A normal day.
Having just moved across the pond, I was settling in and decided to go for a walk – take in the scenery. I picked up my Nikon, slung my notebook and laptop into my brown shoulder bag and walked out.
I was wearing a grey-blue waistcoat, a white shirt and khaki's. Brown leather shoes polished to perfection. My Edinburgh gear. I was going for the sleek-academic look. My hair tied back.
Its great to move. You get to change, be someone else. Back home in Norway, whilst working as a teacher, I went for the tired-youth look. Loose fitting jeans, a chequered shirt two-sizes to large and rolled up, a brown backpack and tennis shoes.
It wasn't anything like how I used to dress, I usually wore perfect shirts, tight around the back, and pants just my size. For some reason though, when I moved to a town a few hours away by train, I decided to go for the new look. My pants were strangling my legs, so I bough newer, bigger ones. My shirt felt sufficating, I couldn't breathe in them. They also felt pretentious for a 22 year old male, with no formal education. So I bought looser ones. No good to go around feeling uncomfortable, forcing knowledge on people who don't want to hear it. Pick your battles I say.
A year later and I was in Edinburgh. My hair had grown. I had thrown out all the clothes from last year, bought new ones and flown over the ocean on a metal-bird weighin in at 750,000 pounds. A new man, fitting for a new world.
Like all cities, Edinburgh felt amazing once you got there. The medieval castle loomed over me, like a beacon of civilization, telling me I was in the right place. Every bridge was an adventure, every Close a quest. Behind one door, I found a midget, behind another I found a sand-cat sitting idly by the doorway, listening to two middle aged women – not unattractive – playing the cello and a violin. Vivaldi, Summer.
Summer was ebbing out, but still the sun shone brigther here than it had back home, the grass was greener here too, even though there is probably more pollution in Edinburgh than in Skånevik Norway.
It was in fact an especially hot day, unusual for this time of year. I had to remove my waistcoat, unbutton my shirt, but not even that stopped me from sweating. Moist, dark stains formed along the back and under my arms. There is a special kind of temperature in the UK, maybe because it is basically an Island. The winters are mild, there's little snow, only a few patches way up north but the cold there is chilling. It seeps into every bone and muscle in your body. Like it has a will of its own. The summers aren't much to brag about either, but probably because of the humidity, you get this intense heat that threatens to fry you. This day was one of those days. All eighteen degrees of it.
Walking around, I crouched every now and then to take pictures, which I had seen pro-photographers do in magazines. In between pictures, my eyes wandered along the facades. Most of them were neo-classical buildings, from the enlightenment. But a few gems were actually older, though not entirely medieval, they had that dark-gloomy gothic look I had come to associate with the city. They were on all the postcards.
Sometimes I just looked up. The sky had a strange shade of blue. Also, there where no skies; It was all clear, almost like the sky had made an agreement with the sun. A beautfiul sight. Clear lines cut through the Closes and alleyways. Ever colour was more accute, almost glowing agains the dark, grey walls. I was in love with the city.
I meandered along the Royal Mile some time. Had a look at the castle, took a selfie. Sitting on a bench, I took a few swigs at my e-cigarette. It felt awkward. Like sucking on a mechanical dildo. With another world came new goals, one was to quit cigarettes. Electronic ones where apparently the thing.
Further down the Mile, I went into a whisky store, intent on not buying anything. A blonde, Scottish lass dressed in skirt and heels greeted me warmly. She was unusally attractive as far as Scottish women go, I thought. I was shown several good vintages, and some new arrivals. It was Edinburgh's oldest independent bottler, which meant they bought whisky, or rum, directly from the distillery; Stored them in the own oaken casks, and sold them in their own brand of bottles. Modeled after port and brandy bottles. No colours or artificials, making each bottle a unique experience - an adventure. In the end, I bought a whisky from Ebon and another from the Speyside region – the name elludes me.
By some strange coincidence, I chanced upon the Elephant house, took a selfie, posted in on facebook with the tag “Where J.K wrote Harry Potter #FuckTigers” and decided to have a coffee.
The interior seemed cheap, so too seemed the facade, a standard red bar-facade with “The Elephant House” written in Upper Case, golden letters.
I chose a small table in the left far corner. The interior seemed old, but not “good old”, more like the nineties old. Just like the old you find in rundown chinese-takeaway restaurants. Rustic wooden tables, red wallpaper which had faded considerably. The menu was poorly laminated and written with strange letters, most likely on an old windows-computer. Still, the room had a sense of Magic.
