The African Mating Dance

We all have this friend. You know the one, the special friend who gets herself into ridiculous situations on a regular basis. The one who starts fights in night clubs due to a "misuse of a ladder" or who gets put into hiding in the backroom of a homeless shelter because one of the clients mistook her for the "tart tha ruined me an ma brothers! Aye no, cauz aye never ferget ah face!" (true stories). Well, in my social circle I am this crazy person. And last night was just another typical evening.

Mike and I had not been "out" out in a long time (going "out" out, for all you men, means having the opportunity to spend an hour on makeup and wear a new sparkly dress), and since it was a holiday we decided to temporarily leave our hermit lifestyle and make a night of it. After spending hours on hair (Mike) and makeup (me), we were fit to be seen, and met up with old friends at a packed out swanky pub near town.  After a few drinks we all hailed cabs and made our way down to the main event of the night. One of the popular night clubs was hosting a large, glitzy party, and the place was packed out. The drinks were pouring freely. The music pumping deafeningly. Just by those three elements, we should have predicted what was to come next.

The club is situated between two floors. The ground floor is lined with bars but doesn't have much dance space. After 11:00, however, the intimidatingly large bouncers pull the heavy velvet drapes back to reveal a wide spiral staircase, leading to the "VIP dance room", which is really just a larger and wilder dance floor. This is where we were all headed.

The dance floor in the VIP room has several large platforms to dance on, all at various heights, and each can hold a large amount of people. For a laugh, a few friends and I jumped up on one of the lower platforms, mainly to get out of the hot mass of people dancing on the floor below where Mike and his mates still were. After a few minutes, all of us on the platform were having fun and competing for the stupidest dance moves (a game I usually conquer). At one point I gracefully tripped into the rail and nearly fell off, but regained my balance, and we all carried on our merry way, completely oblivious to anything else going on in the club.

A few seconds later, we heard loud shouts coming from below us. I peered down to see a guy in a far-too-tight white Armani t-shirt -- well, it had been white at one point, but now it was a blotchy pink colour -- arguing with Mike, and they both looked furious. I was trying to figure out what had happened, when Mr. Armani scowled and started shaking his fist at me, his face contorted into some Red Phase Picasso design. Because of the loud music and my obliviousness, I still couldn't figure out what was going on. Relying on the strength of Girl Power, I decided to look to the the guy's date for some kind of sign. And boy, did I get one. She glared up at me (quite an achievement considering the 10 pounds of heavy eye makeup she had painted on) and made some crude X-rated hand jives so creatively I was almost impressed, then took a large swig of her drink. That's when I noticed all the drinks lined up along the edge of the platform. Mr. Armani had been using the ledge as a drink counter -- bad judgement on his part, I might add -- and as I had stumbled, I had kicked his fruity red drink (really, HOW unmanly could this guy get!?) all over what had once been a brand-new £120 ($190) t-shirt. And he wasn't too pleased with me for it.

Now, Mike's tactics weren't exactly helpful either. If anyone has ever watched Madagascar and seen the Lemurs do their "I Like to Move It, Move It" dance, that is Mike. For those unprepared, it can be quite disturbing. So while Mr. Wastes-Money-On-Ugly-Shirts was yelling at Mike to "control his woman," Mike was still obliviously swinging his hips all around the dance floor, which, to the untrained eye, can seem more like threatening spasms. His weird African mating dance moves must have intimidated the now Very Angry Armani Man, and before Mike even realised I was the cause of all this mayhem, Mr. Armani girlishly shrieked at Mike, mid-pelvic thrust, and the shouting had commenced.

Not wanting things to escalate further, I bounded off the platform to save the day like Superwoman. Unfortunately, my heel caught in one of the steps, and I ended up doing more of a Mr. Magoo stumble-turned-somersault onto a very sticky floor. By now I had managed to piss off half the people in the club. The Bouncers must have agreed, because the next thing I knew there were two of them on us, took one look at Mr. Armani in Pink, and we were booted out without even an "excuse me" or an "off ya go."

Needless to say, I think there was a reason we were living a hermit lifestyle. Perhaps Scotland just isn't ready for me yet. Or perhaps society in general isn't ready for Mike's dancing.

