***if you just want to see the video, scroll down. If you want some backstory, read. Reminder: reading is good for you, and one of your resolutions was probably to read some more.***
2015 is officially done and dusted, but let me pause for a second to take another look back.
I’m a reporter, but for the first quarter of 2015 I spent most of my time anchoring. In the spring I was promoted and ended up reporting full-time with a front row seat to the biggest events in DC (and Baltimore) for the year.
I had a plan to put together a hyper-lapse of all the photos on my iPhone 6. The idea was an offshoot of a New Year’s resolution for 2015, which was to post one photo to Instagram every day. It seems so silly and trite, but the payoff was something I didn’t anticipate. I became more observant, looking for that interesting tidbit to post daily. It made me more mindful and it made me a better reporter. It’s a habit I plan on carrying into 2016.
I thought it’d be neat to throw all the photos into a hyper-lapse to cap off the year. But, in the process of being more observant I also started taking more photos with my iPhone…a lot more, as in almost 8,000 photos in 2015. I was not to be deterred by numbers, but my Adobe Premiere timeline was. After a half-hour load time with each photo occupying one frame at 16 frames per second (a little slow for hyper-lapse) the video was 16 minutes long. I wouldn’t sit through 16 minutes, much less expect you to.
In the process of filing the media on my phone I separated the videos from the still photos. There were only about 350, but even stringing those together would be too long. Unless, I take only one second from every video. Done.
Here are the rules:
Here are the highlights:
Even with all of that, I still manage to miss a bunch of great stuff from 2015…but this is a pretty good compilation nonetheless.
But I’m a firm believer in the mantra of our greatest president from the Granite State…otherwise known as the Bartlet Doctrine: What’s Next?
Here’s to an even better 2016.
I can’t breathe out of my nose, and it feels like I swallowed a spoonful of gravel at some point in my sleep. I haven’t been sick in years, and now I’m sick.
As the sun rises late the outline of a castle appears outside my window…A CASTLE. Moreover, the sky is brilliantly clear. It’s as if the gods were rewarding us for the previous day’s painstaking journey. I don’t care if I’m not feeling well, I’m pressing through.
By the time I’m ready everyone’s waiting. And we decide to kick off the day by popping one of the bottles of prosecco we brought to drink on the train. It’s just enough to keep my sore throat at bay.
Even with nary a cloud in the sky Edinburgh is a damp place. It feels mildewed in the way of a deep mystic cave, or a dank basement in an old house. The castle looms over the town as an ancient reminder that, once upon a time, all one needed was elevation and stone to rule a land. We make our way up a series of steps to the esplanade in front of the castle. It commands a 360 degree view of the region. I found it reminiscent of Quebec City, a town with a distinct “upstairs” and “downstairs” surrounded by an intruding body of water. The Firth of Forth in Edinburgh’s case vs. the St. Lawrence in Quebec City’s case.
The castle is appropriately ancient, a chapel on the grounds dates back to the 12th century. There are more stories here than an entire state back home. A cold, raw wind whips up the hillside as we walk around the castle grounds. We work our way inside to see the Scottish crown jewels, including the Stone of Destiny.
How awesome is it to have something called the Stone of Destiny?
It’s a rectangular piece of rock about the size of a microwave. Behind the glass it looks as if it’s been through a millennia of drama. The stone carries with it the symbolism of Scottish independence and resistance. It was taken by the English in the 13th century and embedded in the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey until about 20 years ago. That’s when it was finally returned to Scotland as part of a recognition of a growing Scottish tide. Now it sits behind glass.
Royalty is an odd thing to me, and something I never had much interest in. I saw it as a tabloid phenomenon, incestuous and ancient. I think American history is sometimes so easy to study that the complexities of foreign systems become overwhelming, and in the process we let the surface level arguments excuse us from studying episodes like royal succession. That being said, I’ve turned a corner on this recently. I’ve started studying the English civil wars, which has ignited an interest in the characters that played a role during, and leading up to, that era. Point being, that as you walk in to see the Scottish Honors, you’re also walking through the history of Scotland, and through key moments in the civil wars. It was a crystallizing moment to bring some of my studies into tangible reality. Travel. I’d love to get into it, but I’ve already digressed enough.
Back outside the crisp air hits. Standing atop a castle we map out the day. I want to climb to the top of Arthur’s Seat, Jon and I look at that compared to some of the other landmarks. It looks far away, and high, but doable. Even at 10 a.m. the sun hangs low enough in the sky that it seems it’ll disappear at any moment. We’re still awe-struck at the crystal clear skies.
