There have been many such partings since, and not so clean-cut. Between then and now, my life has been plagued by changes more frequent and intense than historically so, which makes me wonder if, like interest, change compounds over time. Since leaving Edinburgh, I moved to New York, having to reactivate and relearn all the Americanisms from my youth; started (and attained) my misguided master’s degree at NYU; subsequently failed at navigating the American job market and moved back to the Philippines; and completed a six-month internship at the United Nations Population Fund (UNFPA). Perhaps most notably, a strange, off-kilter little story I wrote called An Eye and a Leg made Regional Winner (Asia) in the 2025 Commonwealth Short Story Prize. All of a sudden — in a life I spent mostly unheard — people cared about what I had to say. And there are, of course, the things I cannot discuss openly but haunt me all the same.

Between immigration and relocation, success and failure, and loss and estrangement, the landscape of my life is perpetually undergoing change. I’m lucky if I experience stability for a month, let alone a year. While one might think that I’m adept at dealing with change, given the sheer volume of it in my life and the circumstances into which I was born, it’s quite the contrary. I yearn for a stable existence and envy those who have one. Often, I think of Sofia Sanchez’s poem Haiku [for you] in Like the Singing Coming Off the Drums (1998):

love between us is
speech and breath. loving you is
a long river running.

This is very clearly a love poem written to a significant other. But I like to think of myself as having a passionate and unrequited love for my life, despite its tendency to put me through the wringer. And it’s that last line — a long river running — which has cemented the poem in my mind. How often did I resent those whose lives seemed to me like still water? What lengths did I go to, trying to build a dam in (reader, you can predict where I’m heading with this) my own life, my long river running? And more importantly, did it work? Could I have stopped what demands to shift, the tides that insist on their own ebb and flow?

2025 goes on record as one of the most challenging (yet fulfilling) years of my life. I never fully understood the term “ego death” until this year compelled me to go through it. I embarked on trajectories that long seemed impossible for me, all while closing doors that I previously thought would stay open forever. (Forgive me, I have to speak in metaphor, and I’ve always loved waxing poetic.) By December, I didn’t know how to handle it any better, but I did know this: I wanted to end the year in Edinburgh, the (I told you I waxed poetic) city of my heart, my one refuge in a long, endless, stubborn river running of a life.

Day One (22 December): The Milkman, National Museum, Mary’s Milk Bar

I was still a little loopy from nearly thirty-nine hours of international travel (the Doha airport and I are extremely well-acquainted now, after my seventeen-hour layover there), but I dove in with total abandon. There was a slight misty rain in the air, and it was freezing outside (bear in mind I’d spent the last nine months in the eternally-tropical Philippines), but I didn’t care. Once I was ready and presentable, I set out on my day-one adventure.

It’s funny, there are things that I never did during my four years in the city that only made it onto my bucket list after I left. The Milkman, for instance. It’s an independent coffee shop on Cockburn Street in the heart of the Edinburgh’s Old Town, and a bit of a tourist favorite (but that’s okay, the tourists have good taste sometimes!). I must have walked past The Milkman so many times as a young, doe-eyed undergrad. But only as a jaded, exhausted twenty-six-year-old on her first full day revisiting Edinburgh did I actually become a patron.

There was a short wait in line (which I wasn’t a fan of — not in relation to the establishment itself, but because life is a little too short to be waiting outside in the cold for anything, really). I was inside soon enough. Once at the till, I ordered a cinnamon bun and a mocha, pronouncing the latter in my signature annoying American twang (like moe-kuh). A few minutes later, I was chowing away at my breakfast and had my hit of caffeine for the day.

I never really travel with a super-rigid agenda in mind. Every day brings a sense of unpredictability with it, and I like to lean into that. After I was finished eating breakfast, I decided to wander in the direction of the National Museum of Scotland. It happens to be quite close to Brighton Street, where I lived during my final year at the University of Edinburgh. The street’s a dead end, and definitely not the prettiest in the city (there’s about four dumpsters on it at any given moment), but I hold love and remembrance for it regardless. I’ve made it a personal tradition, whenever I visit, to take a little stroll past it and honor my time there.

Once I’d completed my little ritual (again, not much to look at on Brighton Street), I went into the National Museum of Scotland (NMS for short) to walk around mindlessly and kill some time. The first thing I did upon entering the building, however, was pop into the bathroom to slap a blister patch on my ankle. This felt to me like a rite of passage in a city like Edinburgh, which demands one walk. A car won’t get you far here.

I could normally spend hours in a place like the NMS, but I was a little aloof this day. Consequently, I sped through most of the exhibits, though I did stop and reflect at a few that caught my attention. Among these are a sign in Bengali and a statue of the Buddha (both pictured below). I recently started reading In the Buddha’s Words: An Anthology of Discourses from the Pali Canon (2005) by Bhikkhu Bodhi, and (despite my staunch, unyielding atheism) find the entire religion fascinating.

I actually ended up spending a significant amount of time at the NMS, later popping into the cafe to drink a flat white and do some atrocious doodling while (as always) every conceivable thought ran through my jetlagged, neurotic head. I thought of my past in this magnificent city, my misguided decision to move to New York, my present in the Philippines, and that elusive, unpredictable thing: my future — still in formation, as unknowable and precarious as everything else in my small-but-eventful life.