Edinburgh Castle was viewable through the windows in the back. Sharp squares of light filtered in through the windows. There was a garden outside, with some large oakes and a discreete selection of flowers. Lillies maybe, I'm not good with flowers. Behind them, grey spires and turrets popped up all around. Almost like in Hogwarts. I'd really like to live in Hogwarts. Perhaps the next time I moved I'd go there.
I barely managed to order a scottish coffee over the loud Chinese group which was sitting at the table at the far corner of the room. A petite girl with brown hair and a red dress was lost in a book on the table next to me. Probably Harry Potter.
The Coffee was delicious, most likely because it had a great deal of Alcohol. I waved at the waitress again, a small Chinese-American and ordered a MacAllan – no ice, no fuss.
Reflecting about the magic and meaning of the venue made me take up my laptop. I wanted to write something. Now, there is nothing magical about any place. Just because Rowling had success there it does not mean you will have it. It all comes down to skills in the end.
When people go to “special” sites, like Sir Walter Scotts home in Abbotsford, they instantly detects magic. However, I know this magic is not real. When you peer at his glasses, or his selection of books – all neatly catalogued in his dark, musty study – and your realize there is nothing special about the place or items themselves, but there is something there. Something faint and indetectable. Magic. But its not magic.
They're ordinary glasses, ordinary books. But the fact that they own a story and a person lends them som faint gravitas, some meaning beyond what you're viewing. You look at his chair, but you imagine Sir Walter sitting in it, proof reading “Waverley” before publication. But its nothing special about the items themselves, just like theres nothing special about the Elephant House. Its just a café.
Two whiskies later, and I was two thirds finished with a short story about a woman sitting on a train. It was decent enough, it had good flow and a clear concise structure, but I had some trouble with the ending.
It began with the woman putting on her headphones and cranking up a nameless classical sonette. Slowly, the train begins to move and the woman drifts off into some half-conscious state, mind focused on the music. Vibrant meadows, curved hills and everything passes by in a blurr. Colours mingling and blending together like the instruments in the sonette. Then just as the overture finishes, she realizes something is a bit off.
Gone are the meadows and hills. There is no landscape outside. Instead, each window has its own scene, which is played in repeat – like a movie. No one else is aware of this, she is the only one who can see it.
In one window, a scrawny man is busy rolling a big rock up a hill only to loose it as he gets to the top. He then sighs, goes down the hill and starts pushing the rock up again. All the while, a strong is beating on him from overhead. Over and over again.
In another window. A man is stuck on a rock wall, clinging to the ledge with both hands. He is wearing rags, with long unkempt hair and skin like old, sun-dried parchment. Like its about to crack any minute. Then, a set of black ravens come. They peck out his eyes first, then goes to work on the rest of his body. The man can't do anything. Feasting, the crows tear at his skin with sharp beaks, gleaming in the sun and soon opens up his belly. His intestines fall out and the crows staring eating him from within. He screams, he wails, but there is no help. He can't let go nor can he stop the crows, he just has to endure it. Because, come midnight, the ravens dissappear and over the night his body regenerates. His eyes grow back, his tummy closes and new organs grow. And then, with the morning comes the Ravens and it all begins anew.
I wasn't sure what the story was about; It was a free-flow kind of thing. When I put fingers to keys I had no idea what would pop out. It seemed like it was just stories, one story about a woman and then two stories about two different men. There was no logical link except for the two stories about the hapless men, which were both depressing and horrible. Since the story had no logic, I did not know how to end it. Like a trip without a destinations is just drifting, though it really is a kind of trip. Sighing, I raised my glass for another MacAllan and gulped it all down as soon as the waiter had placed it on the table. I asked for the bill, and she nodded courtly before dissappearing behind the corner.
A small Scandinavian family entered the dining area, chatting audibly, laughing and smiling. They all wore simplistic Scandinavian clothing. Levi's and shirts over black or grey cardigans. They all ordered Diet Pepsis. The parents waved at the waiter and ordered Steak Tartare with a honey and nut salad. “The Children will have burgers”, they said after. They were efficient. Five minutes after, just as the waitress came with my bill, their food was on the table.
The parents were chatting as they tore into the raw meat mince. They lauded the cook and ordered more Diet Pepsis. Three children they had, two girls and a boy – all Blonde. Smiling and shifting in their seats as they devoured the burger, piece by piece.
