"And where is this festival?" - German woman to Edinburgh tourist info guy

Dallas Ryan was a guy who used to do shows with me when I was a preteen. He was probably in his mid-20s (I just thought of him as 'old') and he did summer stock theater in my hometown. He was fantastic - a fabulous, flamboyant tenor from upstate New York who was charming and fun and didn't treat me like a kid. He used to wax lyrical about the Edinburgh Festival and how it was the pinnacle of all international arts gigs. I've wanted to go ever since.

I spent half of August in Edinburgh, and I'd go back in a heartbeat. It's a glorious city even in the doldrums of winter, and the energy explodes during the Festival. Anything goes. Attire, face paint, concepts, ideas - it's all there, swimming around together, clashing, creating.

Highlights: The Magnets, a five-part harmony and beatboxing group.

Five Guys Named Moe with Clarke Peters who is the grooviest man on the planet.

Baby Wants Candy, a hilarious improv group that created a musical just for us called "The Polar Bear Who Came For Dinner".

Fame-o-meter: Clarke Peters, of course, who hung out at a bar near the venue numerous times. That man exudes coolness. And McNulty was there one night, too. Some very fat man from the PG Tips tea advertisements and a few other British slebs I didn't know. And the many, many wonderful writers who graced the Book Festival.

Leading us neatly to...the best Edinburgh Bookfest I've attended. Excellent workshops, approachable authors, intelligent attendees. My new friend Francesca wrote a brilliant love letter to the Book Festival on her blog. We met thanks to Twitter. Oh, did I mention I went to my first Tweetup?

Nicola Morgan is a writer who gives (far too) much of her time to newbies and unpublished writers. Thanks to her I now have a dozen new Twitter writer friends. We had a great afternoon in the Charlotte Square sunshine. She's @nicolamorgan.

Back in Inverness now, and still buzzing...what a lucky person I am to have a freelance job that means I can be in places like Edinburgh in August.

la dolce vita

I love finding a tiny oasis of authenticity gleaming through a sea of same-ness. I wandered the shore of Leith last night looking for a place to feed myself that wouldn't take £20 from me. I've walked past Giuliano's so many times, and frankly have always been put off by the pack of smokers puffing away outside their door. But only two were outside last night, so I went in and was immediately transported to bella Italia.

Italian pop on the radio. Waiters yelling Andiamo! Andiamo! at the chefs, the owner yelling Basta! at the bartender. Proper Italian trattoria recipes. The best bicchiere of house wine I've had since a year ago in Tuscany.

Edinburgh during festival time is chaotic, in the best way. Walking yesterday I saw a woman dressed as a bee, three people on stilts (not together), and a small man doing cartwheels down the street. The latter is not the wisest way to travel through a crowd, but whatever. A cynic would call this pandering. The festival is still new to me, so I love it.

But I also love retreating back to a neighborhood and finding a gem of a place like Guiliano's. It took £20 from me, but it was a delightful place to spend that £20.

Word nerds

For the past three years, August has meant the Edinburgh Book Festival; I even planned our honeymoon last year around certain events. I'm that much of a book geek.

Book festivals are marvelous, and Scotland is lucky to have dozens to visit each year. And Edinburgh is Mecca. The place is bustling from 10am until the wee hours. Staff are friendly. Visitors are chatting, smiling, queuing. And authors are approachable.

The magic lies in this: accessibility. Actors are on a stage or a screen; rarely do they muddle with fans. Artists aren't often present at galleries or museums. Authors, however - they're active. They take our questions and answer them, looking into our eyes. They are vulnerable, behind a microphone with only a moderator between them and an audience. It can't be comfortable.

I saw Christos Tsiolkas on Saturday (author of The Slap). He was brilliant: compelling, controversial, frank. Even a bit nervous. He had a lot to say that caused a bit of furor in the broadsheets by claiming that recent European fiction was 'dry and academic, and not in the best way, but in a cheap, shitey way'. Didn't go over too well with this crowd, but I can see where he's coming from. Fiction should challenge us, should force us into the uncomfortable and the awkward and make us sit up and listen to our prejudices, our ideas of justice, our assumptions. His book was the first in a long time that I've recommended to every reader who can handle it. It's a tough book; it's not pretty, it's not filled with beautiful prose or lilting description or Hollywood endings. But it's real, aggressive, fiction. Tsiolkas did not disappoint, either.

Book festivals have the readers devouring books, discussions that continue long after the author has finished, advice that is golden. But book festivals also challenge us. They allow us to be intellectuals without seeming pretentious. They allow authors to put themselves among the reading public as ideas simmer and dive and soar. They give us proof that in a world of reality TV and video games, reading is still alive.