What good did all that thinking do me? It was time for ice cream. The next item on my loose, unstructured agenda was a visit to Mary’s Milk Bar, an independent (which isn’t really a novelty in Edinburgh; the city’s relatively low on franchises) ice cream parlor on Grassmarket. I’d been frequenting Mary’s since January 2022, most of the time with my friend Abbie, who was a longtime connoisseur and accompanied me on my very first visit to the place.

I bought a cone with the stollen, and the goat’s cheese and fig (Mary’s goat’s cheese flavors are my favorite; I think it’s something about the combination of sweet, salty, and umami). I ate it seated on a bench in Grassmarket, people-watching and thinking of all the times I’d been here in the past, sometimes alone but mostly with another person, who was usually Abbie. And when it wasn’t, it was either an old friend or a new one, or one in between. Back in the day, I’d forged many a connection over a cone (and sometimes a cup) of Mary’s.

After I finished, I carried my nostalgic, sad sack self back to my hotel, taking the scenic route past St. Cuthbert’s Kirkyard.

Day Two (23 December): Lannan Bakery, Lunch With Juma, and the National

Lannan Bakery, established after I left Edinburgh, had long been on my radar for whenever I returned to the city. I’ll admit it; I was enamored by the trays of glistening, uniform pastries on its Instagram. I’d also heard a lot about the place — both online and through word-of-mouth — as well as the nightmarishly-long wait times to get in. But I was cocky. I’ll be okay, I thought, the long line won’t apply to me. My plan for my second day was to pop in for a quick pastry at Lannan before walking up to George Street for lunch with my friend Juma.

Humility is an honorable trait to have, so I can admit that I grossly underestimated how long the line to enter the bakery turned out, as well as the amount of time spent in it. It was cold outside, and as a woman always on the move, all that waiting bored me. But it was too late to turn back. I’d walked all the way to Stockbridge. Admitting defeat was not an option.

Reader, I spent close to two hours in that line. Did I even want the pastries by the time I was at the door? Sometimes, the journey toward attaining something ends up so ugly that it leeches all the joy out of the attainment itself. Still, I persevered, purchasing a custard slice, a cinnamon cream cheese-filled pastry, and a slice of focaccia with potato and cheese on it (I’m sorry, I don’t remember the specifics, I was impatient and ravaged by hunger).

Pastries in hand, I speed-walked up to the Princes Street Gardens, where I sat on a bench and ate the focaccia slice. I watched the various children’s rides and attractions run below me as I ate, thinking that there was something quite eerie about them from a distance. And reader, the pastries were good (one might even say they were great) but as I mentioned before — life is too short to be waiting in the cold for anything. Even delicious, designer baked goods.

After I was finished, I met my friend Juma for lunch at Café Andaluz, a Spanish tapas place on George Street. I’d been to this location twice in the past, once for a meal with my friends Ritu and Bryn, and later for my friend Holly’s birthday dinner. The food was delicious as always, and it was great to catch up with Juma. What we talked about, however, is between her, myself, and the old man having a solo lunch next to us. I like to think we entertained the guy, but it’s more likely we traumatized him.

Once Juma and I were finished eating dinner, we took a little post-lunch walk into the Edinburgh Christmas Market (too crowded, and very overstimulating) before seeking refuge in The National, the (as its name suggests) national art gallery of Scotland. It’s located in a gorgeous neoclassical building in the city center, near The Mound, a sloped road that I descended and climbed as part of my daily commute during the summer of 2021, when I was completing an internship in Dunfermline, Fife (do not recommend).

I’m nothing if not an art enthusiast, and The National is absolutely gorgeous inside. Juma and I had a brief stroll around, where we looked at paintings by a number of Scottish artists, as well as more household names like Monet and Van Gogh.

Later, Juma bought me a coffee at the gallery’s cafe, and accompanied me to three different shops to buy a UK adaptor for my electronic devices. A Superdrug and a Boots later, we finally found one at a run-of-the-mill convenience store. South Asian cashier and all. I got my adaptor and parted with Juma near a bus stop, vowing to see her again soon.

Sometimes, I think of van Gogh’s last words: “La tristesse durera toujours,” which translates to “the sadness will last forever.” His life was one plagued by anguish and suffering (as many artists’ are), culminating in events like the widely-known (and often mocked) cutting of his ear. I suppose some pain, when you’re not the one feeling it, becomes laughable.

I don’t doubt that van Gogh’s life was difficult, but did he ever have to wait two hours in line for designer Instagram pastries?

Day Three (24 December): Christmas Eve, The Palmerston, Topping & Company, and Mamma Mia!

What does a raging atheist do on Christmas Eve? Go to church. But first, breakfast at The Palmerston. Just like countless other random places around Edinburgh, this one too carries the weight of memory and sentimental value I place on it. Many years ago (and by many, I mean three), I had breakfast here on the morning of my 23rd birthday with my friends Abbie, Olive, and Millard. I can still remember the table at which we sat, and how infinite my future seemed at the time. (Nowadays, it just seems infinitely absurd.) Later in 2023, Abbie, Olive, and I ate lunch here on a beautiful Edinburgh summer day.

This morning, I started off with a flat white and a mincemeat and custard pastry (pictured below). It was freshly-baked, Christmassy, and very delicious. Almost delicious enough to make one believe in God.

Almost.

On this day, I had one agenda item to work around. I’d booked a cheap ticket to the famous Christmas Play Mamma Mia! at the Edinburgh Playhouse, figuring I might as well engage in some cultural enrichment while I was in the city. The Playhouse is in Leith, Edinburgh’s port district located north of the city center. My first-year university accommodation was in Leith, and while I’d prefer to wipe that entire time period from the slate of collective memory, it persists. I needed to pay homage to Leith as a result.

