In the first volume of Robert Caro’s biography of Lyndon Johnson, there is a fantastic chapter about what life in the Texas Hill Country was like before electricity arrived. Every basic task was substantially more difficult: water had to be carried in buckets, clothes had to be washed by hand, water had to be boiled over an open fire, milk and eggs had to be refrigerated in ice cellars, and on and on. When power finally did arrive to this rural area—thanks in large part to Johnson’s work—it transformed daily life in a matter of years. Johnson was considered a hero, and rightly so.
But if Lyndon Johnson deserves ample praise for having helped bring electricity to his district, what does Michael Faraday deserve? For it was Faraday who first discovered the principles of the electric motor and the electric generator. If not for him, the harsh conditions described by Caro—a life of ceaseless toil, barely eking out a living—might be not just confined to a rural area in Texas, but the general condition of our species. Faraday was, in short, a historical figure of supreme importance, and his work represents a turning point in human history.
Knowing this, it is shocking to see just how humble and, in many ways, how simple his work actually was. The tools at his disposal seem, to the modern reader, almost laughably primitive. Whereas modern physicists are using a city’s worth of power to accelerate particles down a track kilometers long, Faraday was fiddling with wires and bar magnets and compasses. And yet, with such simple tools at his disposal, and with scarcely any formal education—indeed, hardly knowing any math beyond basic algebra—Faraday made contributions to physics comparable to Newton or Einstein.
The format of this book is simple. It is not, like the Principia, a unified work conceived as a final theory. Rather, Faraday reached his conclusions slowly, over years of experimental work; and this book is a reflection of his process. Starting in 1821, Faraday began publishing accounts of his experiments in the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society. These papers were eventually collected and published in three separate volumes, in 1839, 1844, and 1855, consisting of 29 “series” of experiments in total.
Before I go any further, I should note that I did not make my way through all three of these volumes. Rather, I bought a condensed and annotated version published by Green Lion Press and edited by Howard Fisher. Frankly, I do not have the patience or interest to fight my way through 1,500 of the original, and I doubt many others do either. I also very much appreciated Fisher’s introductory essays, without which I think I would have been quite lost (and I often was, anyway).
Remarkably, Faraday maintains a numbering system for his paragraphs throughout, so that he can refer to earlier paragraphs of previous series as easily as one might cite the Bible. This is a simple device, but it does help to reveal the unity that underpins the apparently disorganized quality of this work, as it shows how Faraday was continually returning to the same questions and refining his answers.
I have already mentioned that Faraday was unversed in mathematics. And this makes him fairly unique in the field of physics, in which equations are sometimes elevated to a level that equates math with reality. However, the more one reads of his work, the more one comes to see that, even if he eschewed quantitative reasoning, Faraday was an extremely precise thinker. Part of this is his use of diagrams, which for Faraday almost take on the role of equations in summarizing complex relationships. He is also very sensitive to language, and is constantly trying to choose words that do not carry any inappropriate theoretical baggage.
Just because this book is written in good old-fashioned English, however, does not make it easy. Often, Faraday is responding to dead controversies and in general is using both language and theories that seem strange to the modern reader. To pick a simple example, static electricity is referred to as “ordinary” electricity, since this was the most commonly encountered electricity in Faraday’s day. What is more, Faraday very often must describe a detailed experimental apparatus or procedure, and I very often found myself totally unable to picture what was going on.
Here is a fairly typical example:
A ray of light issuing from an Argand lamp, was polarized in a horizontal plane by reflexion from a surface of glass, and the polarized ray passed through a Nichol’s eye-piece revolving on a horizontal axis, so as to be easily examined by the latter. Between the polarizing mirror and the eye-piece two powerful electro-magnetic poles were arranged, being either the poles of a horse-shoe magnet, or the contrary poles of two cylinder magnets; they were separated from each other about 2 inches in the direction of the line of the ray, and so placed, that, if on the same side of the polarized ray, it might pass near them; or if on contrary sides, it might go between them, its direction being always parallel, or nearly so, to the magnetic lines of force.
I don’t know about you, but I find this to be extremely exhausting.
Not all of the book was so dense, however. I particularly enjoyed the fifteenth series, which basically consisted of Faraday and his assistants putting their hands in a tank and getting an electric eel to shock them. Science was indeed simpler back then.
But the final impression is of Faraday’s remarkable theoretical vision. Although he is an extremely concrete thinker—couching even his most speculative remarks in terms of experiments—he nevertheless succeeded in probing some highly abstract questions. Beginning with the relationship between electricity and magnetism, he goes on to consider the relationship of force to matter, to light, and even to empty space.
His work is, in short, a model for science, showing how careful observation and the judicious use of imagination can revolutionize our understanding of the natural world. Compared to the baroque mathematical models of string theorists—whose theories have yet to receive any confirmation from experiment—Faraday’s approach is refreshing indeed.
One of the best parts of living in Spain is the restaurant scene. The country is exceptional simply for the number of dining establishments. If I had to guess, I would say that there must be more bars and cafés per capita here than in any other country in the world. And though you may not think so, this alone is quite a wonderful thing, since you really never have to worry about where you are going to eat or drink. Chances are, there will be something close.
But in this post I want to focus, not on the quantity, but on the special quality of Spanish restaurants. And to do this, I think it will be better to discuss one exemplary bar rather than to speak in abstractions. For this, I went across the street to one of my favorite local bars, Los Gauchos, and interviewed them. These are my discoveries.
Gauchos is located in the Pacífico neighborhood, which is fairly central but which doesn’t attract much tourism. It is in many respects a typical Spanish bar—or, as the Spanish say, “un bar de toda la vida” (a lifelong bar). That is, it is the sort of establishment you might find in the north or the south, the east or the west, and which retirees and children would both recognize.
An example of a vitrina, one of the most characteristic features of a Spanish bar.
According to Javier—the son of the owner—Gauchos has been open for about thirty years. It was purchased from previous owners, who had run the bar for fifteen years before that. A lifelong bar indeed. (It was the previous owners who named the bar after the famous “gauchos,” who were something like South American cowboys.)
