felt less positive about me as well after that experience. But now, as adults, we get along fine. I love my cousins and am proud of them and think they are amazing people. How I see them now is very different than how I see them in my mind’s eye as a child. But it’s important to roll with the changes in other people and allow forgiveness.

We each have our own unique bundle of crap to deal and no one can really know what it is like to walk in each others shoes; thats why its impossible (but so tempting) to judge another's motivations or actions.

In the end, we all need to mind the gap between perceptions of people over time so we don’t get stuck in that gap and get stuck completely in the past.

Then we are in real trouble.

On a lighter note, Nice is Nice. This city is the city of sun and water the colour of Plutonium 238 (which, incidentally has the half life of 80 years...hey Dad, stop stealing my blog!!!!)

Okay, anyway...where was I...oh right...the train was amazing; the change into Southern France is pretty immediate; with its red tiled roofs. It reminds me of my Aunt Claudine's old house, which was a house I always loved.

There are vineyards as far as you can see and everyone is wearing light coloured clothing, the colour of Neptunium 237 (Dad, I said STOP IT!)....sigh...

S

Shout out to Pink Kisses!

Breakups suck, no one knows that better than me...but hey, here is a site that not only will help you through the breakup but help you take all the crap in the breakup, put in a sack with rocks in it and throw it in the river, in the process helping you become a better person. Which is, of course, the best part of a breakup.

Awesome site! Its also good for those who have friends going through a breakup, what to say, some stuff to buy etc...



Thanks PK girls, you rock!

Way Down.

"Way Down" N.A.S.A. feat. Barbie Hatch & RZA from Syd Garon on Vimeo.

I like this...sad story about gang warfare and a doomed love affair told by birds.

Famille

Before I leave Scotland, I just want to say how much I loved Edinburgh, again...I have to say, I was feeling morose in Iceland and even a little in Shrewsbury but it was in Edinburgh that I really feel like I turned a corner, emotionally and mentally.

It may have been the whiskey or Ben Nevis or Arthur's Seat or something else.  All I know is that when I stepped foot in the city, I felt my spirits lift and the forgotten, dusty organ of my heart felt like it fluttered awake for the first time in months.

I was more than a little sad to leave.

Anyway, it took about 10 hours on the bus to get to London, so it was dark when I saw Annabel.  Annabel is an old friend of about nine years.  She is fun, lively, and energetic...the world is her oyster.  She just got back from a two week trip to Spain and is enjoying her life in London thoroughly.  We started the night, as typical, at a pub where it all started off fine and then disintegrated into a girl fight over the Irish bartender (honestly I wasn't that keen really, but Annabel has a mad right hook.  I have the pictures to prove it).

The Highlands

We catch up, gossip and enjoy the night and then it was off to Paris to meet Mum.  I was a little sad, although excited because the part of my trip where I travel alone was over.  I have really enjoyed the past month catching up with friends and now its time to meet with family.

My mother, for those of you who might be unaware,  is a Frenchie.  She has lived in the states a long, long, long time but here is her home.   We catch up in Gard de Nord and she has arranged for a lovely hotel right across from the train station.  The neighbourhood is a colourful mixture with a motorcycle gang out front of the hotel that the police have to break up later that evening.

Before the real pain started on Ben Nevis

Mom spoke a lot of French to me as a little girl and I feel very fortunate to have spent a great deal of time there in my youth.  Paris is, as always, a busy place with street hustlers and tourist operators.  It can be frustrating sometimes when you speak French to someone and they answer you back in English.  The thing about France is that it can be intimidating, just like any place that you visit where you don't speak the language.  I understand about 30-40 percent of what is being said right but I still feel left out sometimes.

The language feels so familiar; like when you are dreaming.  It takes me a little while to feel confident enough to start speaking but I give it a go.  My aunties and grandparents are very understanding, as I slowly butcher their language.