After my indulgent breakfast at The Palmerston, I slowly made my way by foot toward Leith, taking the picturesque route parallel to Princes Street. Soon enough, I was at the top of Leith Walk, with hours to kill before my show.

I decided to pop into St. Mary’s Catholic Cathedral for a moment, though not before I lingered by its entrance like a reluctant houseguest. My friend Vaish and I attended Midnight Mass at this cathedral nearly six years ago, back in the winter of 2019. Vaish is Hindu, and I’m an (insufferable) atheist, which begs the question, what the hell — pardon my French — were we doing there?

Ah, but I’ve always loved churches. The art, the stained glass, the way their interior architecture towers over you. And I love how — because Christianity is an infamously proselytizing religion — they’re open to all. Going in, I was hoping for an epiphany of sorts, some profound moment where I would spontaneously realize just how to kintsugi the fragments of my life together. That something holy would reveal itself to me.

So I entered, took a seat and made myself comfortable, dried the sweat off my browbone, and waited. Then I waited some more. Pretty soon, it got awkward. I might as well have looked up to the sky and yelled Are you there God? It’s me, Faria! A lady walked into the church and took a seat near me, and I was afraid she could smell the apostasy on me. If there were any angels around, I don’t think they wanted to talk. And God — well, I guess he had more pressing matters to attend to, with it being his kid’s birthday and all.

As skeptical as ever, I left St. Mary’s, grateful for the brief respite it had granted me.

After church, I took a stroll down Leith Walk to Topping & Company Booksellers. I’d heard a lot about this bookstore from friends, back when I was still an Edinburgh resident. But seeing as it was in Leith (and there were a lot of great bookstores not in Leith), I never paid it a visit.

No time like the present. Knowing there were countless unread books waiting for me on my bookshelf back in the Philippines (guilty! I’m a hoarder), I didn’t really aim to buy anything here. Instead, I lazily strolled around the shop, spending an intentional few minutes by the poetry section, where I opened up and flicked through Charles Bukowski’s The Last Night of the Earth Poems (1992) and Gabrielle Bates’ Judas Goat (2023).

I read Bukowski’s poem downers (pictured below). The last lines of the poem (not pictured) are actually “or / to / create / one,” which sent me on a long, anti-natalist train of thought. It makes sense if you think about it; misery loves company, and children make great company. The world’s most miserable people have loads of kids, and then some.

Now seems like a great time to tell you, reader, about how much I loathe Bukowski. I’ve given him countless chances over the years, hoping, each time, that a fresh perspective will result in a change of heart. No dice. Though I get his appeal, I really do. There’s a gritty, masculine sort of nihilism to his work; I know because I’ve felt it in the nooks, crannies, and crevices of my life. The man understood that our time here is pretty pointless, that nothing really means anything, and you might as well ruffle some feathers while you’re here.

I am, however and above all, a woman. And as much as I enjoy the odd Bukowski poem here and there, I just can’t forgive some of the rapey, misogynistic filth this man is responsible for writing.

But ask me again in a few years. My opinions are always changing.

While at Topping & Company, I also took some time to read Gabrielle Bates’ Dear Birmingham. Most poems have a few lines, or a stanza, that make or break it. That really bring it to life. I like to call them the heart of a poem, though there’s likely a more literary and academic term for it. I think Dear Birmingham’s is “What I have wanted most / is many lives. One for each longing, / round and separate.”

Need I explain why this resonates with me? I think you can figure it out.

After the bookstore, I took a stroll further down Leith Walk to my first-year university accommodation, Haddington Place. It’s changed a little; the Indigo Sun was there during my time, but the Wex is new and used to be a Costa Coffee.

Standing outside that building, my time in which was complex and imperfect, it occurred to me how shockingly ordinary the place was. There was a certain surrealism to revisiting a place that had previously existed, for so long, only in my memory. Haddington Place had seemed like purgatory when I’d inhabited it. Now, it was just a building. Rectangular, bare, and sterile.

After my trip down memory lane, I headed up to Nando’s at the Omni Centre for a cheeky lunch (chicken thighs, extra hot; chips; coleslaw; Coke) before my show.

And the show, reader, was alright. I should mention that I’m not particularly an ABBA or Mamma Mia! superfan, that the whole franchise feels a little corny to me, and that musical theater isn’t really my favorite form of theater. Regardless, it was a pleasant watch and a stimulating sensory experience, as such performances tend to be.

The lady seated next to me was a mother of six (I know, in this economy?), there to watch the show with her whole family. She offered me a glass of wine (though I politely declined), which led to a conversation about our respective lives, how she’d been married to her husband (who asked her to marry him a week into dating!) for thirty years, and how even after all that time together, their love had persevered. That they were still just as much in love as they’d been at the beginning.

I couldn’t help but think of all the young women in my own life who fought (some still fighting) tooth and nail for their half-loves and almosts, their lukewarm “situationships,” and wished they could meet this woman. Just once.

She also advised me not to worry about saving money, and to spend my twenties living for myself. This echoed a lot of the advice I’d received from older women in the past. When the cast performed Dancing Queen and Waterloo during the finale, she danced with more gusto than anyone else in our vicinity. Standing next to her, I found myself immensely grateful for the grace and kindness of strangers we meet along the path of life, however fleeting such unions may be.