The bar has been around so long that the neighborhood has changed around it. According to Javier (who has worked here since he was 16) and the jovial bartender Melchor (who has worked here since it opened 30 years ago), Pacífico has become more residential in recent years. In past decades, the area was full of offices and industry, and consequently was a ghost town on the weekends when nobody had to work. Lately, they’ve noticed that rising rents are pushing younger people out of the neighborhood, further into the peripheries of the city.
Now, my country has dive bars and local restaurants aplenty. But I think the closest thing the United States has to this sort of restaurant is, perhaps, a diner—a privately-owned restaurant which nevertheless has a recognizable aesthetic and a fairly standard menu. However, the Spanish “bar de toda la vida” is quite different in being, well, a bar. There is simply no place in my country where you can get a coffee and toast in the morning, eat a multiple-course meal at lunch, and have a gin tonic with your friends until late at night. The typical Spanish bar is an all-in-one experience.
This makes Gauchos, and other bars like it, a kind of de facto neighborhood gathering place. In the morning it attends to the mad rush of commuters on their way to work. Around lunchtime, besuited office workers might sit down for a leisurely lunch. And at night, the sidewalk is full of neighbors having a drink. Partly because apartments in Madrid are often small, friends tend to meet in bars rather than in one another’s houses. The neighborhood bar thus plays an important role as the communal living room.
Many times I have witnessed a grandpa or a grandma come after picking up their nieto from the nearby school. The other night, three generations of a family came in to hang out. Meanwhile, a man with a guitar sat down to drink peppermint tea and read a comic book. The most raucous nights are when there is an important football match, and the bar and even the pavement fill up with people watching the game on the large TVs, screaming in triumph or agony at every development. In short, the clientele is a cross-section of the neighborhood itself.
As I mentioned, the typical Spanish bar is similar to the American diner in having a standard menu. Just as the latter will have pancakes, hamburgers, and milkshakes, so the former will have bocadillos, tostadas, and tortilla de patata. If Gauchos’s menu is exemplary, it is in having even more reasonable prices than usual. You can order a full plate of food for about 5 euros. The lunch menu—which includes two courses, a drink, and dessert—costs ten euros and fifty cents.
The low prices are not incidental, but essential to any neighborhood Spanish bar. It is a place for anyone and everyone to come. This is a major contrast with most bars and restaurants in the United States, which are seldom cheap (especially after tipping), and which normally try to distinguish themselves with ornate decorations or unusual food options. By contrast, you can buy a cup of coffee in Gauchos and sit there for hours without anyone bothering you.
The contrast goes deeper. Neighborhood bars in Spain are essentially public, open spaces, where anyone can come in and feel at home, whereas bars in the United States are very different. Gauchos, for example, is bright inside and there is never any music playing. (Hemingway would call it a “clean well-lighted place.”) You don’t have to shout to have a conversation and you don’t have to squint to read. By contrast, I often find the darkness and loudness of American bars to be sort of oppressive. You can seldom forget that the bar is private property and that you are not the owner.
The aesthetic of Gauchos is extremely simple. The walls are white, and the chairs and tables are completely plain. As is common in Spain, the bar itself has a large glass display cabinet that is even refrigerated, where the customer can see the various options for tapas,* or even raw meat and pickled fish to be used later. The sign outside consists of simple plastic lettering against a white background. Below this is the iconic toldo verde (green canopy), where the patrons gather to escape either the sun or the (rare) rain.
(*There seems to be some confusion among Americans as to what tapas are. In Madrid, a tapa is just a small bit of food included with your drink. This is normally just a few olives or some mixed nuts. But in a good place like Gauchos, you might get a mini sandwich, some fried chorizo, or a plate of patatas bravas.)
Some tapas waiting to be deployed. The fish on the right are boquerones, anchovies pickled in vinegar. (They’re good!)
There is, in short, hardly any decoration to speak of, which is why British journalist Leah Pattem, in her popular blog, has coined the term “no-frills” for this sort of establishment. It is an apt description, and I think she deserves much credit for bringing this sort of bar—so common as to be taken for granted by many—into the spotlight.
Indeed, for my money the neighborhood bars of Spain are a cultural resource as precious, in their own way, as the Alhambra or the Sagrada Familia. And I think that the people who run them deserve a great deal of credit. It is very hard work—long hours, few days off, both physically and emotionally taxing. So I think we all owe a debt of gratitude to the people who form the backbone of the neighborhood’s social life.
Bartender Melchor, hard at work.
In Spain, as elsewhere, the existence of local restaurants is threatened by ongoing gentrification and the spread of corporate restaurant chains. These trends, if they continue, threaten to turn every city corner into the soulless copy of every other—where identical freeze-dried food can be purchased at identical prices from identically uniformed workers. But if the large crowds that gather around Gauchos every evening are any indication, the Spanish have not lost their taste for their bares de toda la vida—and I hope they never do.
A few weeks ago I met an interesting Irish writer named Enda at a birthday party. As it turns out, he has a podcast that he co-hosts with an Egyptologist named María, and they very kindly invited me on!
Click here to have a listen. And if you want to know more about their work, here is their website.
When you live in Europe, you notice that certain destinations come up in conversation with surprising frequency. Porto, Budapest, and Normandy are among those which are highly-praised among the well-traveled. Edinburg is another. So although I had no special reason to go—I had not even found an especially cheap flight—I decided that I would use my February vacation to take a little trip up north and see what all the fuss was about.
The plane broke through the gray clouds and touched down in Scotland on a cold, drizzly morning. I found the bus indicated by my Airbnb host and got on the top floor. The double-decker bus afforded me a commanding view of a not-very-exhilarating urban landscape as we traveled from the airport to the suburb where I was to stay. Though there really was nothing interesting to see, the combination of the dreary skies and the (in my eyes) quaint domestic architecture made a powerful contrast with the usual Spanish scenes of sun and walled-in houses.