Our gameplan is to head down the Royal Mile, sneak into some shops, grab lunch and then climb the mountain, cold be damned. And one great way to damn a cold is with some good Scotch whiskey. After a lap up and down the mile we stop for lunch at a place called the Jolly Judge. It’s Sunday so they open late, which means we just stand outside on the steps looking as sad and cold as possible until they open the doors. It works, and we have the bar to ourselves for all of 15 minutes.
I’m not sure which is warmer, the Scotch whiskey or the fireplace. There’s no need for competition, it’s all pleasant. The bartenders are young guys, but full of whiskey knowledge. Somehow the conversation circles to our plan to climb Arthur’s Seat, I mention off-hand that I’m in no shape to climb a mountain.
“A mountain?!? That’s no mountain…that’s just a little hill.”
There’s no comeback. I want to tell them every mountain I ever climbed, but I know that’ll only make things worse. And so I acknowledge my lack of manliness, shoot the rest of the whiskey and walk out the door determined to climb a mountain, that’s not really a mountain.
It really isn’t that big of a climb, it looks much bigger from a distance. The initial path is paved, but as you step up the pavement becomes a well-worn path. For today, though, it’s a creek. All of the rain that’s fallen over the last few days continues to run off the mountain (that’s not really a mountain). Ten minutes in and Lauren is livid. She wasn’t prepared to hike/wade up a mountain (that’s not really a mountain) and so we determine to split off for the remainder of the day. Jon and I continue up, as Emily and Lauren head back into town.
The hike isn’t especially difficult, and as such it is crowded. Especially on an off-chance day of sunshine. Speaking of the sun, its low station in the sky casts a constant golden glow on the landscape. There’s something called the “golden hour” in photography, in Scotland in the winter the golden hour lasts all day. So, for every step I take, I snap another photo. As we push past the switchbacks and up to the first false summit the wind is pushing back with enough force that hang-gliding using only my coat seems a realistic possibility.
This sub-summit is covered in a bed of stubble-length grass. It’s the image of Scotland that I’ve always conjured up, the moment when stereotype meets reality. We press on up a rocky crag too narrow for most Americans, and then we’re at the top. The wind speed picks up by a factor of ten. Jon and I don’t say a word, we split up and immediately start taking pictures.
To the east is the sea, to the south is another range of mountains pushing back against the low-hanging sun, to the west is a castle atop a mountain and the rest of Edinburgh. This is a magical, surreal location. In places like Sedona, Arizona they talk about vortices of energy atop rocky formations. There is a feeling like that here, but instead of a spiritual portal this is a door to an ancient world when iron and bronze were first forged and blocks of sandstone determined kingdoms. Arthur’s Seat itself is a geologic remnant of another epoch, an extinct, plugged volcano. In another age Scotland was soaked not in rain, but in molten earth.
Everything we dealt with the day before…the trains, the buses, the cabs, the hassle…I’d do it all again in a heartbeat for this precise moment. This is one of those rare moments that combine place with circumstance to create perfection.
We take our time at the top, and we take our time heading back down using the low winter sun as a backdrop for the hero shot.
Back down the mountain we walk through the campus of the University of Edinburgh on our way to meet up with Lauren and Emily. Edinburgh is strangely layered upon itself, streets crisscross streets at different levels. This makes it confusing when you’re trying to find something on GPS. The dot shows us at the bar where we’re supposed to meet up, but there’s no bar here. A few minutes of investigation reveal that there’s a street below us.
That street is predictably dark and damp. It’s lined by hostels and backpacker joints and, logically, an Aussie bar. We’re not going there. The bar we’re heading to feels subterranean. It’s Sunday, so soccer (football) is on every television. It feels late in the evening, but it’s barely 4 p.m. Meeting Emily and Lauren we’re sure that they’re going to be envious of the adventure that took us atop Arthur’s Seat. But, alas, they are not. You see, it seems that as we went high, they went low.
When they went back into town they stopped inside a church that had been converted into a market of sorts. While shopping they started talking to one of the employees, who was apparently the son of the guy who runs the place. The kid took our wives on a tour beneath Edinburgh, deep into the guts of the city and 500 years into the past. This city, like most, has progressively built upon itself, burying history in the process so that a few centuries later a pair of American women can stumble upon this anachronistic landscape. I’ll let Lauren tell the full story…I’ve already butchered it enough.
After a drink we make the call to head toward the Christmas markets along the Princess Street Gardens. The markets are terraced into the landscape along three levels bottoming out with a festival of rides. I don’t ride rides at county fairs, and I don’t ride rides at Christmas markets. It’s one of my guiding rules never to be violated.