Mamma Mia! is hardly a deep or poignant musical (in my opinion), but after the show ended I was a hit with an intense wave of post-performance blues. Maybe it was being in Leith, or the travel exhaustion, or the knowledge that the Playhouse’s curtains weren’t the only one that had closed, that a chapter of my life was well and truly over, but I found myself entirely miserable on the long walk back to my hotel.

I called my friend Melissa as I was returning, sending out a silent apology to anyone who had to see a lone Bangladeshi woman crying on the streets of Edinburgh on a chilly Christmas Eve.

Day Four (25 December): Christmas Day

A lazy day indoors, the majority of which I spent in bed. Reader, not every day can be an exciting adventure into the unknown (or in my case, the known). Even whimsical, unemployed, Anthony-Bourdain-wannabe try-hards need a break sometimes.

Though I did venture out briefly to a Turkish bakery near my hotel for some börek. One cheese one spinach, please.

Day Five (26 December): Memory Lane and Marty Supreme

I once said in an interview, rather insufferably, that “while I might have what it takes to be good, I’d very much like to become great.” You’ll have to forgive me, I was cocky and high on my fifteen minutes.

But arrogance aside, it’s a statement I wholeheartedly meant at the time, and one I think of often. What does it mean to pursue a craft or talent with full devotion? To blur the boundaries between healthy interest and full, mad-scientist obsession? To live and breathe your art, to let it consume you? Reader, I hate to say it, but I’m on the way to finding out.

To better understand my journey to greatness (and partly due to my admiration for Timothée Chalamet), I’d booked a ticket to Marty Supreme. I thought there was something spiritually significant about Chalamet recently publicly announcing his pursuit of greatness, the nature and plotline of the film, and my personal path toward mastering my craft.

Am I full of shit? Maybe. Only one way to find out.

The movie was only around 2:00 p.m., so I had a bunch of time to kill before making my way to the Omni Centre in Leith. I started the day with a coffee at Black Sheep, a chain whose franchises have been popping up all over Edinburgh in recent years.

Now, reader, I know gentrification is a complex topic, with layers and nuance to it. Race, class, history, more — these are all important factors to consider when seriously discussing gentrification. But (if you couldn’t tell by now) I am a very unserious person. Is there a greater, more economically-informed point to be made on the prolific emergence of Black Sheeps across Edinburgh, as well as the city’s steadily-increasing commercialization? Sure. But for now, it is enough for me to say that there are too many of the damn places, and I hate them.

And the pistachio latte was alright. Just alright.

My hotel was in the Haymarket area, so after I was done with my coffee and excruciatingly-ordinary pain au chocolat, I walked over to another one of my old streets in Edinburgh, West Park Place. I’d only lived here for a matter of months during the summer after graduation (and then some), but it was a good couple of months. I had my 23rd birthday party at the West Park Place flat — a relatively tame night, but one full of goodbyes, finality, and (of course, as we had so much of it then) whimsy.

Once I’d ticked the street off my places-to-stand-and-feel-nostalgic list, I decided to make my way toward The Meadows. On the way, I walked past the Edinburgh International Conference Centre (EICC), where, many moons ago, I received both my Covid-19 vaccinations (and possibly my booster too, but I can’t remember). I’m not particularly sentimental about getting jabbed, but recalled the experience regardless.

Finally, I was at The Meadows, a large, public park located just south of the University of Edinburgh’s George Square. I strolled around for a bit before taking a seat on a bench on Middle Meadow Walk. It was early in the morning and there weren’t many people around. The sparseness granted the place a sense of serenity. Seated on that bench, I began thinking about ego death, about how even if I no longer retained certain elements of my self-identity, that perhaps The Meadows did. And that I’d always have it to come back to.

Reader, there’s a lot I could write about what The Meadows means to me — late-night adventures with people I no longer know, the dissertation season panic laps I used to walk around its perimeter, spring/summer frolicking, spontaneous catch-ups with friends on any one of its numerous benches, picnics and outings, beers and ice cream, hot chocolate from Uplands Roast (the coffee truck located by the University’s Main Library), sausage rolls from the truck next to it. But I won’t write your ear off. Just know that — like so many spaces in this city — it is and will always be extremely special to me.

After The Meadows, I made my way toward the University, walking by the Main Library first, then its surrounding buildings, until I was in front of McEwan Hall and Teviot Row House. As the University was still closed for the winter, I was unable to go into any of the buildings, which saddened me a little. But I trudged on.

It’s worth noting that the University of Edinburgh is a city campus, so its buildings are spread across the city. The School of Divinity, for instance, is situated at New College on The (aforementioned) Mound. The main campus of the College of Science and Engineering is located at King’s Buildings, in the suburb of Blackford. Regardless, as a student of the Business School, most of my classes and tutorials occurred within the George Square area and its vicinity.

I sat on a bench in front of Teviot Row House for a moment to gaze up at McEwan Hall, the large, majestic, Italian Renaissance-style building where the University’s graduation ceremonies take place. About three-and-a-half years ago, I was in there, young and hopeful, clad in a thrifted blue dress and my graduation gown, waiting to collect my diploma and wrap up four years of study.