Soon enough, I was at my destination. It was a rather odd Airbnb experience. My host told me that she had been repeatedly trying to contact me, only to realize that she was thinking of another guest (she managed various properties). Then, I was told, among other things, that the shower was set to the absolute perfect temperature and ought not be changed; also, she insisted that Scotland was just as humid as Florida, so that I ought to leave my window open for a certain amount of time every day to prevent mold. (Unless I am mistaken, the amount of moisture that air can hold is dependent on its temperature, so that cold Scottish breeze can’t hold nearly as much humidity as the scorching soup that is Florida’s atmosphere.) But this sort of thing is par for the course when staying in somebody else’s place. At least it was cheap.
With my bag dropped off, I caught the bus to the city center. I really appreciated the double-decker bus now, as it allowed me a wonderful way to enjoy Edinburgh’s Old Town. But by the time I stepped onto the cobblestone street, I was tired, thirsty, and extremely hungry. The daylight was fading now, and I desperately wanted dinner. This did not put me in the best mood to appreciate the lovely city which now opened up before me. Yet I was sentient enough to notice that the architecture formed a kind of coherent whole, all of the buildings made of the same grayish-brown stone, and constructed in the same heavy style, which seemed somehow suited for this clime.
I wandered up the venerable streets feeling rather sorry for myself, as I peered into window after window to see family and friends having dinner. I did not have the heart or the stomach to walk into a restaurant by myself and eat at a lonely table. I wanted something fast and anonymous, and my prayers were answered when I discovered a quiet kebab shop. I sat down at one of few chairs and, within minutes, my meal was ready. Better than any kebab I had in Spain, and this was not even a well-known spot. And as I ate, I reflected on the stark difference between what I had just observed of Scottish eating culture, huddled up inside, and that of Spain—where patios are overflowing onto every sidewalk. Of course, the weather is the explanation, though I also found it curious that nobody else was in this kebab shop on a Friday night. In Spain, it would have been full to the brim with drinkers.
It was, by now, too late to see any attractions. But it was not too late to enjoy a drink. For this, one of my friends had suggested the famous pub, Sandy’s Bell. Though I was somewhat buoyed by the food, I still felt nervous when I looked through the cloudy windows to see a bar filled with a rowdy crowd. But after pacing back and forth on the frigid street, I mustered enough courage to barge in. The barman immediately asked me for a drink and, like an idiot, I just said “beer.” (In Spain one often just orders “cerveza” and you’re given the only beer on tap.) He wasn’t satisfied with that, and asked me to choose a beer, and I scarcely helped matters when I said “an ale.” One of the regulars at the bar—an older man—took matters into his own hands and said “Try this!” while holding his own drink up to my lips. Too surprised to refuse, I drank a gulp and said, “That one!” The barman returned shortly with a pint of the dark ale.
My troubles were hardly over. The place was packed and every chair and barstool was occupied. I found a corner of the wall I could lean on and sipped my beer rather awkwardly, trying not to be noticed. This was my first Scottish pub experience, and somehow I found it very intimidating. I tried to slow down and enjoy the beer (which was quite good), but I found myself drinking faster and faster, as a part of me was eager to leave. When I realized that I was failing to enjoy the pub, I got rather down on myself—all these years of traveling had not cured me of feeling like a misplaced high school student—but slowly resolved to cut my losses.
Just as I had taken the last sip of beer and I was ready to pay and head out, a man got up to leave from the bar and, like an angel from heaven, offered me his seat. (I really must have looked conspicuously uncomfortable.) I thanked him from the bottom of my heart and got ready for another beer, this time from the commanding position of the bar. A drink sitting down is incomparably better than one standing up, and I felt quickly at ease. The experience was made even better with the purchase of a bag of crisps (salt and vinegar, my favorite flavor, which is rarely available in Spain), which persuaded me that I ought to have a third beer.
Time slowly ticked by. Eventually I remembered that the bar is famous for its live music. I asked a nice young fellow to my left, and he told me that it started at nine. I looked at my watch: about 45 minutes to go, and no beer left. My better judgment told me that I should just stop and come back another night; but my tempting demons—rather convincing, usually—told me that I ought to just tough it out until I heard some music. The decision was instantly made when I spotted a bottle of Laphroaig on an upper shelf. This is my dad’s favorite type of whiskey, and I felt duty-bound as a son to have a glass in his honor. This was ordered, and I could have sworn that I could feel a wave of respect pass over my fellow patrons.
Laphroaig is, you see, not an especially popular single-malt scotch. A single taste will let you know why. Coming from the island of Islay (pronounced “eye-luh”), this scotch is normally described by whisky enthusiasts as “peaty,” though the first words that come to mind of most ordinary people are considerably less kind. It tastes, to me, how I imagine a strong iodine solution would taste (though admittedly I have never tasted iodine). In other words, Laphroaig is harsh—almost chemically harsh. And yet, strangely, the taste grows on you. If you can get past your initial revulsion you will find it has a sort of complex smokiness beneath the initial shocking acrimoniousness. In short, I actually managed to enjoy my glass of Laphroaig.
And luckily for me, the music began right as I was finished. It was a small group of three people, two on guitars and one on violin, playing lively tunes. I took it in for a while, and then caught the bus back to my Airbnb. I had a big day ahead.
I will begin by mentioning the things I did not decide to see. Perhaps most notably, I did not visit Edinburgh Castle. This is probably the most famous and popular monument in the city—perhaps in all of Scotland—and, even from the outside, you can see why. It is an impressive and imposing fortress which towers over the city. However, from what I read about the castle, there was nothing on the inside which I thought merited the steep entry fee. But I did enjoy the sculptures of Scottish heroes Robert the Bruce and William Wallace that adorned the entryway.
Next on my list of negative tourism is the Holyrood Palace. This palace is actually connected to the castle with a broad avenue known as the Royal Mile (though it is really a little longer than a mile). Holyrood is the official residence of the British monarch in Scotland, still used whenever the king or queen is in town. The rest of the year, it is open to tourism. I actually think that Holyrood is likely a rewarding place to visit, but palaces tend to put me in a bad mood.
But I did enjoy seeing the ruins of Holyrood Abbey behind the palace. While I assumed that it had been gutted in a fire, the story of its destruction is quite a bit more interesting. The abbey played an important role in Scottish history for several centuries after its construction in the 12th century. But when its old timber roofs were replaced by stone vaults seven-hundred years later, this proved to be the end of the old church. Its walls could not support the added weight and the roof eventually collapsed. It does make a fine ruin, though.