People the world over have always been more impressed by the power of our example than by the example of our power. - Bill Clinton's DNC speech, 2008

It's amazing how interested the British media, and indeed its people, are in US politics. I lived in Slovenia during the '04 election, and basically was immune to the circus that surrounded the Kerry v Bush race. In Britain, I may as well be in America - especially this week. It's dominated the headlines of many a newspaper, and radio shows bring up the presidential race often and with vigor. I'm not certain where the motivation lies. Perhaps it's a response to the Bush buffoonery, perhaps a curiosity about the extravagance surrounding US campaigns, or perhaps a genuine interest. And I've been fielding many an email and question about the Biden decision from people I don't usually associate as political junkies.

I caught many of the DNC speeches on YouTube, and the convention was also televised on the BBC Parliament channel. Impressive talks from Gore and both Clintons, and the Obama speech even convinced my cousin, who hadn't yet fallen for his charms. I can understand the annoyance that some might feel towards Obama - his life story has been shoved in everyone's faces so much that it now seems cliche, his rock-star reverence could be taken for arrogance, and his eloquence may seem plastic after dozens upon dozens of speeches. His capacity to infuriate people is as strong as his capacity to inspire. But the buzz is there, and as a bleeding-heart liberal NPR-loving female pro-choice pro-gay pro-peace pro-tax the rich corporate bastards environmentalist teacher, I have a feeling that, as Bill Clinton put it, Barack is on the right side of history.

On a completely unrelated note: Things I Learned This Week. Edinburgh is still one of my favorite cities, especially when exploring new neighborhoods with old friends. Dental hygenists clean your teeth the same way no matter what country you're in (I've had my teeth cleaned in six countries). Some people have too much time on their hands. Red front doors can be seen from two blocks away. And there's nothing quite like walking along the river, staring at the Highlands and hearing bagpipes in the distance.

spoiled brat

I am the birthday princess.

My friend Sarine says that in Armenia, birthdays are seven days and seven nights. Which means it's still kinda my birthday.

We had a great time in Edinburgh. Every time I go there I like it more. We ate well, consumed numerous bevvies of all kinds, did a bit of shopping (yes Matt bought more clothes than me! but we both came back with shoes) and went on a sorta-scary ghost tour. I do love the creative energy of Edinburgh, though some of it seems a bit contrived in places. There's more buzz away from the city centre, where people live their lives away from the glitter of the castle and the royal mile and the posh shops of the new town. I like the guts of a city, the crumbling buildings with a story.

And of course, we watched the rugby. Murrayfield with beer! And at £3 per pint it's cheaper than at most pubs.
That's the Haka - very cool moment. We were near the top and amid numerous loud, brash Kiwi fans, but Matt's pipes always save the day and they loved us within minutes of his first attempt at the NZ national anthem. The rugby isn't really worth mentioning, but the afterparty is. Highlights:
- Matt piping himself out of the toilets. He's now done this in Rome and now at Murrayfield and I'm frightened that it might become a tradition.
- Meeting random French guy/Polish chick and their gorgeous 5-year-old; our mate John and I spent over an hour babbling with all of them whilst Matthew piped for a crowd of hundreds. Okay, dozens. (See them all hovering outside the beer tent? Who knew the steps could be a stage.)
- Some dude placing a beer cup at Matt's feet and the change rolling in; £17 took care of taxis and a round later on. Which is great for us if this doctor thing doesn't work out.
- The general chaos of Scotland fans and Kiwis as things got sloppier and sloppier…two small nations of big drinkers.
- Watching a dude do a line of coke off his wrist on Victoria Street in the looming shadow of Edinburgh Castle. I've never seen anyone just do a line on the street before. Class.

The ferry. Carbon footprints be damned; how about the ongoing sickness from the 'rough' North Sea? I have a newfound respect for my mate G who works offshore. 'Rough' seas are miserable. I may now have to justify the added expense of a flight to the mainland rather than a 14-hour nonstop up-down-side-side-down-up up up-splash – think a tiny motorboat ripping through the wakes of large yachts. For 14 hours.

No rain this morning so took a walk by the water and look who I ran into! He was huge, and didn't seem too mind a pesky seagull flirting with him while I tried to say hello.
Back to the scribbling…amazing how horrible first drafts are. It's embarrassing. I took a week off, though, and the story is fresher now. I always have to take a step back to see it with new eyes.

The good end happily, the bad unhappily. That is what fiction means. - Oscar Wilde.

May we all live in our own fiction.