I’m somewhat of a believer in nonlinear time theory, so as I sat and looked up at McEwan Hall, I thought that maybe — on another plane of existence but at this very moment — my twenty-two-year-old self was outside celebrating her graduation, warm and gleeful on that cloudy and tolerably-chilly Edinburgh summer day. That if I could reach my hand past time and the sinew of existence, then I might be able to tap her on the shoulder. To pull her into the present with me.

Then I thought that was all a little too wacky for Boxing Day, and ventured on.

I walked onto Forrest Road, making a brief stop at Forrest Hill, a street where I rented a flat for about eight months, between January to September of 2021. It was the first time I’d ever lived on my own, an experience I think every woman/person should have in life. Though there certainly was an adjustment period and various ups and downs (when are there not?), I have fond memories of the time I spent in that flat.

My kitchen window in the Forrest Road flat looked directly onto Greyfriars Kirkyard, a graveyard surrounding Greyfriars Kirk, a parish church of the Church of Scotland. It was a beautiful view to have, though I feel I took it for granted at the time. Only now, living in a skyscraper 30+ stories above ground (though this too is a privilege, don’t get me wrong), do I realize how lucky I was to be so close to the earth, to holiness (yes, even a staunch atheist can hold appreciation for the alleged divine), and to death, which is an occurrence that is so prevalent, yet simultaneously so taboo to speak of frankly, in the times we live in.

I had a long, leisurely walk around Greyfriars Kirkyard, taking a moment to stop by the Flodden Wall and Tom Riddle’s grave (the Potterhead in me couldn’t help it). As I wandered around, I thought of death and birth, the cyclical nature of it all, and the ceremony that we, the living, assign to death-related events. Was there any point? Do the deceased really care what size their headstones are? When my time came, would I? (I won’t; my dream send-off is either cremation or a no-coffin burial under a sapling.) And was I a hypocrite, walking around the graveyard of my past life, digging up old memories from their final resting places?

I exited the Kirkyard and made my way toward Dalkeith Road, where my friends Ritu and Tanvi lived during their third (my fourth and final) year at the University of Edinburgh. My last year was a bit of a whirlwind one (by my standards, so take that with a grain of salt), and I practically lived on Dalkeith Road with the girls, frequently popping by after classes or at the end of the day for a quick hangout and catch-up. There was always something new to discuss or old to rehash. And when we weren’t talking, we were dancing. Some of the most special and remarkable memories of the last of my time in Edinburgh are situated on Dalkeith Road, in that little ground-floor flat where the heating never quite worked right and anyone walking by could peer right into the living room. I’ll never forget it. I make sure to pay it a visit every time I’m in town.

I sat on the benches by the Royal Commonwealth Pool for a bit afterwards, which faced the Dalkeith Road flat. I wanted the proximity to it without the possibility of looking like a Peeping Tom. Sitting there, I thought of all the tenants that had likely inhabited the flat after the girls’ departure, how certain spaces are only ever loaned out to us but become, in all their impermanence, ours for life regardless. Then I got cold, and continued on my walk down memory lane.

Keeping Leith in mind, I took the scenic route to the theater, venturing into Holyrood Park. I lived close to this park during my second year at the University, at a student accommodation on Sugarhouse Close (which I visit later). Reader, I didn’t climb onto the hills or cliffs, but as I walked their perimeter, I realized that sometimes, all one needs is to look into the face of something bigger than oneself. For some, that’s God. For me, it was these tall-ass cliffs.

As I got closer and closer to Sugarhouse Close, I walked past a tree stump with some mushrooms growing near the base. I’m sort of fascinated by fungi, how their fruiting bodies emerge from what’s otherwise dead and decaying. I have a penchant for the strange and an inclination toward the morbid, in case you couldn’t tell. And while this would be a great time to insert some kind of lazy metaphor about how I, too, will emerge from the wreckage of my life like a mushroom, I won’t do that to you. For now.

Finally, I was near my old second-year university accommodation on Holyrood Road, just parallel to the Royal Mile. I shared my flat here with nine other people, and we didn’t always get along, but boy, was it a good time. I recalled movie nights, cooking experiments, clubbing out on Cowgate, and a ten-person Christmas dinner during the winter of 2019. I remember, above it all, the simplicity of the time and the bonds forged during it.

I popped into a Tesco Express right next to it, buying my meal deal lunch for the day (a chicken, bacon, and lettuce sandwich; Wotsits; coconut water). Then, I walked over to the building where I had spent my second year of university — one of the better years, in the grand scheme of it all — and looked up at it, trying to locate the window that might have been mine. I couldn’t figure it out, it could have been any of them. What did it matter, anyway?

I then climbed the stairs that led to the courtyard in the back, and took a seat on a bench. I began to eat my little lunch as I reminisced on the past. My second year had been interrupted (as did so many students’ academic journeys) by Covid-19 and all its consequent societal chaos. Yet at the time, to both myself and my flatmates, it had seemed only like a long, extended vacation from the stresses of university lectures and assignments. How little we knew then. Those of us still in the flat (those with family in the UK had simply gone home) had spent our days making Dalgona coffees, lazing about, and frolicking (as far as the law allowed) around Holyrood Park. We were comfortable and safe in our microclimate. And there was, regardless of the complexity and uncertainty of the time, joy, and a lot of it.

I sent a photo of the courtyard (below) to my flatmate-turned-friend Vaish, along with a text saying “Guess where I ammmmmm.” Then I finished up my lunch, which was filling but cold, and caused me to start shivering. I knew then that it was time to go.

