One of Alice’s workmates asked her if she’d experienced the “Edinburgh Wind” yet. Her first response: “Um…is that a common gastro-intestinal problem that non-Scots get?”
But it turns out that the wind here occasionally whips through the city, hard, overturning trucks, snapping flagpoles, closing bridges. The trees outside of our flat have been bending over, yielding to it, shedding branches onto the cobblestones; all of their dying leaves are being stripped from the branches, shooting through the streets like birds, carried horizontally and upward, twisting and turning. Air is being forced down the ventilation shaft in our bathroom, and, as Alice pointed out, it must be pushed down chimneys as well, spreading soot in living rooms throughout the city. It’s colder here, too; it’s really becoming soup weather.
And then there are the sunsets, and the clouds, and the colors. I feel like even Romantic painters couldn’t have exaggerated how beautiful the sunsets are in Scotland. We were lucky to be here during the Festival, I suppose, but I think we’re even luckier to be here now.