Photo taken from Wikimedia Commons; taken by Kaishu.
Another major attraction that I did not visit was Her Majesty’s Yacht, Britannia. As its name suggests, this yacht was used by the British royalty from 1954 to 1997, and is now a kind of museum showcasing royal pomp and luxury. Needless to say, this would have put me in a bad mood, too.
An example of a close.
The last attraction I missed was Mary King’s Close. Now, a “close” is just another term for an alley, and there are a lot of alleys in Edinburgh. The historic center used to be enclosed by a wall, requiring high density, and so these closes are highly claustrophobic spaces—hemmed in by neighboring buildings. This particular close (named after a merchant) was, well, closed as neighboring construction both partially destroyed and buried the little alleyway. Nowadays the abandoned close has something of a reputation among ghost hunters and other seekers after the paranormal. But tourists enjoy the tours about daily life in 17th-century Edinburgh. Perhaps I ought to have gone to this one.
So where did I go? My first visit was to the National Museum of Scotland. This is an enormous museum with a collection of virtually anything you might imagine. And best of all, it is free to visit. The central hall is immediately impressive—a large area, full of light, modeled on the original Crystal Palace. There, I was immediately attracted by the skull of a sperm whale (“Moby”) who had washed up on Scottish shores and who, despite rescue attempts, unfortunately perished. Moby was not an especially large male (indeed, slightly below average), but even so, his skull alone is longer than two tall men lying end-to-end.
As I said, the museum has a vast and varied collection. There is an exhibit on space, animals, geography, fashion, Ancient Egypt… But I figured that, if I was in Scotland, I ought to visit the Scottish History wing. This is housed in a separate and rather futuristic building, and it makes for an excellent visit. You are led, chronologically, from the stone age on the ground floor to the industrial revolution at the top. Though Scotland is a small and rather remote country, this exhibit encapsulates all of the glory and interest of its history. As I traveled from a medieval greatsword to James Watt’s steam locomotive, I found myself almost awed by how much had transpired in this soggy northern country.
Right next to the museum is another popular attraction: Greyfriars Kirkyard, a historical cemetery. But before you enter, you might notice the small metal statue of a terrier with a polished nose. This is Bobby, a semi-legendary dog who—according to the story—spent 14 years guarding the grave of his deceased owner, John Gray. The story is understandably quite popular, and Bobby (or his statue) is undeniably cute. But I have to admit that I feel skeptical. Not that I deny the nobility and loyalty of our canine friends, but the story does seem too perfectly calculated to attract tourists. And there are many reasons (free food?) that a dog might be found in a graveyard.
Well, whether or not the Bobby story is perfectly accurate, Greyfriars is worth visiting. I must admit that my knowledge of Scottish history is so spotty that I did not recognize a single name. Yet the grandeur of the tombs is enough to impress upon the visitor the importance of this burying ground. While I strolled around, I noticed two Americans who seemed to be walking with determined step to a particular grave. Thinking that they must know something I didn’t, I followed them as they made their way to the edge of the graveyard. There, I was disappointed to find that they were visiting the grave of a man named Tom Riddle. Now, I have no idea who this man really was, and I am sure my American guides did not either. They were visiting because this name was used by J.K. Rowling as an alias for Voldemort. (Indeed, I think there is quite a lot of Harry Potter tourism to Edinburgh.)
Though I did not know this story at the time, this is the perfect moment to mention one of the more macabre episodes in Edinburgh’s history. There was a time in Scottish history when the medical demand for human cadavers—which doctors used in their lectures—far outpaced the supply, mainly because of strict laws regulating which bodies could be used for such a purpose (paupers and prisoners, mainly). This led to the grotesque practice of “body snatching,” in which grave robbers would dig up the recently buried and sell them to a doctor for a handsome profit. Indeed, this was such a problem that several anti-robbery devices were developed, such as the mortsafe, which is basically a cage placed over the body. (You can see examples of these in Greyfriars.)
But in 1828, two men decided to take this practice one step further, and began murdering people in order to sell their bodies. The men had a very simple system: get a person very drunk, and then smother them to death by laying on top of the victim. After sixteen such murders, they were discovered. One of them, Hare, was inexplicably given a light sentence, while the other, Burke, was hanged for his crimes. With poetic justice, Burke’s body was then dissected before a group of medical students. His skeleton is still on display at Surgeon’s Hall in Edinburgh (I wish I had gone!), as well as—and this strikes me as a tad overboard—a notebook bound with Burke’s skin.
While I am on this morbid topic, I should mention two other tombs I visited during my time in Edinburgh. One was of the great economist Adam Smith, who is buried in the graveyard of Canongate Kirk. The grave is neither big nor particularly elaborate, but its inscription gets right to the point: “Here are deposited the remains of Adam Smith, author of the Theory of Moral Sentiments and the Wealth of Nations.” Nothing more need be said, as those two works will last longer than any tombstone. Next I visited the tomb of the other great pillar of the Scottish Enlightenment, David Hume. This is in Old Calton Cemetery, which is located on Calton Hill, one of the high points of the city. His tomb is slightly more monumental, consisting of a kind of hollow tower, but there is no memorable inscription. Yet merely being close to the mortal remains of this most skeptical of philosophers was a thrill (though he would likely say I was irrational).
Curiously, right next to this tomb is a statue of one of my countrymen, Abraham Lincoln. He stands over a monument to the Scottish American soldiers who died in the American Civil War. The Scottish are an international bunch.
Very close to Hume’s final resting place, right at the crest of the hill, is a park. In addition to providing excellent views over the city, there are a few curiosities to be found here. The most obvious, perhaps, is the Nelson Monument—an enormous tower, dedicated to the memory of the admiral who helped defeat Napoleon (and, thus, a very British memorial).
But I much preferred the other massive stone construction, the National Monument of Scotland. This was intended to be a glorious monument to the Scottish soldiers who died during the Napoleonic wars, modeled after the Parthenon in Athens. (This idea, by the way, was owed to the notorious Earl of Elgin, who stole the Parthenon frieze from Greece and brought it to the British Museum, where it remains to this day.) The final result, however, is comic and slightly pathetic. The campaign ran out of funds when just the portico had been completed, and it has remained that way ever since. Now it is just a collection of massive columns over a base—columns holding up nothing, a glorious doorway leading to nowhere. But it is great fun to climb on.