From Sugarhouse Close, I took Old Tolbooth Wynd and Calton Road to the Omni Centre in Leith. I felt more than ready for Marty Supreme. But I was a little early, so I popped into Café Barbera for a Spanish latte before the movie. Then I headed upstairs to the Vue, bought an absurdly-large tub of popcorn, and settled in to watch the movie.

Now, reader, I’m no film aficionado. I don’t claim to know what differentiates good cinema from bad cinema, and I’ve never seen The Godfather. I was drawn to Marty Supreme by its obnoxious white-boy-swag marketing campaign and, of course, its leading lady, the great Timmy Chalamet. In fact, the whole movie could have been his Statistics performance on loop, and I’d have been a happy woman.

But it wasn’t. It was two-and-a-half hours of gritty, masculine, working-class New Yorker degeneracy. It was a story of one man’s fall from grace, his self-abandonment, his dark night of the soul and all that ensued. It was, for all intents and purposes, a story about an asshole who’d do anything to get to the top. And it was great, just like Chalamet is aiming to be. Just like I am too.

I came out of that theater feeling alright about it all, wishing only that they’d make similar films with women at the center (I’d love to see a Marty Mauser who’s a 5’2” Bangladeshi-American-Filipino-Scottish woman), then took the tram from Picardy Place back to my hotel.

Day Six (27 December): A Slow One, Then the Jazz Bar

It was a gloomy, misty morning, and I was a little tired from all the steps I’d walked the day before. I determined the day would be a slow one. I started off with a croissant and coffee at the Nomad — a cozy cafe near my hotel that seemed to be quite popular in the area. As I ate, I looked out the window and people-watched. I found myself hit with the realization that I’d miss Edinburgh forever, that I very badly wanted to move back, but that a dream like that might forever remain a pipe dream.

After breakfast, I went back to my hotel and did some writing from bed, capitalizing on the inexplicable surge of inspiration the city gave rise to within me. (Is this why writers are always on their little retreats and residencies? Probably.) Vaish called at some point to catch me up on her Christmas and Boxing Day, which provided a much-needed respite from the excruciating act that is writing.

Once midday rolled around, I ventured out to a Vietnamese cafe close to my hotel (lots of great spots in Haymarket!) for lunch, pictured below. Reader, I’m a sucker for a good soup, and this one hit the spot, especially on such a cold and melancholic day.

I returned to my hotel and lazed around for a while before getting ready for a 6:00 p.m. show to see the Gary Laidlaw Trio play at The Jazz Bar, an independent music venue on Chambers Street. I’d only been introduced to the place by my friend Tanvi during my final year of university, but it quickly became a go-to for nights out and more casual hangouts. (It helped that it was a 2-minute walk from my flat on Brighton Street.) I’d been to The Jazz Bar for birthdays, for celebrating the end of dissertation and exam seasons, for impromptu and short-notice Friday nights with friends. It was, like so many places in the city, the backdrop for much of my memory, and I owed it a visit while I was there.

I wasn’t asked for my ID at the door, which made me feel funny — not because of the implication that I’m aging (because I am, as we all are), but because of all the times I was a young, stupid twenty-two-year-old standing in line outside the bar, preemptively holding out her BRP to the bouncer like it was some test to pass. Some things never change, but some do. Anyway, I won’t get into all that right now.

Once I was inside, I got myself one of The Jazz Bar’s trademark ginger beers with a shot of whiskey, and settled in to watch the show. I know little about jazz (though it does have a rich history, which I’d love to read up on more in the future) or any of the instruments being played, but I enjoyed the Trio’s performance regardless. It was a more laidback show than the late-night, high-tempo ones I’d frequent as a student, which had me reminiscing on all the times I was a young undergrad, dancing away right in front of the stage. And of course, because time (according to me) is non-linear, I knew that version of me was still here, that we were only separated by a little thing called a plane of existence.

Then, because I was still fresh out of Marty Supreme, I began to think about the cultivation of skill and talent, of what it really takes to go from good to great. It’s no secret that the world is of charlatans, or as Salinger’s Holden Caulfield would put it, “phonies.” And sure, I reflected — lying, cheating, and putting on pretenses could get one through certain doors. But whether or not you can keep walking down the hallway — well, that’s to be determined by time, perseverance, and practice. No way around it. You want the results, you’ve got to put in the work.

I left the show just before 9:00 p.m. and took the bus back to my hotel. Overall, a slow day, but not a bad one.

Day Seven (28 December): Glasgow, GoMA, and the University of Strathclyde

Glasgow time!

I was all Edinburgh-ed out, so after a week in the city (which I thoroughly enjoyed, don’t get me wrong), I took the train from Haymarket station into Glasgow, arriving around half-past-ten. As with all my days, there was no set agenda in mind. I only wanted to look at some art while I was there, and (depending on my energy levels and capacity) have a wander by the University of Strathclyde in honor of my father, who attained his master’s degree from there sometime in the 90s.

Glasgow’s a beautiful city, and a little less gray (though more industrial) than its sister Edinburgh. Its people, dare I say, are a little more down-to-earth compared to those of its counterpart. And if you want to hear a stereotypically heavy, near-intelligible Scottish accent (Anthony Bourdain once described it as “impenetrable”1), Glasgow’s the city to be. I always enjoyed visiting it when I was an undergraduate. Most big-name musicians, when playing a show in Scotland, will perform in Glasgow. All the concerts I’d attended during my time at the University of Edinburgh — including (look, I have diversified taste) Years & Years, Khalid, Halsey, Two Door Cinema Club, James Blake, Alt-J, and AJR — had been here.