*Picture credit to animatedtv.about.com

A Troll Named NED

Over the last few months Michael and I have been casually house hunting (and when I say "Michael and I" I mean me), and one common issue has been quite recurrent: False Advertising. Ads will claim "beautiful Victorian home, 2 bedrooms with real character." The picture (and there's only one provided) will show the outside of a stately home, half-obscured by shrubbery. At the bottom, in fine print, the ad states "Buyer Beware- property comes as is." All in all, tha ad is deceptively saying, "This house is terrifyingly old! Termites have carved "creative" designs all throughout the walls! Fleas are dancing in what remains of the carpets! The atmosphere is so heavy the house will probably collapse next week!" These are all tips and signs I've learned over the years, but when I initially arrived in this country I was much more naive.

When I first moved to Scotland I was living in Glasgow's West End, which sounded quite posh. The brochure for my new flat showed pictures of upscale cocktail lounges and designer shopping, and I imagined myself living the high life. The reality was a bit more stark. My flat was in Maryhill, which I quickly learned is the long forgotten outskirts of the West End. The "spacious and clean" rooms advertised were the size of a typical walk-in closet and suspicious stains littered the carpet and mattress. The biggest shock were the thick steel bars on my window. Whether they were to keep dark intruders out or keep me locked in was a true mystery.

In order to get to my flat from the "real" West End you had to cross 2 bridges. At the entrance to my flat was the first bridge arching over the dirty canal water. Every week there were new surprises littered along the banks: a stolen bicycle, a car engine, a few discarded murder weapons. The NEDs ("Non-Educated Delinquents") used to love hiding under the bridge and jumping out when you came to pass, like ugly trolls from those disturbing fairy tales. It was hard to avoid these creepers. The second bridge was much larger, spanning across the River Kelvin just past the beautiful Botanic Gardens. Now, as I stated earlier, Glasgow's West End has a reputation of being quite high-end, and certainly it is in many places. But on my daily walk from Glasgow Uni, at the centre of the West End, to Maryhill, the scary borderlands, the serene atmosphere could change instantly once you hit the Kelvin Bridge.

Quite often I would spend my evenings with my flatmate and friends who had had enough sense to spend more than 5 seconds on the brochures and, consequently, lived in beautiful, large high ceiling flats next to the university. Usually we would take a cab back if it was dark, but one unlucky evening I was attending a party at one of these flats and somehow misplaced my purse amongst the rubble on the floor. As it was still early by Glaswegian terms (earlier than midnight), and it was a clear night for once, my flatmate and I decided a moonlit walk would be a nice change. One thing I should mention is that we lived in a large block of student flats, and typically on a Saturday night everyone else was making this migration from the centre to Maryhill, so it was very rare to be without at least a few other students walking nearby. Since we had left a bit early, however, we had unintentionally beat the usual migrating herd. After a few minutes walking, Sarah asked if she could make a quick stop at the chippy around the corner (the fish and chips shops are open all hours of the night). I wasn't hungry, so I slowly continued walking towards the bridge to wait.

The streets were eerily quiet. Even my footsteps echoed softly. As I approached the Kelvin Bridge, I could hear another sound mingling in with the whoosh of the swirling river below and the faint murmur of the chip shop. It sounded like... a bell. On a bicycle. I turned around, saw nothing, but quickened my pace as I crossed the river.


Ding! Ding!

I heard it again! But this time it was different...

"OI YOU!" 

I whipped around, and coming at me at a surprising speed was tiny bright pink and floral bicycle, and riding it was a mammoth of an old man with a long beard and an angry Scottish accent. He looked absolutely livid.


"OI YOU LASSIE, GEET AFF MA BRRREEDGE!"

He was pedalling furiously, the glittering pink ribbons on the handlebars streaking through the night air. I was cemented to where I stood, jaw dropped. I didn't know whether to be petrified or rolling on the ground laughing on his "brreedge" (bridge).

That's when I noticed something.

The now heavily wheezing old man was not riding a bike, but a trike -- a little girl's trike -- with fragile training wheels. Not your usual Britain's Most Wanted criminal. Even at his unthreatening speed, the tiny training wheels were spinning so fast they were in danger of flying off. As he came closer, I decided to get the hell off the man's bridge. I was racing in my 3-inch heels like a sprinter in a Miss America contest.