Even more fun to climb was Arthur’s Seat. This is a hill, formed by an ancient volcano, which looms over the city, and which is to Edinburgh what Central Park is to New York. Nobody quite knows why it is called Arthur’s Seat, as it seems highly unlikely that King Arthur—if he even existed—built Camelot here. Thinking that I ought to maximize my time in Edinburgh, I climbed the hill in a mad rush and got to the top in less than an hour. (What are vacations for, if not to anxiously hurry through?) Once there, I got a taste of the famous Scottish wind—or, as they might say, it was a wee bit blowy. The view of the city and the sea beyond was wonderful. The landscape was impressively rugged and wild. Somehow, for a park right next to the capital of Scotland, Arthur’s Seat transports you instantly to the middle of nowhere.
The Nelson Monument with Arthur’s Seat in the background
I should mention that observation of the geology of Arthur’s Seat helped James Hutton develop his scientific ideas. And this is no small thing, as Hutton is known as the “Father of Modern Geology,” whose work basically initiated the modern discipline. This influential Scot is buried in Greyfriars Kirkyard.
The view from Arthur’s Seat
Now, this does it for my first complete day in Edinburgh, which was long and exhausting. However, as the rest of my sightseeing was done in snatches around a daytrip (mentioned below) and before my flight back, I will mention the remaining sights here without attempting a narrative.
If you walk around Edinburgh, you will undoubtedly notice an infinity of shops selling scarfs and sweaters with what we call, in the US, a plaid design. In Scotland, this is a tartan, and they are often organized according to family names, or “clans.” I was rather excited to find a scarf with the design of my own “clan,” the Johnstons (through my mother’s mother). However, I really did not need a scarf and so decided not to buy one. I am glad I didn’t, as it turns out that this tartan-clan typology is a prime example of what the historian Eric Hobsbawn called an “invented tradition”—as it only goes back to the 19th century and was an intentional way of shaping perceptions of Scottish history. In other words, it is not true that “clans” were proudly displaying their colors back when William Wallace was slicing through Englishmen. Oh well.
John Knox with a friendly greeting card.
If you are in the center of the city, it is certainly worth your while to step into St. Giles’ Cathedral. This is the mother church of Scotland, where John Knox—the Scottish Martin Luther—acted as minister. Now, I must say that I am far too ignorant to give you any more information about this church, so I will only add that it is both beautiful and central to Scottish history. For example, proudly on display is the National Covenant, a document signed in opposition to the king’s attempt to meddle with Scottish religion. If that isn’t a symbol of Scottish independence, then I don’t know what is.
Nearby is a monument to David Hume. The handsome philosopher lounges in a chair, dressed in a toga, and holding a large book. When I visited, however, he was also wearing a Ukrainian flag. This was February 28, 2022, and the Russian invasion of Ukraine had begun just four days earlier. Most commentators had assumed that the battle would be over within the week, perhaps in just three days. So it is stunning to me that, as I sit here over a year later, the war is showing no signs of stopping. I am sure that Hume would have something incisive to say about the folly of mankind in this regard.
There are, of course, monuments and statues all over the capital of Scotland (I’ve already mentioned many), but I think that the grandest is easily that of Walter Scott. It is something of a monstrosity: a neo-gothic spire that ascends 200 feet (60 meters) into the air. This stone needle is covered with statues: 64 characters from Scott’s novels, 8 kneeling druids, and 16 busts of other Scottish poets and writers. Walter Scott and his dog, life sized, sit in the center of this stone carbuncle, almost comically small by comparison. As you may well imagine, an enormous number of stonemasons had to be recruited to put this together; and apparently the hewing came at a steep human cost, as many masons were fatally inflicted with silico-tuberculosis from breathing in the stone dust.
Considering Scott’s fairly modest place in the Western literary canon nowadays, this huge effort seems disproportionate to say the least. But during his lifetime, he was among the most famous and influential authors in the world. As it happens, when I visited, I had just finished reading Ivanhoe; and I think that the monument’s faux-medieval grandeur is quite in keeping with Scott’s style.
I cannot wrap up my time in the Scottish capital without mentioning some Scottish food. Now, when I was younger, my friends and I used to joke (for some reason) about haggis, treating it as an epitome of a disgusting dish. Certainly a description of the food—minced sheep innards cooked in its stomach—does not sound particularly appetizing. But when I ordered a plate of haggis with “neeps and tatties” (rutabaga and mashed potatoes) at the appropriately-named Haggis Box, I found that it was absolutely inoffensive—not only that, but tasty. The meat is minced with onions, oatmeal, and a generous amount of black pepper, and to me was quite reminiscent of Spanish morcilla (blood sausage) in both flavor and texture. In any case, when you stop to consider what goes into an ordinary sausage, then haggis ceases to appear exotic.
Another Scottish classic is the Full Scottish Breakfast. This is rather similar to the English Breakfast, though it is even richer and heavier. Standard components include: bacon, sausage, haggis, eggs, toast, fried tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, and potato scones. I had one of these at the Southern Cross Café before my flight back to Madrid, and did not have to eat anything the rest of the day. A wonderful experience.
This pretty well does it for my time in the city of Edinburgh. But I cannot leave off writing without an overview of the whiskey—or, as the Scottish write it, “whisky.” For this, I went to the Scotch Whisky Experience, which is located quite near Edinburgh Castle. It is certainly a touristy place, though I quickly found that it was a worthy visit.
The first part consists of a silly “ride” on a whiskey barrel, during which an animated Scottish ghost (“animated” in both senses) explains the process of making this distilled spirit. In short, this consists of fermenting malted barley, distilling it until the alcohol content is at least 40%, and then aging the result in an oak barrel. The second part was a kind of virtual tour of the Scottish whisky regions, which are: Upland, Lowland, Speyside, Campbeltown, and Islay. We were each given a scratch-off with the distinct aromas of each whisky type—and, sure enough, the Islay sample smelled like Laphroiag.