Eddy, Mae, Christine, Eric, Sarah and Me...the survivors of Ben Nevis

We walk around the place and visit some of the best sites in Paris, but not too many.  The Louvre is shut on Tuesdays, which is a bit of shame.  Generally, we talk to each other about life, adventure and hair styles.

France will always be about my childhood; I remember long summer days sitting in my grandmother's garden, walking in the Jura foothills, eating Comte (cheese yum!) and visiting castles.  I connect with the countryside rather than in Paris because I have discovered that I don't like big cities as much as I thought I did.  And besides, Paris isn't really France, its too cosmopolitan, its almost its own nation.

In Paris, we meet up with my cousin Lucille; I have a LOT of cousins.  My mother has seven sisters, a brother and one half sister.  I think, all up, I have about 40 odd first cousins...so far almost 100 people are on this planet that are directly from Meme and Pepe (my grandparents).  Its a huge, beautiful, colourful family and the nice thing is that I always seem to have a place to stay anywhere in France or Switzerland or the U.S.

Lucille (who just celebrated her 20th birthday), Mom and me head out for a meal. Its okay but the dessert was a real showstopper.  Mom wanted to try the Grand Mariner crepes; we thought they would be flambéed so to burn of the alcohol. Mom, a pretty strict Mormon, waited only to find a warmed cup of the alcohol.  Assuming it had been boiled, she poured the stuff generously over our crepes.  It had not boiled...it was full on, alcohol and all Mariner...Mom looked fairly unconcerned as she said "Hey, whatever happens in Paris, stays in Paris..."

We get up and walk around the neighbourhood, going for our daily chocolate croissant (a Mom comfort food) and then head off to take the train to Auxerre, where my grandparents and two of my aunties live.  Mom takes me to the HUGE designer store that is called Le Gallerie Layfette...it has an entire FLOOR of shoes.  Its horrible for me, like taking a priest to a strip club.  I can't take one pair of any of these works of art with me to the Solomons....

It is wonderful to see my grandparents again; I honestly thought three years ago was the last time I would see them in this life.  They are older; Pepe doesn't do much anymore and Meme's has short term memory loss, but she is still active and happy.  

I spend the night over at my Aunt Mireille's place.  She makes me a lovely meal of tapas and cheese (I love LOVE french cheese) and chocolates from Becescon (my mother's home town).  It feels good to be in France with the family again.  It feels right.  

Its on odd thing, having two parents from totally different cultures.  And you can look at the pros and cons from a variety of angles.  One the face of things, you couldn't get more different than the cultures of France and the U.S. However, they both share one important passion: liberty or freedom.  And the French loves anyone who rebels against the English anyway...

Back to my point; I never felt very settled in the U.S., even as a child...not to say I felt any better in France but I related to the lifestyle, the desire to enjoy life in its simplest moments.  The French make an art form out of living well and its something I've always appreciated about my family.

Knowing you have a big, large loving family in France is truly a blessing.  So is the cheese...  

Ben Nevis-Mountain of Terror!!!

I want to say that I rocked.  That I was a tramping (hiking) superstar and that I summited Ben Nevis and slapped in the face.  I want to say there were no tears, there were no moment self complete self defeat...gentle readers, that would be a lie.  Did I climb Ben Nevis: Yes.  Was it pretty?: No.

Due to my exhaustion, I have invited my good friend Eddy to be my guest blogger...here he goes:

So, to escape from her incessant nagging, I’ve finally agreed to be a guest writer on the gnarly action packed epic that is Stilettos in the Solomons (abbreviated to SS by its dedicated readers). I’m Eddy, I live in Edinburgh, and it is my flat that Sara has been inhabiting for the past week, I’ve been busy all week though so she’s mainly been entertaining herself, though I did have a couple of days off, and Sara mentioned she’d like to climb Ben Nevis...

Did Sara mention how we met? I think she did, I was working on a farm in New Zealand. It was a peaceful farm, a tranquil farm. I was a shepherd. The grass was green, in the morning the birds sang in the trees... Well, I digress. That all changed...