Once I was off the train, I walked around the city center for a while before popping into a Caffè Nero (the best British coffee chain, sorry, no question) for an iced pistachio latte.

It was a cold day, but not unbearably so. As I sat and drank my coffee, I planned out a rough itinerary in my head; I’d pop into the Gallery of Modern Art (GoMA), have lunch, visit Strathclyde, and call it a day. Nothing too extreme, and I’d be able to get back to Edinburgh by sundown.

I believed I’d been to the GoMA once before, when I’d visited Glasgow in 2018 to attend a Years & Years concert with my (then) friends Carly and Dáire. But I couldn’t be sure. Like so much of my memory, it was blurry, and buried underneath the rubble of fresher ones. (Sorry, I’m being overly poetic again; a quick search through my camera roll would’ve clarified it, but sometimes it’s more fun to live in the uncertainty.)

For the most part, I do appreciate modern art. It’s funky, it’s weird, it’s strange, it’s lazy (yes, sorry, someone had to say it), it’s avant-garde, it’s risky, and it’s a million other things. But most importantly, it’s unapologetic in the ways it subverts and inverts the known and long-established conventions of art. Modern artists laugh in the face of realism, and spit on traditionalism. There’s something to be said for that, even if the end result isn’t always good.

My favorite pieces from the GoMA included one from Sharon Hayes May 1st, a series of letters to an unnamed lover. It reads:

I’m sorry. I’m rusty. I feel disconnected. This is hard. We’re out of touch. I’ll start again. I’ll try to be simple. The last time I saw you, you asked me to tell you what I wanted. You said you couldn’t tell. You don’t even have a favorite color, you said. But that’s not true. My favorite color is your favorite color. My favorite meal, yours. Why does this make you so angry? I have my own mind but my desire is not a thinking; it’s an echo, a reverberating shock. I am so much yours, I am no longer myself. Is that so wrong?

“I am so much yours, I am no longer myself” — what a line. And a reminder to avoid self-abandonment, no matter what the cost.

After perusing the art gallery, I went to the basement to spend some time in the library there. It was modestly-sized, but with a good selection of literature across various genres. I half-mindedly browsed through some books, and came across the following quote from Isaac Asimov stuck on a bookshelf: “Any book worth banning is a book worth reading.”

I thought of the eight years I was forced to spend spent growing up in Bangladesh, which has a nice double-whammy curse of being both South Asian and Muslim. Its culture, consequently, is one high in censorship and secrecy. I can still recall being given science textbooks in middle school with the pages on sex and reproduction torn out, as though that would’ve stopped a bunch of horny, hormone-riddled preteens from learning anything about the subject. And this was only one (small) example in a sea of many throughout my time there. I resented growing up in such a high-censorship culture, in a country that will forcibly silence anyone who dares to challenge its twisted status quo.

Censorship never protected me from anything truly troubling. What I did require protection from, however, were the people and systems that enforced that censorship in the first place.

After the GoMA, I went into Maki & Ramen for a bowl of the “Hell Ramen” (rookie spice level, but again, I am South Asian).

After lunch, feeling energized and warmed up, I walked in the direction of the University of Strathclyde. It wasn’t too long of a walk, just around twenty minutes (and I was walking pretty slow). Pretty soon, I had arrived. I didn’t really aim to explore into the university grounds or go into any buildings; I only wanted to get a photo to send to my father, which I did.

As I stood there, looking into the face of the University of Strathclyde Business School (which wasn’t even my father’s school), I took some time to wonder what it might have been like for him to leave Bangladesh for the first time in his life, move to Glasgow, and acclimatize to British/Scottish culture (and accents!) — all while pursuing a master’s degree. This was before the age of the Internet, before a quick Google search could help him with the things he didn’t know. I thought of the inner strength that must have taken. And I wondered if subconsciously, his past here had influenced my decision to go to the University of Edinburgh, and if my connection to Scotland was generational in nature.

Feeling a burst of empathy for the man, I called my father from in front of his alma mater, though he sounded busy and occupied when he answered. I realized any poignancy I’d assigned to the moment had been all in my head, as most things often are.

Day Eight (29 December): Dean Village, Water of Leith, Modern One and Two, and Lunch with Eleanor

After a morning coffee at Nomad, I went on a go-where-your-heart-leads-you walk around the neighborhood, which took me, pretty quickly, to Dean Village — a beautiful, historic former milling village situated by the Water of Leith. I wasn’t the only tourist there, which made me feel simultaneously happy (as it meant more people appreciating the beauty of Edinburgh) and frustrated (this city belonged to me and me only). I spent a few minutes in the Village, and then slipped under the bridge to the Water of Leith Walkway. I had the morning to myself, and only needed to be back in time for lunch and a catch-up with my friend Eleanor at 1:00.

Walking at a medium pace, I stopped at spots that I found especially beautiful or where I saw something that interested me. It’s been scientifically proven that proximity to running water, or large bodies of it, works wonders for the mind. I certainly felt it on my stroll by the Water of Leith. It was as though the water carried my concerns for me, if only momentarily. I even found some mushrooms growing on a log, and bent down to take a photograph. I thought that the cyclical nature of life, death, and rebirth was fascinating in nature, and wondered how deep into the log the mushrooms’ mycelium ran. Then I wondered if the mushrooms were edible, and thought it best not to find out.