Nevertheless, my cold is back (or rather the whiskey’s worn off) and with a vengeance. I do my best to press on as we weave along the hundreds of booths hawking many of the same wares that you’ll see at just about every market. Not to diminish the phenomenon, it’s quite the holiday spectacle…and Lauren is in heaven.
We walk up to another market in St. Andrew’s Square. It’s, thankfully, far less crowded. At the center of the market is a bar encircled by a moat of frozen ice. It’s an ice-skating rink race track that you have to walk over using elevated stairways. This’ll be another idea I’ll be stealing.
After a bit more shopping and some delicious hot chocolate we’re back on the Royal Mile for dinner. The plan was a place called the Devil’s Advocate. The name comes from the street it’s on: Advocates Close. Think of a close the same way you’d think about an alley, except narrower, older and with stairs and archways. The restaurant looks amazing, but I can’t say anything about the taste…they’re booked out for the evening.
Plan B. We ended up at another restaurant that filled our bellies, but not especially memorably. So it goes. After dinner we ended up back at the Bow Bar where I fell into the trap of drinking beers with locals.
It was quite accidental, a compliment about the beer I ordered turned into a conversation about beer and that became a conversation about the “troubles in Northern Ireland” and that turned into a conversation about food and that turned into a conversation about Washington, D.C. and that turned into a phone conversation with their friend who lives in Arlington, Virginia and that turned into a conversation about American politics and that turned into last call.
Christmas morning in our household is nothing short of chaos. It’s been that way as long as I can remember. The chaos comes with the numbers. At my grandparent’s house in St. Louis we’d cram 30 people into a single-level ranch-style three bedroom house for the days leading up to the gifting on Christmas morning. And then a flurry of wrapping paper being tossed into low orbit met with a chorus of oohs and ahhs and cheers and thank you’s would occupy the living room for more than two hours.
My dad’s family is big.
Our family isn’t quite so big, but it is still larger than the average American family. Add up my parents, my two brothers and their partners along with my sister and Lauren…and things get crowded in a hurry. But, that’s what makes the day so fun.
So in this adventure in time lapse, I give you the chaos of Christmas morning at my parent’s house in North Carolina.
Some of the highlights here: I like to watch as people get wearable gifts. You’ll see my brother in the foreground change his shirt twice as he’s gifted a t-shirt and then a hockey jersey.
Also watch out for Lauren to start the festivities as the gift elf. She got bored with it pretty quickly, I took over…and let’s just say the rest of the gift exchange took on a more authoritarian bent.
Just to give you an idea of how long this stretched, I set the GoPro to take photos every 5 seconds. The “clean-up” is actually cut off because the SD card filled.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
Passing by Big Ben the crowds thicken. It is Friday, and a gorgeous one at that. We opt out of a walk through Westminster Abbey, I’ve been in there before and Lauren isn’t £20 interested. A long walk later puts us in front of Buckingham Palace where the crowds actually aren’t that bad. Sometimes it’s fun to return to a landmark, it’s another case where your attention works differently. The little details matter more, you’re less awestruck. For me, this is a good spot to play around with the camera and then watch people as they watch a palace presumably full of royal people. At least according to the flag.
You’re in a crowded bar packed shoulder to shoulder such that extending your arm for a proper sip is an impossibility, thus the only way to bring rim of glass to lip is by pretending that your arms are little-T-Rex arms that you have to meet halfway. Jurassic Park. It’s a thing.
A missed turn or two later and we are at Fortnum & Mason, a department store just bursting with four stories of Christmas.
We fast track to the Egyptian room. Surrounded by mummies and mummies and more mummies you get around to understanding that the British Museum barely has anything to do with the British. There’s also something really freaky about these mummies when you stop to think about it. Behind the glass in an atmosphere-controlled chamber, wrapped in linens, there are bodies…aged for three millennia. They died in the Egyptian desert and now here they are in damp London as millions of people gawk at them day in and day out.
We are set to meet our friends at a Christmas market in Hyde Park (again this is the mission for Lauren). This means a healthy walk from the British Museum down Oxford Street. The sun sets early here, about 3:30, so we’re in full-on night mode. Light is a commodity in this part of the world. And to make up for a lack of natural light the English have gone full-out in decking the streets with every kind of Christmas light that exists.
There are orbs and strings and stars and peacock-looking things. And suddenly it’s snowing! So magical…except, it shouldn’t be snowing. It’s like 45 degrees. High above one of the department stores snow guns are spewing out the artificial flakes. The crowd spills off of the sidewalk all along Oxford Street almost falling into traffic. A million carols and jingles drift in the air from competing storefronts, it’s holiday anarchy.
We haven’t posted over the last week, in clear violation of the 57 Days of Blogging mantra. But we have been writing. And traveling.
