Not My Vault

Tapas joint, just off the Royal Mile.

We found a tapas restaurant in Edinburgh. Our expectations were low, the reviews were high: we'd hoped to meet somewhere in the middle and fell just short of that, alas. The cheese plate was pretty delicious, and the bottle of cava we ordered was very fine, so that was that. This was all in the moments just before heading to St. Giles' for our super spooky and haunted underground vaults and cemetery walking tour at night, in Old Town.

Inside Edinburgh's sordid underground vaults, on the "Double Dead" tour.

That dress came from one of London's pop-up vintage shops in the Old Truman Brewery. It's the most beautiful, buttery yellow, with pleats all over, including the fluttery sleeves. I topped it off with a snazzy little jacket, some tights and me good walking brogues, and thank goodness as the tour guide kept up quite the pace through all that cobblestone and ancient, slippery vault flooring and uneven cemetery terrain. He wore this great massive leather jacket like a Matrix character that flapped and flourished all over the place, and he told wonderfully spooky stories but most of all he gave us an earful about the history of everything, especially the macabre, awful bits, and he only winked when we took turns taking sips from the flask!

Edinburgh at night.

It was fantastic. M was so creeped out, she couldn't stand it. There are bats, it's creepy, it's dripping everywhere, we'll catch disease, somebody's going to fall or get left behind, thousands of people have been murdered here, it smells, the tomboy whined, while I ignored her completely, giddy and wide-eyed with the cheesiness and creepiness of it all. I wished we would get left behind so that we could wander around unsupervised, totally alone, and terrified. I'd have done it in a heartbeat if I thought we'd have gotten away with it.

I was sad when we resurfaced on city streets, but then we got to the pitch-black cemetery of infinite wrongdoings and gruesome atrocities, and if it weren't for the drunk roving gangs lurking in the corners, I'd have hidden M & I in a crypt somewhere until it was empty, and then we would have wandered around that unsupervised, totally alone, and terrified. True to the stories and warnings we received on the tour, we both found ourselves with inexplicable bruises a few days later, in Dublin. S P O O K Y.

Forsyth's Tea, the next day.

Onto more civilized things, like a proper afternoon tea. Forsyth's Tea is just near the World's End Close, my favorite, and where we slow-danced for awhile humming Dance Me to the End of Love by Leonard Cohen as it began to rain. Everything was kind of that lovely organized chaos, and the shortbread was divine and the tea was warming and perfect, and a light rain turned into a true downpour that we all, including the sweet little old Scottish ladies doing their embroidery the next table over, murmured over, shaking our heads.

It's definitely one of the top ten places I'd lock myself in to die if there was some kind of zombie attack, you know?

Hot-cha-cha!

Speaking of zombie attacks and back to less civilized things, THESE GUYS! They are awesome and unlike American men, who shrink like jaundiced babies away from my violent tendencies, they did not hesitate in handing over a gun and letting me flail it around like a madwoman in a public place with children very nearby. Brilliant! (OK, that one guy looks a bit concerned, but who puts their mouth that close to a gun, anyway? Fool.)

Elevator Love Letter

That's all for now! The castle's next! And a book club outfit! Pie! Whee!

Love,

FFAF