Last Tuesday, which would be the 18th, you may recall that I tried and failed miserably in an attempt to find Jamie. I managed to succeed on Wednesday, when he was opening for folk singer/guitarist Mark Silver at the pub at which I’d twice found myself on the previous evening.

Before entering the two gentlemen assured me that Jamie was indeed playing that night. I threw my hands up in relief and the older of the two men imitated me with a laugh and said “Thank Allah!”

You won’t find a comment like that in America. I fully appreciated it.

I babbled a minute about my grand search the night before and the younger man winked at me.

I went in and bought a Magner’s (cider) and sat down. The younger gentleman, whose name I now know to be David, came and sat next to me. We had a nice chat for a while. Jamie came out and gave me his usual look of surprise at my attendance.

David got up as the show started (he’s the secretary for the club, which apparently involves holding the door for latecomers), and when Jamie was finished he came and sat next to me. We watched Mark, who reminds me either of Phil Collins or Peter Gabriel, play, chatting during the breaks between songs. During the intermission he jumped up to do some business or other, and the woman sitting next to me started chatting about music and musical ability.

I started to wonder if this club was so lacking in walk-in audience members that the arrival of someone new caused a stir. I think I’m right.

Jamie invited me out the next day (Thursday) for breakfast and a little shopping. Something we were planning to do in Greensboro, which fell through. After the show Jamie went to pack up and chat to some people, and the bartender – apparently the other young member of the club, came over to talk to me. Remember what I said about the group being really excited about new people? I think the younger members were even more thrilled that I was under the age of fifty.

We trooped out to some little bar where they were having a music session. I, being the clever, clever young woman that I am, had brought my knitting with me, and sat and knit and listened. Because let’s face it: if you don’t play an instrument or sing, a session can be god-awful boring. I have tested this theory a number of times and I am so totally right. Yay music and all of that, but damn.

Quarter of one rolled around and I found myself a nice headache to latch onto, and so told Jamie I was going to head out. I had to walk home, after all, and wasn’t sure how long it was going to take me. He said if I waited another ten minutes he’d give me a ride.

Awesome, right?

I keep forgetting that I need to take Jamie’s concepts of time with a grain of salt. Maybe even a cup or two. We didn’t head out until after one – which was actually fine, since now that I wasn’t walking time was less of a factor. But we were also dropping off one of the other musicians. Who lived far enough outside of the city that his street didn’t show up on my city map.

But car! Driving! No worries! Much. I got home around two, and Jamie and I decided that meeting at 10 was silly, and 10:30 was far more reasonable. In retrospect I probably should’ve walked.

Waiting on the sidewalk for him the next morning (he was right on time, I was early) a Hari Krishna-style nun came by to ask me if I was happy and you know religion makes you happy and do you have any money? As I was telling her I wasn’t interested Jamie came up and put his arm around me, and we gave each other giant grins. I looked at the nun, confident that I’d answered her question about my level of happiness. Neener, neener, neener.

Y’all, Jamie and I have been trying since we met a year and a half ago to hang out without interruption and this was the first time we’ve actually accomplished it. It was fantastic.

We went to a café and sat for over an hour, talking about life and such things. I think he’s trying to get revenge on me for telling him that he would love living in North Carolina, because he spent some time telling me that he could see me in Seattle, or Boston, or at least not somewhere I’ve lived before. Now is not the time to settle, but rather to try something new and different.

His ambition for me to try things was contagious, and that bastard has me thinking about going back to school, a thing which I have been staunchly against since graduating.

I paid for breakfast while he was in the bathroom, and when he found out he tried very hard to repay me at least part of it. I refused, despite his repetitive urging, and he gave me a long hug.

We visited every shop along the Royal Mile that sold sweaters, as he was searching for one for his new sweetie, if you will. (Girlfriend isn’t the right word, and this is definitely more than a friendship, so I’m borrowing a term from a friend of mine). She has similarly colored hair to me, so anytime he found something he liked he would hold it up to me.

In the middle of our hunt we stopped for a beer and discussed sweater-and-gift options, his Scotland tour next September, and more of life.

He ended up buying her a ring, too, and as per our new custom, asked which I liked. I pointed out one, and he asked if I would like it. I turned a violent shade of pink and said no. He asked why I was blushing, and I told him it made me shy when people bought me things. But he did, because he can be ridiculously charming.

He departed suddenly after staying an hour and a half later than I thought he would. Since we’d spent so much time wandering he had to take a cab back to wherever he was staying, and our goodbye was brief. His cab drove past me and he turned to wave and blow kisses.

It was heart-achingly sweet, and an unreasonably fun day.