Along with these single malt types (which must be made from malted barley), there is blended whisky, which is usually both cheaper and milder, and thus comprises most of the market. Blended whisky is made from a mixture of grain alcohol (usually corn) with a bit of single-malt. The grain alcohol is fairly neutral in flavor, so any personality is derived from the single malt that is added.
I was then given a tasting of four single-malt scotches, and thought the Islay whisky was the most interesting (if not necessarily the most drinkable). Indeed, I found the “Experience” to be surprisingly rewarding. Perhaps this is just a romantic notion, but I felt as though Scotland itself was palpable—indeed, tasteable—in each glass. The harsh and smoky flavors somehow called to mind the soggy, grassy, and rocky landscape that I had glimpsed on Arthur’s Seat. Just as it is difficult to imagine such a robust and unforgiving liquor being cultivated in sunny Spain, so is it equally impossible for the rugged landscape of Scotland to yield up anything gentler than this spirit.
During my time writing book reviews on Goodreads, I have “met” many interesting people. One of these is a woman named Karen, who is from Scotland but who has lived in Germany most of her adult life. By chance, she was in Scotland during my visit, and so we agreed to actually, physically meet, as she kindly offered to show me a few sites near Edinburgh.
The drive itself was slightly disorienting, as Karen had brought over her German car but we were driving on the opposite side of the road. Everything was as in a mirror (you pass on the right), but thankfully, Karen did not seem flummoxed. I began to reflect that, even while walking on a sidewalk, an American or a Spaniard will naturally keep to the right side. Do British people naturally keep to the left on the pavement? Somebody must study this.
Our first stop was the Falkirk Wheel. This is a rather odd contraption, designed to unite two canals built at different levels. The Forth and Clyde Canal was opened in 1790, and the Union Canal 32 years later, in 1820. Together they provided a water route between the two major cities of Scotland, Glasgow and Edinburgh; but the problem was that the canals are built at different heights, with the Union Canal 115 feet (35 meters) higher than the Forth and Clyde. This height difference was originally overcome with a series of eleven locks—which is the standard solution. But locks are also expensive and slow, as they take a long time to fill and empty, and require a lot of water and energy for pumps. In any case, the age of canals was soon superseded by the age of the railway, and the canals fell into disuse. Eventually the locks became inoperable and were taken apart, and the canals became rather useless watery ditches.
But as the new millennium approached, the authorities decided that this waterway should be reopened—if not for commercial, at least for symbolic reasons. This beautiful piece of infrastructure was the result. The wheel consists of two troughs of water balanced around a central spoke. By just slightly adjusting the amount of water in each trough, gravity can be used to help turn the wheel and take ships up and down. As such, it is both faster and more efficient than a traditional canal lock, though I am not sure if it could work on a larger scale (such as on the Panama Canal). It is also simply a sleek design.
Karen and I took the canal “cruise,” though to call it a cruise is like calling a walk in the park a “safari.” This is not to say that it was uninteresting. About twenty people got into a boat and we were (very slowly) lifted up to the Union Canal, while a guide explained some of the history of the canal.
I was especially entertained because the guide had a wonderful, classic Scottish accent. Though every word he spoke was recognizable, it was as if he had put a different vowel between the same consonants. (Sance ya can rad a santance wath all the vawals changed, ya can andarstand wan taa.) While on the subject, it is worth noting that Scottish people have a habit of pronouncing names in surprising ways. For example, though Edinburgh seems obviously meant to be pronounced “eh-din-burg,” the Scottish say “eh-din-bruh.” There are also a few characteristic bits of Scottish English I noticed. “Kirk,” for example, is a local word for “church; and on one traffic sign, the reader was instructed not to park “outwith the line”—the preposition meaning “outside of.” A useful word, that.
Our next stop was, for me, wholly unexpected. Karen informed me that we were going to see a big sculpture, but when I laid eyes on The Kelpies I was stunned by their scale. This is a work by Andy Scott and was completed just ten years ago, in 2013. Two horse’s heads—98 feet, or 30 meters, high—emerge from the ground near a section of the Forth and Clyde Canal. A “kelpie” is, apparently, a kind of water spirit that takes the form of a horse. But Scott has stated that the statue was meant more as an homage to the work horses who played an important role in Scottish history, not least by pulling barges on the canals. The sculptures are made of steel and, for something so large, are remarkably dynamic and lifelike. I think it is a wonderful work of public art.
After that, we headed to a little town called Culross (pronounced “coo-riss,” for some reason). This is a little town across the bay from Edinburgh. Our first order of business was lunch, for which we found a serviceable—if rather slow—taco truck. Then we ambled into town, where we found that there was a little market set up. I took the liberty of buying some fudge and coffee, and had yet another experience of Scottish friendliness. Everyone there was talkative and pleasant. Karen and I walked around the town for a bit, enjoying the lovely village architecture and peeking into the abbey, which was closed when we were there.
Our final stop was in the town of North Queensferry, in order to see the bridges which span the Firth of Forth. “Firth” is yet another example of Scottish English; it means an estuary. The Firth of Forth is, as you may expect, on the river Forth, which reaches the ocean near Edinburgh. At this particular junction in the river, three huge bridges span the division.
We parked the car, ascended a staircase, and soon found ourselves on one of these bridges—the Forth Road Bridge. This is perhaps the least visually interesting of the bridges, but it is the only one open to pedestrian traffic. Indeed, there is little else on the bridge. Opened in 1964, it was in service until 2017, when it was replaced by the adjacent Queensferry Crossing Bridge. Since that time, it has only been open to pedestrians, buses, and taxis. Karen and I thus had the bridge almost all to ourselves. I found it to be a wonderful idea, and now I wish the same was done with the old Tappan Zee Bridge, in New York, which was demolished to make way for the new one. (To be fair, the new one does have a pedestrian walkway.)
That’s the Forth Road Bridge in the background.
The Queensferry Crossing Bridge is an attractive piece of infrastructure. But the real star is the original Forth Bridge. Completed in 1890, this railway bridge is a monument to Scottish engineering. Its design was innovative and was especially noteworthy in using steel—a relatively new material for large constructions at the time. The pictures of the bridge do not do it justice. You need to see it up close to get a sense of its massive scale.