I was hoping to master the art of blogging via device (be it iPad or iPhone) while abroad. It’s not that difficult for some quick hitters. But, I like to get a bit deeper when it comes to some of these live-jouralesque pieces, and in the process created a traffic jam of writing.
In order free up that traffic jam of writing. And also to maintain the spirit of 57 Days of Blogging it’s going to be a posting circus.
So what does this even mean?!?
Basically it means that a lot of posts will be dropping over the next 48 hours. So, this is the official apology for clogging your inboxes and Facebook walls and Twitter feeds…but it’s all about the challenge, right?
According to the local time it’s about 7:30 a.m., but there’s not even a shred of light. The runway is coated in snow, this feels more like a sled than a plane. It’s like an outpost to another world.
Ice coats the metal stairs leading from the cabin door to the tarmac. Each step is equal parts crunchy and slippery. The cold air sledgehammers the lungs. We are all loaded onto a shuttle, the chatter of morning radio churns from the speakers. It’s impossible to even begin to make sense of it, the radio hosts sound like Minnesotans who forgot that vowels were a thing. Icelandic is hopeless to decipher.
Radio host laughter: play Lady Gaga.
She sings in English, but listening to her sing in Icelandic could be something worth trying.
The airport in Reykjavik is small, but it looks exactly as you might imagine. The floors are hardwood, everything is impeccably clean, the bathroom sinks somehow manage to both wash AND dry your hands. I don’t believe in this Viking magic.
A little Internet is poached and a photo is posted to Instagram to prove that I’m here before we take off again.
The shuttle transports us about 15 feet to the plan, back up the crunchy, icy steps and aboard another plane. But now, the Icelandic air is trapped inside the cabin. It’s like a hypothermic magical spell. Frost bites to the bone in spite of layers of wooly warmth. The lights go out and we taxi for takeoff.
It’s closing in on 9 a.m. and it’s still dark as midnight. Meanwhile the motorways fill with commuters rushing to their jobs. It’s peak rush hour in Reykjavik.
Iceland is mysterious, and after seeing nothing of it only makes me want to see more of it.
The cabin lights shut off, and for a second it’s dark, until projected onto the ceiling in the middle of the aisle is a recreation of the northern lights. They may not give us free drinks…but hey, we get an artificial aurora borealis!
We take off, traces of moonlight reflected from snow discern land from sea. The faint traces of daylight illuminate the southern sky. I’m in no shape to sleep…even though I’ve only slept for about three hours. And so I watch as the sun rises, not from the west…but from the south. Early rays of sunshine gleam off the plane’s engines as stars fade into blue.
And finally, I sleep.
Who knows how long later, a bout of turbulence combined with an announcement from the cockpit wakes me. Looking out the window the arc of the Thames slices it’s way through London. Minutes later we’re on the ground, passing through customs and catching a train (more on the Tube another time).
We’re here to meet our friends Jon and Emily, and following some precise directions we find ourselves at their Southbank apartment.
After a few minutes of catching up we head right back out to the Borough Market for some chicken wraps and duck confit. The market is a bit overwhelming…a million smells cut across each thoroughfare. From pasties to pies to empanadas, duck to beef to chicken to tofu, it’s easily eclectic.
Lunchtime later and we’re off. Exploring Southbank. Things like a Christmas tree made of milk bottles with a continual stream of milk flowing onto the promenade. It’s actually kind of disgusting. But, hey…dairy farmers have a right to Christmas too!
We stopped by one of the Christmas markets (which is mission 1 for Lauren) and hung out by an open fire as the English version of the Christmas spirit sweeps over us. It’s just like the American version but drunker. As Jon wraps up some work, we wander a little further until we find a pop-up roller skating rink. It’s a tremendous find. I’m convinced that the only people actually skating here work there…and they’re pretty good. It’s as if they found a seam in time from 1985 (which I believe to be the epoch of peak-roller skating).
We cross the Golden Jubilee bridge to a place called Gordon’s Wine Bar. Basically, Gordon just took his ancient basement and started serving wine there. It’s like drinking in a secret cave, which for present company is more than appropriate.
It smells of moss and red wine with a faint hint of sewage. Every five minutes or so the cave rattles with a reminder that public transit here is incessant and predictable. And by candlelight against the rattle and hum soundtrack we catch up with old friends before heading down to Covent Garden. The mission is to see whether we can sneak a table at Homeslice..the answer is no.
And so we move on for some curry. A restaurant called Punjab fits the bill. I find the spiciest thing on the menu and eat it…it’s like eating flaming bricks. Delicious.
More red wine and a walk back to Southbank wraps the night…jetlag be damned.