And now Jacqui is ten minutes late picking me up for today’s swing dance (as she predicted), so I’m going to finish getting ready and hopefully have a more entertaining entry later.

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1. Dinner
2. Go to Jamie’s concert since he’s in town, according to his schedule
3. Either go swing dancing or hang out with Jamie.

Easy, yes? Ha ha! I laugh.

I went and had dinner; that was fine. I finally went to the Royal Theatre pub, but they’ve had almost complete employee turnover there, so Graham was the only one I knew. I left there at ten of seven to walk to the Pleasance, or possibly the Edinburgh Folk Club, where Jamie’s schedule had said he would be. Fine!

Made it to the relevant street faster than expected and walked past the address and had to turn around to find it. It’s in a cobblestone courtyard off the street, and there were no major signs. I went into the first door (they weren’t marked, of course, with street numbers or anything silly like that), and they seemed to be showing some movie. I didn’t see any of Jamie’s posters, so I went to the place next door and asked at the bar. They gave me a seriously confused look.

The folk club, they asked? That’s tomorrow night. And Sunday.

Good! What?

I still didn’t see any of his posters and left, confused. His schedule definitely said today. I checked my phone to double-check that it was, indeed, the 18th (it was). So I guess I wasn’t going to catch him. Since he doesn’t have a cell phone and his computer is broken I didn’t have a way of contacting him – finding him at the gig was it. Blast.

It was over an hour until the swing dance, so I walked back to High st, where the dance was, found a pub, and nursed a beer and read my book until it was time to go.

I walked down the street, thinking it was a shame I couldn’t catch Jamie, but swing dancing is always good, and I’ll go back to the club tomorrow to see if he’s there and then suddenly I was at the end of the street, and I hadn’t seen the club.

What?

I walked back up. Surely it’s on this street, right? Of course it is. It looks right. Isn’t it? I checked my map – neither Calton st. nor Holyrood st. looked right, and they were my other options.

So, having wandered too damn much today, I called Jacqi and asked her. It was Holyrood st. Bah. Made it to the club and went into the bathroom where I ran into Jacqi. I told her about trying to find Jamie, how he was supposed to play at the Pleasance/Edinburgh Folk Club and I didn’t see him. Oh yeah, she said, that’s just right up the road.

What? No it’s not. I walked way too much for it to be right up the road.

Another woman in the bathroom with us said that she’d just passed it – there had been people gathered outside.

Now. This means that I was in the wrong place and the concert’s over and if I don’t catch him then I really won’t see him.

So I ran. I ran up the road (with periodic bursts of walking quickly – I’m not totally insane) and up the hill and some stairs –

and found myself where I’d been not two hours earlier. I’d gotten the address right, and it’d been right around the corner from the dance place the whole time. Only this time I was sweating and panting. Lovely!

Just for fun I walked into the first place again, but it was no more promising. So I went into the bar – not the one I’d been in earlier, a different one – to see if they had any different ideas. I waited for the bartenders to stop talking to other people, thinking that Jamie could be anywhere, and if I don’t catch him before he leaves – you get the idea.

And I waited. And looked to my left, and recognized the person standing next to me as a drummer I met in Inverness when I was hanging out with Jamie and Hans.

What the hell.

If this was a novel I’d have less respect for the author’s ultra-convenient deus es machina.

I said hello and asked if he knew where Jamie was – oh yeah, he’s in town this week. But he’s been really hard to reach on his phone.

He has a phone here now?

Oh yeah, he just got a British SIM card for it.

Great.

So it turned out that the Folk Club was in the bar that I’d been in on my first trip here, and he didn’t know if/when Jamie was playing, but he was definitely around this week.

And then my head exploded. By which I mean I gave him my email address and asked him to let me know about music sessions and went back to the swing dance.

The dance was fun. And I got a ride home from Jacqi and went to bed. And since there’s a swing dance Sunday I think I’ll stay in town this week, though I’d been hoping to go out west.

And today? All the thrills and chills of going to the grocery store! Ooh, aah.

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I am, to start, not altogether convinced that I am completely healthy. Remember how I felt like lead? Apparently that feeling also went on holiday in Inverness, and now it’s back. Hi!

Having the same mindset as I did last time I felt so tired I walked halfway across town. I’m ignoring Wednesday. I didn’t do anything. Seriously. The day’s highlight was finding a new grocery store.

My place is located in the northeast section of the city, and I walked all the way down to the southwest part of the city. Why? To try and find a knitting and/or embroidery store. I need an embroidery hoop. Stop looking at me like that.