Anyways, Ben Nevis is Britain’s highest mountain, at 1344 meters, and it rises dramatically from beside Loch Linnhe. It’s one of the busiest mountains in Scotland, mountaineers love it because of it’s dramatic north face, whilst it’s popular amongst tourists too because an easier path zig zags it’s way up the western slopes. The path is called the Pony Trail because it was originally built to service a meteorological observatory on the summit. The observatory was manned from 1883 to 1904 and its ruins are still up there. The Pony Trail is a long tedious slog and it’s always packed with tourists. A more interesting route climbs Carn Mor Dearg, a mountain to the north east of The Ben, walking along it’s summit you’re rewarded with views of the famous north face. It’s a longer walk and there’s not much of  path. Once you make it to the top of that first peak there’s a perilous scramble along a knife edge ridge onto Ben Nevis itself, then a quick steep slope covered in boulders takes you to the top. It’s longer and tougher than the Pony Trail, but the route rewards those up for the adventure; or those tricked into it, I suppose.

Ha, I just remembered the car! Did Sara mention the car? We bought a car together, on the farm, a 1979 Ford Cortina. It ran ok, but it was showing its age. It burnt oil almost as much as it burnt petrol and you’d have to keep topping up the radiator too. Funny story; Sara didn’t know how where to put the oil or the water, she went of on holiday with the car and when she came back and I drove into Christchurch the engine blew up! Ha ha, funny days...

Nine years ago, don’t the years fly. Where was I. Oh yes, so we decided to take the exciting adventure route, rather than the easier boring pony route. Some friends of mine from Edinburgh joined us and we left the car park at 9 and trekked up through the forest onto the hillside. Walking up across the grass and the heather, finding our own path. It took us a couple of hours to reach the stony hillside and then a while more along the ridge to the first summit. The wind was blowing a gale by now so we stopped for lunch before taking on the knife edged arrete on to The Ben itself. Along the ridge was hard going, it’s a steep drop of several hundred meters on either side and you have to pick you’re way carefully. Sara seemed quite nervous by then, and tired, it had been a long climb on to Carn Mor Dearg.  (I thought I was going to die, people!  DIE!!! In that moment I cried like a baby, wished that Antony was there because he was also my hero, talking me down any  mountain.  But, I realised he was gone forever and I only had two chooses, dear reader.  Hit Eddy or climb the mountain.  I did just that...)

That ridge line is good fun, I’m still convinced Sara secretly loved it. It did her good, like the learning experience of stripping out and fitting a new 2 litre engine to a 1979 Ford Cortina. Not that that has anything to do with anything.

After the ridge you’re about 300m below the summit of Ben Nevis, and all that’s left to do is scale the 45° boulder field to the top. Once you’ve had a bit of practise, leaping from boulder to boulder is good fun and you can fairly fly your way to the summit. You want to save a bit of energy for this part though, or you’ll be crawling slowly on your hands and knees. Ask Sara.  (I have no shame...I did crawl on my hands and knees).

But we made it! It was 5pm and the summit was beautiful. It’s wide and flat on the top, covered in the ruins from the old observatory. The clouds had cleared and we could see up the Great Glen to Loch Lochy, and down Loch Linnhe to the sea. Then across to the mountains around Glen Coe. And there was the slightest dusting of snow. We took a photo and headed of, only 4 hours down the pony trail and we’d be done. 4 hours. We’d be down by 9.  (I hate tramping in the dark...but mostly at that point, I just hated Eddy)

P.S. In other news, I came home from work today to find Sara drinking whiskey in bed with my flat mate. (Hey, I can explain, it was perfectly innocent...we were watching a movie!) See, I told you she’d been entertaining herself.