Apparently, the bridge was built so robustly because of an earlier disaster. In 1879, the Tay Bridge (spanning the nearby Firth of Tay) collapsed while a train was passing over, killing everybody onboard. This had the effect of scrapping the original plans for the Forth Bridge, as it was designed by the same architect, Thomas Bouch. (Bouch died less than a year after the disaster, his reputation in ruins.) This tragedy is also notable for being the subject of one of the worst poems ever written in English, by the iconic bad poet, William McGonagall. His poem begins:
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879
Which will be remembered for a very long time.
(He is buried in Greyfriars, if you would like to pay your respects.)
After we finished admiring the bridges, Karen kindly dropped me back off in Edinburgh. My time there, I have already described, so I will bring this long post to a close. As I hope I have conveyed, I had a wonderful time in the Scottish capital. It is a beautiful and fascinating city, and I hope to return one day, and to see even more of Scotland.
One of my vices is the reading of advice columns. The problems of the correspondents are often so bizarre as to be beyond the imagination of even the most lurid novelists. My favorite agony aunt (as the British say) is Carolyn Hax, who writes for the Washington Post. And her advice very often boils down to one simple precept: mind your own business.
This book is one long illustration of the wisdom of this maxim, as the entire tragedy of the plot could have been avoided if any of the major characters (and, indeed, even some of the minor ones) had simply minded their own business. From the aunt who cannot trust her niece—or, indeed, even her own son—to marry the right person, to the rejected suitor who spies, eavesdrops, and meddles, to the two principal characters—Eustacia and Wildeve—who express their dissatisfaction with their own marriage by tarnishing another’s, and finally to the titular “native,” whose love for his own country is tainted by his savior complex, thinking that he ought to “improve” his fellows.
Now, you may think that the injunction to attend to your own affairs is not exactly a profound subject for a novel. But considering how difficult it is, and how often we try and fail to do this, I think that it is worth close examination. Indeed, I would go so far to say that minding one’s own business is a bedrock moral principle.
To mind your own business is, in one sense, a way of showing respect, by trusting that others will have the wisdom to manage their own lives. And even if another person evidently cannot act wisely, to refrain from interfering is still very often the best course. The freedom to screw up one’s own life in one’s own chosen manner is an inseparable part of having personal autonomy. In any case, even the kindest intervention can often backfire, as Hardy illustrates with the case of Diggory Venn, who has enough good intentions to pave several superhighways to the fiery pit, and who gets most everyone except himself there in record speed.
However, the injunction to mind your own business is also, potentially, a profoundly conservative one. And as with many Victorian novels—indeed, as with many stories generally—the message boils down to this: do not tamper with the social order. Except for Thomasin and Venn (not coincidentally, the two characters who have a happy ending), all of the major characters consider the Heath to be, in some way, beneath them. Whether their dreams are financial (Mrs. Yeobright), educational (Clym), or romantic (Wildeve and Eustacia), they want to, somehow, get beyond their social reality. And as often happens in stories, the result is a tragic end for them and a return to statis of the society.
I have got caught up in analyzing what I take to be the moral of this book, but I have not said anything about its quality. Unfortunately, I have to admit I found the novel to be quite mediocre. The story is full of cliches (unread letters, mistimed messages, the lover in disguise) and implausible coincidences. I think a good tragedy should show how the end result is an inevitable result of the protagonist’s personality. But with so much seeming bad luck involved in this story, the final impression is that the denouement was just a matter of blind chance.
But it must be admitted that this artificial plot was at least very exciting. Hardy dives right into to the scandalous drama of his story and he never lets up. There is hardly a breath to the ceaseless action, except for the interludes involving the Heath folk, who apparently Hardy conceived of as a kind of Greek chorus to his Sophoclean tragedy. Indeed, as the novel was first serialized in a magazine, I think the experience of reading it must have been remarkably close to that of watching a good soap opera.
Hardy’s characters are only partly successful. His women are more compelling than the men, who are rather stiff, shallow figures. But even the novel’s strongest character, Eustacia, is hampered by Hardy’s penchant for writing dialogue that is pretentious and stuffy, even in moments of great drama. Consider this sample, Eustacia’s reply to her husband during a pivotal scene:
Never! I’ll hold my tongue like the very death that I don’t mind meeting, even though I can clear myself of half you believe by speaking. Yes. I will! Who of any dignity would take the trouble to clear cobwebs from a wild man’s mind after such language as this? No: let him go on, and think his narrow thoughts, and run his head into the mire. I have other cares.
Aside from the strangely epistolary quality of this speech, it is also a good example of a certain psychological implausibility, as Eustacia at key moments withholds explanations which would materially benefit her to provide. That she does this is not a convincing consequence of her character, prideful though she may be, but it is required for the plot to plod onward.
The prose of the novel is not much better. Hardy often seems to be straining for a weighty, literary style that feels both unnecessary and false. He often, for example, includes references to history, literature, and mythology which only prove his own learning, adding nothing to the story. And he gives the impression of choosing words simply to show off. To be fair to Hardy, the writing does improve from the beginning towards the end, which the introduction to this volume attributes to its origin as a serialized novel. Yet even in the final part, we get a sentence like this:
All the known incidents of their love were enlarged, distorted, touched up, and modified, till the original reality bore but a slight resemblance to the counterfeit presentation by surrounding tongues.
Such an ostentatious style may, perhaps, be appropriate in a history of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, but it is jarring in the context of a novel about rural folks.
In the end, I think this is only a half-successful novel—certainly entertaining, but so uneven as to be ultimately unconvincing as a work of art. But I can say that Hardy would at least have made a first-class agony aunt.
Some years ago, on a trip to Istanbul, I visited the Süleymaniye Mosque with a friend. It was a memorable experience. As we waited outside, a few men washed themselves in the fountains outside the building, purifying themselves before prayer. We went in through another entrance, and found ourselves in an expansive space—light flooding in from the high windows, the geometric designs and arabesques creating an imposing symphony of color. In aesthetic, it was the furthest thing from a gothic cathedral—with its profusion of statues, friezes, sculptures, and gargoyles—but the mosque was, nevertheless, a place of equal spiritual grandeur.