"What the hell? What the hell!" I shouted back. What else can you say when a crazed pensioner is trying to run you down on a 5-year old girl's tricycle?

"AH AM THE KEEEPERRR OF THA BRRREEDGE!" screamed the man, who had obviously mixed too much booze and theatre together in his day. I was now close enough to see his twisted mouth open widely as he laughed insanely (this man must have escaped from a high-security nursing home). I was also close enough to witness the sudden confusion in his eyes when his trike was abruptly stopped mid-air. One of the training wheels had hit a rock and unbalanced the imbalanced man, suddenly careening his glittering trike down the embankment and stopping just short of the river.

I ran to the edge of the bridge and peered over. Without missing a beat, the man looked up and announced, defeated, "You shall pass." I didn't need permission -- I booked it out of there, heels in hand, until I was around the corner at the shop. When Sarah saw me she didn't believe my story, and we began laughing hysterically at the insanity of it all.

Looking back, I often wonder if the brochures for my flat had shown Glasgow's true character, would I have chosen this city? If Glasgow was represented by a picture of Ned the Pensioner Bridge Troll, I hate to think I would have turned away. Because really, I wouldn't have wanted to miss a single crazy story in this mental town. And I speak from experience.

The Wannabe Local

After living abroad for over 3 years by now, you would think I would be quite settled in, no longer the "Outsider". For the most part, I can understand the extremely varied Scottish accents and can even direct you to the nearest loch or tavern in most of the country's main cities. On more than one occassion I have been stopped in the street by a passing tourist (usually Australian- they are everywhere!) or just an extremely drunk Scotsman to be asked to give directions. Nothing makes you feel more like a local than to direct a staggering drunk to the nearest bookie.

 Every now and then, however, small incidents occur that tarnish that thin layer of pride. Small, stupid things that make even the most mature ex-pats feel like a complete idiot. This happens quite often to me. Only last week I was sending a package to the States from my local post office in Wishaw. In fact, it was my friend's lingerie party gift, and I was late in sending it, as usual. I rarely send packages, and if I do I'm with Michael, my locally-knowledgeable hubby who is fluent in Glaswegian and "Wishy", amongst other Scottish variants of what was once the English language.

Now, just to justify my actions of this day, in the States when you send a package abroad you are given a large customs sticker, on which you are required to write your recipient's address as well as your return. Apparently this is not the case in Scotland. After waiting in the queue for at least 15 minutes (Post Office lines are always ridiculously lengthy because most people don't actually use it to post anything), I was called by a mechanical voice to approach the counter. I had already been raising eyebrows by others in the queue by lugging around an awkwardly large box (the only one I had in the house), and, having ran out of clear packaging tape, piecing it together with bits of black duct tape and bright yellow Scotch tape (I believe at one point the tape was white, but after several years of ageing had somehow transformed into a papyrus-like state). Needless to say, it was the least attractive package in the queue.

Heaving my poor, awkward parcel onto the counter, I announce to the teller that I am sending it abroad.

"Contents?"

"What?" What kind of greeting was that?

The woman glanced up from her computer screen and looked at me like I was purposely trying to be difficult. "What are the contents of your parcel?"

Already flustered,  I start to stammer because I suddenly can't think of a more tactful way to say, "the entire back shelf of Anne Summers." (My best friend is getting married, so I figured I might as well give her a present worth remembering).

As I'm still thinking of a better fib, the woman gave a disapproving glare at my pathetic wrapping skills and said, "I'm not accepting that."

At this point I'm a bit shocked and getting angry, so I replied, "It may be an eye-sore, but you can't deny my package based on looks! What kind of judgemental institute is this, anyway?" and I looked over my shoulder at the line of people behind me, trying to rally support at this injustice.

Rolling her eyes, the irritable woman said, "You can wrap it in 10 more colours for all I care, but that package is going nowhere without an address. Where did you think you were coming?" and with a sharp dismissive wave of her hand she called on the next customer without another glance in my direction, leaving me to walk out through the obvious sniggers of the other customers.

The moral of the story is: there is always more to learn. And: never send embarrassing presents without a solid cover story first! Or just stick to online shopping ;)