What caught my attention however, was the boy. Probably because he wasn't smiling. He was small and skinny, light boned. He had pale skin, but vibrant blue eyes - which lent some vigour to his presence. Like the smile of Mona Lisa. Back Hunched, he sat quietly. Never said a thing. He looked a bit lost. The other members of the family did not care though. Busy eating raw minced-meat or cheap burgers, they failed to notice that something was clearly off with the small boy.
The waitress came with my Bill, but I asked for another whisky, double this time – a GlenGoyne. Stressed, she went on about how I could not ask for the bill and then decide to stay. It was against policy and so and so. It was not as simple as simply opening another tab and serving me. No, she had strict instructions from the manager. She couldn't do magic. I ignored her and repeated “Double Glengoyne, no ice”. She walked off with a shrug and returned with my drink. It was good; The third whisky is always the best. When you've just drunk enough to enjoy it, but not so drunk that you don't taste it.
I craved a cigarette, so I grabbed my vapor and puffed at it intently as I move my gaze back on the boy. For some magical reason, he seemed important. I needed to see what he was up to.
The boy, I named him Hedwig, did not touch his burger. Instead he sat, back hunched and nibbled at the fries. He'd dip one in ketchup, eat it, then make a sad face before resuming staring into the air. What he was staring at I could not tell, but he was looking at some point in the air outside of the window. It wasn't the caslte, nor the clous – there weren't any. But he wasn't simply staring into the air, his eyes had that radiance they get when you're actually watching something. What it was though, I could not tell.
“Så jeg sa: Hva er det du gjør?”, the father said and the rest of the family laughed merrily. The two girls almost fell of their seat. The boy did not laugh though, and I knew why.
I knew why he wasn't smiling. I knew why his back was hunched. And the reason was really simple, but only I could see it. It was almost like an epiphany.
On top of the boy sat an old man, worn by years and weather. He wore a shiny, black spandex suit and brown sandals. He sat completely still on top of the boys shoulders, looking around. His hair was grey and dry, but long and he had a full red beard to match. Bloodshot eyes drifted across the room, over the Chinese people busy eating shortbread, the waiters fussing about and then on me. His ice cold irises, pierced right through me.
I wasn't scared, I knew that the man could not harm me, but I was afraid. Afraid of the poor, blonde Scandinavian kid with an old spandex clad man on his shoulders. It must be incredibly heavy having him sit there all day, never moving. I wasn't even sure that he was breathing. He was just alive.
No one knew the old man was there except me. I considered walking up, but resolved not too in fear of scaring the boy. Maybe he did not know the old man was there? Maybe he just felt tired and sore all the time. No, telling him about the man would only do more damage – what good could it possibly do.
“Oh, boyo, you got a man on your shoulders. Aware of that?” I imagined me saying.
“What? What man?” The boy would reply.
“Nevermind, it was stupid. Enjoy your meal”
They'd probably think I was abit off.
If the boy knew it, he did not need me to say it. If he had a choice he could just ask the old man to go down off his shoulders, but it did not seem like he had. Perhaps, I thought solemnly as I rolled the glass in my hands, the boy is sad because he has no choice. Doomed to carry an old man every minute is sure to make everyone depressed.
I finished the whisky just as the Scandinavians paid the bill. Suddenly, the rose and disappeared out the door. I remained for some time looking at the brown remnants of the whisky in the bottom of the glass. I should have said something.
The waitress came by with another Bill, though I had not asked for one. I ordered another Scottish Coffee and she sighed as she turned around to find it.
The sun was setting and was barely viewable over the hill supporting Edinburgh Castle. Red streams of ligh rushed in through the windows and coloured the cafe differently.
A magical moment: The café seemed more beautiful under the gaze of the setting, crimson sun – just like everything else in the world. At least in this world.
The coffee came. I took a careful sip, afraid of burning my tongue, looked up and found a set of eyes. Forgotten his jacket, the boy had returned to pick it up. By mere coincidene, our eyes met for a fractions of a secon. He twisted his mouth, gave me a nod and turned around again. He walked out with a fully-grown man on his back – knees buckling under the pressure.
The day ended after another two whiskies. I meandered sloppily through the cobbled street as the sun dissappeared behind the horizon, unsure how to get back to my apartment and also encumbered by a very violent tipsiness.
A normal day in Edinburgh, I thought to myself, beautiful but normal.
A Normal day in a very normal world.