I walked up Prince’s street (the main locals’ shopping drag), listening to my music, and then a woman with blond hair and a nose stud stopped me. I knew her. My brain went into overdrive, trying to figure out HOW THE HELL I KNOW THIS PERSON! DEAR GOD, QUICK, BEFORE SHE NOTICES!

I haven’t the faintest idea what her name is, but I met her in Inverness of all places. She was playing at the Ceòl Beò¹ sessions and was at the big dinner following. We had a lovely talk about Edinburgh and I highly enjoy her. She was in Edinburgh for the night, and now shopping for a half hour before heading to the airport to go to Sweden, where she’s from.

Y’all, it is so weird to run into people I know. The other day I saw Aussie Swing Dance Ben but didn’t say hi because I’d forgotten his name. Yesterday I saw what’s her name from the Royal Theatre Pub.

You know what this is like? It’s like the end of my freshman year at Guilford where I barely felt like I knew anyone, and as my parents and I were driving to lunch every single person we passed knew me and waved. And I was all, where the hell have you people been?

That is what this is like.

So I continued on my way and walked down into a churchyard and admired the old, old graveyards that were split into small sections and are now being used for storage of things like plywood and road barriers.

And then I ran into a man who talked my ear off about something that I couldn’t quite figure out but he was staring at my shoes and telling me about his life and parents and how he has been walking and is now away from home and woe and now he is starting to have a bit of a panic attack and so I stopped him and asked how I could help. He was asking for food or money. Nice. I gave him some change to make him stop talking and let him continue on to the church.

Oof.

I finally found the store I was looking for, and boy was it crap. The good part of the wandering was that I found a theatre where, on Oct 30, they’re playing the original Nosferatu with live organ music! How cool is that? So cool!

And I walked back and slept for some undetermined amount of time, then went out for dinner and internet. And on the way back I ran into Rita in front of a little convenience store.

What the hell.

She was there with a friend of hers. They were coming back from the swing dance class where they’d gotten kicked out. Turned out to be a complete beginner you had to start those classes four weeks ago. Oops. We stood and talked a while about swing dancing and other such things. A man came out of the store carrying a pizza. He came over to us and said something I didn’t quite catch.

“What?”
“How much?” he asked again.

It took me a second to figure out what the hell he was talking about, but when I did I punched him in the face and then kicked him in the nads.

I didn’t really, but that’s way more interesting that what I did, which was to say “No,” in a variety of stern and disgusted ways. As he walked away he turned back and said he was kidding, ha ha!

So I bought a car and ran him down.

If the three of us had looked even remotely like we might’ve been in the sex business (if we had, for instance, been wearing gobs of makeup – or any, even – and/or had been at all scantily clad, or perhaps been wearing some sort of “Prostitute” badge) then I might’ve understood why he thought that, but we were all wearing trousers and long sleeved shirts and sneakers and generally thick jackets.

Maybe that’s what they wear around here when they’re strolling down the streets, looking for customers. I wouldn’t blame them. It’s cold here.

Anyway. I went to the swing dancing class (the third of three on Thursday nights)(I can go because I have the basic down). I got to talk to Ben and Helen (the couple from Australia and Sweden, respectively)(I think she’s from Sweden).

Dance, dance, dance.

When it was over I saw Jacqi – the woman who showed interest in me teaching a blues class. She asked if I’d said anything about it to anyone, and I said I hadn’t. She took my hand and tucked my arm under hers and brought me over to Michael and oh… um… damn. L–? …Liam? Some British name like that. She said I wanted to teach a class, and they said great! How about next week?

Panic!

I mean, yes! Of course next week would be just great! I am not at all terrified!

Ben and Helen invited me out to get food with them. I agreed, even though I was a little tired because I would like v. much to get to know them better. Turned out there were 10 of us going. So much for a personal invitation, but whatever. We piled into cars and drove to – get this – the southwest of the city. Yes, right where I’d walked earlier that day. Har har har.

I ended up sitting next to the aforementioned Michael and the Norwegian, whose name we spent the car ride trying to figure out. All the younger swing dancers that I was hoping to get connected with were sitting at the other end of the table. Blast.

Kathy gave me a ride home. Ben and Helen rode in the back seat with someone, and they laughed and chatted. I talked with Kathy in the vein of “Those Kids Today,” referring mostly to the drunk people wandering about the city. And yet I wanted to be one of the kids in the back seat. But it was good to talk to her.

Aaaand… yes. Swing dancing this weekend. That’s all for now.

¹ I would like to note that Gaelic is a weird, weird language. Ceòl Beò sounds like Kill Bill. Ceilidh = Kay-lee. Eilidh = Ay-lee. How is that at all ever logical? It’s not, that’s how.

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