Ole Reekie

The Hall of Heads

I bum around Edinburgh for the next couple of days.  One day, I spent only 3.50 pounds, going to all the free museums of the city.  One particular favorite was the National Museum that had Botticellis, Raphaels, and a Da Vinci.  There were two round stairwell rooms filled with busts (I like to call it the Hall of Heads).  But my favorite painting was one done by a Scottish artist.  It was of the highlands...the way the light played on the canvas was beautiful and I really connected with the painting (it was done by Peter Graham, called Wandering states).

The beautiful Jessica

I met up with my pal Jessica and we did a whiskey tour.  The Scottish Whiskey experience is actually pretty good value.  It starts of in a barrel ride, which is pretty simple and it explains the INCREDIBLY complicated process of making scotch whiskey.

We try a variety of whiskey and I'm surprised to find that I like the whiskeys from Isley best.

 This feels so right; me being a member of the Scotch Whiskey Appreciation Society

Those whiskeys are incredibly smokey and rich flavored.  I've never been much of a whiskey drinker but it just wins me over. With a nice whiskey you can sit, relax and enjoy without drinking too much.

Next, Jessica and I eat some haggis (surprisingly tasty; must have been changed for the tourists) and then we went on the literary pub crawl. This was really fun; we were presented with two sides of Edinburgh: the historic, classic side and the seedy, evil underbelly.  Most of the writers here had some sort of nefarious reputation and usually spent quite a lot of time in pubs, gentlemen clubs (settle down, thats not what it meant back then...well...usually), and in secret societies.

At the end, I can't decide which side of Edinburgh I appreciate more.  Edinburgh is certainly has a dark, shady past and lots of bad shit went down here (I found out more about that on the Ghost Walk...but more on that later).

After the pub tour, we go tango dancing.  As I watch the dancers, I feel a little regret.  My very nice former  boyfriend Scott (Hi Scott, you made into my blog!) was taking tango lessons and I never danced with him.  It looks amazing; I wish I had now.  Seeing the sensuality, the closeness and the passion of the dance is inspiring.  The couples separate; most aren't together at all.

I talk with some people...the one thing I love about traveling is that you learn so much about other peoples lives and possibilities.  The world feels open and opportunities exist everywhere for different lives, different paths.

The next day, I explore Edinburgh castle.  It has your typical castle type things; a long history of mystery, murder, war and romance.  My favorite place is St. Margaret's Catherdral.  Its the oldest building on the site (built around 1200s) and its so small and quiet.  Most people just poke their heads in and the find something more interesting.  But I sit and think about Margaret and her life.  She was a woman destined to be a nun but was convinced by Malcolm, then almost 40, to marry him.  She did and became queen of Scotland.  Apparently, she was an amazing queen and she helped the people of Scotland by increasing the education, access to health care and generally help creating a more civil society.

She died pretty young, in her 50s.  Her husband had died in battle and it was reported that she died of a broken heart, so deep and abiding was her love.

I walk down the Royal Mile; perhaps the most touristy place in all of Scotland.  I love the shop names: Thistle do nicely is a personal favorite.

Spooky vaults....BOO!

I get onto one of the famed ghost walks and boy, was it worth it.  Our host, an actor and history student, tells us horrible and gruesome tales of mis-hangings, torture, murder and debauchery that took place in old Edinburgh. We travel down into the Vaults; apparently this is the most haunted place in Scotland.  Personally, I don't get much ghostly activity but it was still well worth it.  At the end of the tour, we are taken into a room, offered some drink and then told more ghost stories.  It was a good use of eight pounds; I learned a great deal about Edinburgh and apparently, all the stories are true.

My heart really warms to old Edinburgh (or old Reekie as it is known by) and I find I'm lighter and happier than I have been in months.  Maybe its the whiskey, maybe the tango, maybe the ghosts, I have no idea.  But I feel clearer and more confident in my ability to travel as a single woman.  I'm surprised that I never feel lonely; I'm pretty happy to keep my own company and get lost in the city and in my own thoughts.

Me surviving Ben Nevis...barely.

Next, the epic climbing of Ben Nevis; hopefully I survive the experience.