We walked up to the partition that separated the prayer rug from the area reserved for tourists. There, a young Muslim man began to talk to us in good English. He was very polite, asking us where we were from, what we thought of the Mosque, and explaining some of the history and architecture (according to him, the ostrich eggs on the chandeliers were to keep spiders away?). As he spoke to us—so sincere, attentive, and obviously passionate about his faith—I thought of the free copy of the Quran that had been given to me on the previous day, when we visited the equally impressive Blue Mosque, and I quietly resolved to read it.
It took me a while, but I did. This copy is a translation by Saheeh International, first published in 1997 in Saudi Arabia, obviously meant for mass distribution. Now, apparently this organization is a group of three American women who converted to Islam. The translation is widely used but is considered to be both Sunni in flavor and quite conservative. It is certainly possible that it was not the “best” translation for me to read, though I found it to be readable and unpretentious, if not always the most elegant.
This was not my first time attempting to read the Quran. About ten years ago, I tried to read John Medows Rodwell’s translation. But I did something which I rarely do with a book: gave up. The problem was that I did not know how to approach it. Having just finished large chunks of the Old and New Testaments, I thought that the Quran would be at least roughly similar. But it is a very different sort of book. If you skip all the begetting in Genesis, for example, you find that it is, at the very least, an excellent collection of stories. But the Quran is not a collection of stories—indeed, it is not a linear narrative at all. In order to appreciate it, I think that the reader must have some understanding of how somebody born into a Muslim community would first experience the book.
For this, I highly recommend Michael Sells’s excellent book, Approaching the Quran. There, Sells makes the important point that the Quran is heard more often than it is read. Though it may be slightly blasphemous to call Quranic recitation an “artform,” I think that anyone who hears it will recognize that it is a highly developed activity, requiring keen sensitivity to prosody and melody, and following strict rules. Even more striking, this recitation may be heard in rather ordinary situations, almost as one listens to music. Sells, for examples, tells of a driver playing a tape of Quranic recitation on a crowded city bus, while just two weeks ago I ate in a kebab shop with a Quranic recitation playing over the speakers.
This aural quality of the Quran harkens back to its origins. According to Muslim tradition, the Quran was revealed to Muhammed over a period of 23 years by the archangel Gabriel. Muhammed was illiterate and, therefore, did not write down the Quran himself. According to the tradition, it was recited to him and he recited it to his followers, word for word. Indeed, Quran literally means “the recitation.” Unlike in the Christian tradition, then—wherein the works of the Bible are thought to be divinely inspired but not normally considered the direct word of God—the Quran is indeed considered by Muslims to be the actual Divine speech.
Michael Sells points to this difference by referring to how Christian and Muslim missionaries operate in different ways when they come to a new place. The Christians will set about translating their scripture into the local language, while the Muslims will start giving classes in classical Arabic. Martyn Oliver, in his introduction to the Quran, explains the difference in another way. Whereas Christians view the Bible as a human production inspired by God, whereas Jesus is considered to be God incarnate, Muslims consider Muhammad to be divinely inspired but, ultimately, a human, while the Quran is the perfect and miraculous word of God.
I think this background is quite important to know when you attempt to read the Quran. Though of course you can pick up a translation and read it from front to back—which is what I did—this is not how the book was first transmitted, nor how most Muslims first encounter the Quran. Furthermore, the Quran’s organization is baffling unless you understand some of this history.
The book is divided into 114 chapters, called surahs. And these are not organized according to any narrative or obvious internal logic. Rather, they are arranged roughly from longest to shortest. In my edition, Surah 2 (the first is a short opening) is 43 pages long, while Surah 114 consists of six short lines. To confuse matters further, the shorter surahs are normally the ones revealed earlier to Muhammed, before his migration to Medina. Thus the Quran is also in roughly reverse-chronological order—the final revelations coming first. But, again, these features are only puzzling if, like me, you intend to read the Quran from cover to cover.
Despite this seeming disorganization, I think any reader will find that the Quran does have a unified message. The major themes of the book frequently repeat with slight variations from surah to surah, and so the ideas and tenets of the faith are built up in a non-linear fashion from beginning to end.
My first impression was of a powerfully monotheistic faith. True, while Christianity (which is my point of reference, despite not being religious myself) is also monotheistic, I think that if you compare the imagery of the trinity, the angels, the legions of saints, and the Virgin Mary found in any Catholic church with the single emphasis on one omnipotent creator God found in the Quran, you will see a clear difference. Indeed, the Quran repeatedly criticizes both the polytheists and the Christians for thinking that God could have peers or a son.
Another major emphasis of the Quran is the apocalypse. In this, it reminds me of the early Christian church, when the imagery of Christ the judge was far more common than Christ on the cross. Readers are continually warned that God is able to see into their innermost thoughts and that angels record all of their deeds. The terrors of hell and the rewards of heaven are described in far more detail than in the Bible (sometimes even reminding me of Dante) and we are often warned of the final day, when every person will be bodily revived and then judged.
Many Biblical stories are told and retold in the Quran, sometimes in ways that differ considerably from the originals. Rather than the long historical chronicles that one can find in the Bible, however, these stories are told more for their moral point. One obvious theme is that prophets are often rejected by their countrymen, with disastrous results—a clear parallel with Mohammed’s situation.
Yet another common theme of these stories is the importance of faith—of trusting in God’s decrees. Indeed, though there are many sections detailing rules of conduct—such as when to fast, when one can divorce and remarry, or the injunction to go on pilgrimmage (though there is not, I should say, an explicit section on the “Five Pillars” of Islam)—what struck me was how much of the religion is based on the simple act of faith: the belief that God is absolute, all-powerful, all-knowing, and the most merciful. Such a God obviously cannot have any rivals, and no wordly goods can possibly compare with His favor. It is a simple idea, but with deep and far-reaching implications.
I am sure that my impressions will strike both experts and believers as naïve and simplistic. However, I still feel that my understanding of, and appreciation for, this global religion has been deepened by this reading. And that is no small thing.
Lotz in Translation 
