First Post fromScotland

Peffermill Industrial Park
It is now day three of my tiling studies, and I'm finally getting my technological act together. (Problems with finding the right adaptor to my laptop for UK power.)
The trio started off with an hour delay on the tarmac at Dorval airport. De-icing issues. We eventually got into the air, and settled in, with me next to an excitable group of seniors who would NOT shut up. Honestly, I think it was their first trip out of Arnprior, or wherever they came from. While the de-icing was going on, there was great speculated on the liquid being tossed onto the aircraft wings.
"I'll bet it's just hot water," says one.
Right. Water to de-ice a plane.
Anyway, it seems they were all off to Nairobi. With plenty of bathroom breaks ahead of them, to judge from the amount of times I had to get up from my aisle seat and let them pass.
Missed the connection in Amsterdam by 15 minutes. Was rewarded for my inconvenience  with a five-euro voucher from KLM for a "snack". I bought a fruit juice, but what I really wanted from the Duty Free shop was the Porsche sedan on display next to the cigarette aisle. If you could produce to the lady at the cash your international boarding pass and 111,000 euros, you could drive to your next destination in this car and probably beat the plane you were otherwise about to board.
Instead of the Porsche I could have settled for a 30 euro pedicure at the store next door, but I still had another plane to catch so I moved on to Gate 47.
Arrived in Edinburgh under sunny skies. Just a few snowdrifts left over from last weeks' storm. A short bus ride deposited me at the door of the Rosevale Guest House, a charming 19th century pile of grey Scottish stone.
A chatty proprietress showed me to a small room in the back, which had a fine view of a small mountain called Arthur's Seat. The room's radiator had two settings: raging inferno and stone cold. Over time I have managed to maintain a livable temperature by turning on and off the heating every 4 hours or so. No mini bar here – not even a little fridge. So I keep my milk, cheese and cold meat nice and chilly by opening the window, reaching down and balancing the food on a board that (I think) serves as an ice barrier.
I spent the rest of Sunday stumbling around Edinburgh, determined to stay awake. Found a tea room and demolished a tasty pot roast, then went to bed.
Monday, I awoke in the dark, dressed into my tiling togs, and sauntered down Priestfield Road, took a left, passed an Oatcakes factory (which smelled heavenly, let me tell you) and ten minutes later arrived at Unit 2 of the Peffermill Industrial Estate. The tiling school was housed in a low, steel roofed warehouse with a few grimy windows covered in steel mesh. No Baliol College, this one.
I showed up just as the instructors did. Barry, a 30 year old ex-Volkswagen salesman was to teach the plumbing side of the business, and Stuart, a cheerful 26-year old from the ceramics trade was our tiling instructor. I say "our", but I actually mean "my" instructor, since I was the only one starting the tiling course that day. There were three others, including an ex-RAF chap from St Andrews, who were starting the plumbing course.
So Stuart guides me over to the tiling section, which consists of a half-dozen plywood bays fitted out with bathroom fixtures. These bays were designed to contain every irregular edge and slope imaginable. My ultimate task would be to cover this mess in tile. Stuart said with a chuckle, "If you can tile this bastard, you can tile anything."
I can't say enough good things about Stuart. This is because I know he's reading this blog  - yes Stuart, I'm talking about YOU – and I want to stay in his good graces. He started off showing me the basics of how to use file cutters, nippers, the wet saw, and so on. Around this time he introduced me to a former welder from Loch Ness who was into his second week of training, a nice fellow called Chick. The problem was, I could barely understand a word this Chick character said, so broad was his accent. I was having enough trouble understanding Stuart.
Anyway, it turns out that Stuart has a keen sense of humor and took great pleasure in interrogating his new student. We talked politics for awhile as I clumsily worked my tile nippers, then broke off for tea.
The tiling school could just as easily served as a meat locker. The temperature was just warm enough to prevent the water buckets from turning to ice. But our little 6 by 8 foot student lounge had a space heater and into this all the students piled to warm up and have a cup of tea.
More tile nipping ensued and before I knew it, it was time for lunch. Getting a square meal in the Peffermill Industrial Estate was to prove something of a challenge. No restaurants, no food shops, ne vending machines. But, as it turned out, there was an old lady who operated the "Peffermill Snack Wagon" from a rusty Mercedes that once served as an ambulance. So I put down my one pound, seventy pence and took a chance on one of her cheeseburgers.
