Bits and pieces, on this lazy Sunday

Light: If anyone out there still thinks that Holland has awful weather, let me assure you to the contrary. I'm ensconced upstairs in my study, sun pouring through the floor-to-ceiling southern window, feeling slightly embarrassed not to be doing something vigorous outside, as most here seem to do. And it's been this lovely since the end of March. It's fully light until after 10pm, too, and has been for over a month. The light is so strong, but slightly gauzy. Light here is very different from England and certainly from the east coast of the States, where I lived. Dutch light is very clear, but soft. One sees it in the paintings, but also as I look out my window. I find it transfixingly beautiful and never get used to how lovely it is. It's easy to lose all track of what time it is, as well. I often find myself thinking it's maybe around 6pm, when it's pushing 9pm or later.

Life's rhythm: school is almost over (last class is tomorrow), and I find myself missing my classmates and the classes themselves. A real bond develops (maybe the agony of trying to get through the courses) with classmates and the professors themselves, and by the end of term, I felt finally ready to begin some of the classes, as odd as that sounds. A few of us have become real friends, and I will miss their contact over the summer break (my Russian friend, "Jenia", my Estonian friend, "Monika", who spends most of her time in a Master's program in recorder performance at the conservatory in The Hague, two Polish pals, "Paulina" and "Marta" and two Spanish friends, "Silvia" and "Marta"). I miss one Chinese friend "Selano", who left after the first term to focus on business courses in Utrecht, where she lives. I've learned from all of them, and, I hope, they from me. I'm the only American (actually, the only native English speaker) in the B-group and in the second-year courses, as well. There are three in the A-group, but I don't think they're continuing past the first year. They're good kids, but unsophisticated and have no ear for the language. The Europeans do far better, all speaking at least their own languages plus English, which is required.

School has been so intense. I don't have a non-school rhythm or even an idea yet for the summer, other than vague plans to see art in Brugge and Gent and travel around Holland. I think we all feel fairly depleted, in general. While I put up a hammock in the rear garden, I don't yet feel quite that lazy! There are about six exams to prepare for before the summer break sets in, so today is a blissfully lazy pause between the academic treadmills.

Life outside Holland: It was very gratifying this week, to see the news on Wolfowitz's announced departure from the World Bank presidency. Not that I know anything of him, but do have a close friend at the Bank, and in general, try to hold out hope for the developing world. Having an arrogantly nepotistic head of the Bank was so embarrassing, given the debilitating corruption of so many developing countries.

I made a trip to Scotland in April, for the first time since 1969, and can report that it is a marvelous place. I travelled around quite a bit, from Edinburgh across the Firth of Forth (into the Kingdom of Fife!), up the coast through Dundee slightly inland, to Glamis castle (home of the Queen Mother and where Princess Margaret was born), around the St. Andrews exquisite coast, through many fishing villages, a quantity of which are also home to painters. I also drove (a friend did the driving) due west, to Oban, on the Firth of Lorn, and then via a tiny "ferry" (which held about 5 people, one dog and definitely, no cars) to the tiny island of Easdale, whose claim to fame is that it "roofed the world", having large slate deposits. The slate industry stopped quite a while ago, the quarries filling up with sea water, but Easdale is still actively inhabited. It's made up of about 75 people living in whitewashed "cottages", low stone buildings. Belongings are moved from the "ferry" to homes via wheelbarrows, which are numbered, to correspond to the houses (there are no streets; each house is numbered). About 40 people live there year-round. There's a pub with a good restaurant, a folk life museum, and a community center. Some people run businesses from their homes via the 'net. ALL supplies and goods come via the ferry from Oban. I met a few residents, who were delightful and showed no signs of isolation. It would be an ideal place from which to write a novel, have a love affair or a number of other pleasant things. Despite the unrelenting wind and dark day, I loved it. The landscape, driving to and from Oban, along magnificent lochs, mountains, glens, innumerable sheep (and Highland cows ["coos"], which are mammoth, shaggy and have orange-brown long hair) and lovely, tiny villages, swept me off my feet. I'd only been before to Edinburgh, which while lovely and full of thrilling sites, is a big city. The countryside is the stuff of heroes. There are castles every few miles, and one realizes that it has always been a massively fortified country. Even knowing scarcely any of Scotland's history, one sees the defense with one's own eyes. I realized that I'd love to live there, which shocked me. The people were wonderful, I could have fresh salmon every day, the language is beautiful to the ear, and it would be very healthy. How to make a living might be a challenge, and learning how to pronounce Scots would be a major effort, but also fun. Being a life-long Anglophile, Scotland took me mightily by surprise. I can't wait to return. I've always wanted to learn Scottish and/or Irish country dancing, too, so that's also a lure. And I've finally had the answer to most people's question about kilts: no, they don't wear anything underneath! I still find this hard to believe, given the climate, but Scots are hardy!