Not a repast to be repeated.
The afternoon resumed with Stuart leading me to a 3-foot square board screwed to a wall. The board had a wood frame and four plywood cutouts on it. My task was to work around the cutouts and cover the entire surface of the board with four-inch tiles. Mauve tiles, moreover.
 It was a sadistic mind who thought this one out, but it turned out to be an excellent teaching aide. Stuart showed me how to get precise cuts by flipping the tile this way and that. He proved to be an excellent teacher and hugely entertaining in the bargain. We covered everything from Noam Chomsky to zombie movies.
The low point in the day was mid-afternoon when Stuart summoned me, shivering, into an unheated classroom for a PowerPoint lecture on tile adhesives. I was cold, jet-lagged, and burping up a bad lot of onions from my cheeseburger.
At any rate, I finished up the day feeling like I had already learned a good deal about tiling that I didn't know before. Thumbs up.
The next day was spent much like the first, but this time I arrived with about five layers of clothing on, including a set of thermal underwear. That seemed to do the trick because even though we could see our breath as we worked, I felt quite comfortable.
Stuart, God bless him, gave me one of his few remaining Cuban cigars. This came about as a result of one of our many lively discussions about this and that, which included stories about the best and worst cigars we'd ever smoked.
The ex-RAF guy and I went further afield to a bakery at noon and actually had an edible lunch. He had served in Basra and told me some hair-raising stories about what he'd seen there. Stories not suitable for this blog.
The rest of the afternoon was spent tiling a wall in a herringbone pattern, listening to BBC Radio Two. Note to self: If I ever get satellite radio back home, this is all I'm listening to. There are no commercials, the music is good, and the radio host is very funny.
More discussions ensued, with Stuart making ongoing commentary about my Canadian accent, particularly on how I cannot properly pronounce his name.
My version: Stoowert
His version: Styuuurt
On how to properly pronounce the word "worm".
My version: wurm
His version: worrum
Scottish elocution lessons aside, it was another good day…

Wednesday,January 19th
Wanted to post this blog in today, but the computer at the tiling school was not able to read my text file. So I will save this to a different format and, hopefully, I'll be able to send this off tomorrow.
Today's achievement was learning how to tile a herringbone cartouche on a wall. A nifty job, if I do say so myself. Also revealed: the secrets to effective grouting, and how to lay out tile on the floor, so you don't end up with embarrassing little "sliverish" cuts around the bath tub and other strategic places.
My tiling mates are dedicated smokers, so between tile cutting and nipping, I take the opportunity to hang out with them outside.
Topics raised during these sessions are invariably ribald, and often quite funny. One tiler student repeated a news report he'd heard about a young man who'd entered the Toryglen post office in Glasgow and pulled out a gun. The cashier looked at him and said, "Are you stupid? You are on camera." The robber had forgotten to pull down his ski mask. He fled the office without taking any money and was arrested shortly afterwards. His conviction was assured because he'd left plenty of fingerprints – he'd filled in a lottery ticket at the post office just before trying to rob it.
Stuart replied with a true story of his own, recalling the Scot sailor in China who walked into a tattoo parlor. He wanted the words "Scotland the Brave" inked across his shoulder blades, with a big thistle below it. The Chinese fellow looked at him quizzically and made motions of playing something with his hands.
"No, ya daft bastard," said the sailor. "Not a whistle. A THISTLE!" He then drew a sketch of what he wanted.
The tattoo artist's face lit up in comprehension and immediately got to working. Once he'd finished, the sailor paid him and left the shop. When the Scotsman got back to his ship, he found a mirror and turned to take a look at himself.  There, below the words "Scotland the Brave", was the picture of a pineapple.
Ended the day with a copy of the Sunday Telegraph (yes, Stuart, I know it's a bourgeois rag, but I like the world news in it). Supper was from a can of Marks and Spencer chili, warmed over my blisteringly hot radiator. As I retrieved my half litre of milk from its precarious perch on the roof gutter, I tried not to dwell on past memories of other meals I'd had in Europe, such as the splendid breakfast buffet at the Adlon in Berlin, or high tea in London's Lanesborough Hotel. I think this meal serves as an effective bracket to either.
Well, it's off to bed. More tiling adventures await tomorrow.