Pretty soon, because everything in Edinburgh is connected — not always by roads or sidewalks but by narrow, hidden alleys, winding paths, and unnamed staircases — I was at the National Galleries of Scotland Modern One and Two.

I’d been to the Modern once before, years ago, with my friends Holly and Joanna. I believe it was either the spring or summer of 2022. Our decision to go had been impromptu, as the best ones often are. It was a great day, and I still have memories of the art we saw, the selfies we took in the Modern Two’s vibrant, rainbow-tiled bathroom, and the lightheartedness of the time. Back then, I was a little less intentional about my art consumption. It was enough for me to mindlessly enjoy the aesthetics of it with friends on a mirthful day out. Now, however, I thought much more deeply about art’s context — where was it made? Who made it? What was the intention? How did it make me feel?

The Modern Two was closed except for a paid exhibition, so I made my way to the Modern One. I walked past Antony Gormley’s 6 TIMES HORIZON, a sculpture just outside its gates. I recalled the first time I’d ever visited the Modern Two, and how my friend Holly had taken a seat on the sculpture’s shoulders. That had seemed the funniest thing in the world at the time.

I’ll be honest, I can’t quite recall what paintings I looked at during my 2022 visit, so everything at the Modern One might as well have been new to me. Once inside, I was greeted warmly by the staff at the front desk, then wandered slowly into the galleries.

Though both have their merits, exploring an art museum with a friend is a very different experience to exploring one alone. If I compare visiting with a friend to binge-drinking (think downing as many shots of tequila as you can in the span of five minutes), then looking at art alone is a whiskey tasting, an experience one might call “elevated” in nature, one where you let the liquid pool and sit in your mouth as you determine its scents, tones, and notes. (The alcohol, of course, to mean the art.) And this isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy discussing art with friends (is downing tequila shots not an objectively fun experience, if there’s salt, lime, and Reggaeton involved?), it’s just that it’s a vastly different experience. And to really savor the richness of certain art, to understand its themes and the motivations of its creators, to put myself in their shoes as best as I can, I need to be alone.

I even picked up a magnifying glass to use as I browsed all the art. Talk about insufferable.

One of the first paintings I saw was Lucian Freud’s Two Men (1987–1988) (oil on canvas). I’m deeply fascinated by homoeroticism, by all its associated taboos throughout time, culture, and history, and spent a good amount of time looking at it.

I also really liked Scottish artist Norah Neilson Gray’s Mother and Child (1920s) (also oil on canvas). Along with mushrooms and homoeroticism (and countless other things; my attention is embarrassingly easy to grab), I’m fascinated by the mother-child or mother-daughter dynamic. It’s one of (in my opinion) the most divine relationships to exist in nature, but also one that’s often manipulated, twisted, and neglected in a lot of cultures and social systems.

I continued through the art gallery, and was enamored by a number of paintings along the way. I spent some extra time in the Helen Chadwick room, namely by her work Loop my Loop (1991) a tableau featuring locks golden hair intertwined with pig intestine.

Reader, you already know I love weird stuff. Let me save us both some time and not rehash that.

Eventually, I was at the Louise Bourgeois section. Bourgeois was a prolific French-American artist best known for her large-scale sculptures and installations. I wasn’t too familiar with her artwork (only some of her writing), but was glad for the chance to see it firsthand.

I really enjoyed a series of paintings, titled 10 am is When You Come to Me, that Bourgeois created with her assistant Jerry Gorovoy. The work serves as a portrait of their friendship, and features tracings of both her and Gorovoy’s hands. I thought there was something poignant about this one, portraying human connection beautifully, especially at a time when we are surrounded by so little of it.

What really took my breath away was Bourgeois’ Spider (1994) — a towering, larger-than-life sculpture of a spider, made of bronze, silver nitrate and brown patina, and granite. Spiders are a recurring subject in Bourgeois’ work, and she related them closely to the concept of motherhood. Reader, I stood in front of this gigantic, obscenely-large spider, and was filled with a surge of love for the uglier, more undesirable things in the world.

What I was really excited for was the surrealism section. Surrealism is my favorite art (and media) genre, and I’m always eager to explore it further where I can. A lot of An Eye and a Leg (my short story), for instance, was inspired by surrealist and absurdist literature I’d read throughout the course of my life. My love for the weirder, uglier things in the natural world also influence, to a high degree, my attraction to the surreal. I love the way it challenges known conventions, challenges, shocks, and surprises its audience. Most of all, I love the audacity of it. The risk it takes in abandoning all pretense of normalcy.

I’m also very interested in the mind of surrealist creatives; what makes them think the way they do? What do their inner worlds look like? What are they trying to portray (or escape)? How weird can they get? And more importantly, can I watch?

I spotted a 1928 Dalí, Oiseau, in the surrealism gallery, created with oil, sand, pebbles and shingle on board. It was pretty cool, and I love a good Dalí. But, reader, the moment I saw Paul Delvaux’s L’Appel de la Nuit (The Call of the Night) (1938), I was a goner. It was haunting, sexy, weird, dark, and dreamy (sorry — I’m no art critic, I’m just listing adjectives here). I spent a long time gazing at it, appreciating the inherent darkness of the painting, as well as Delvaux’s portrayal of the female form. I hate to say it, but no one paints women like men do.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t rush through some of the second-floor galleries, but I was a happy woman as I exited the Modern One. Art has a way of calming me down, of giving way to a certain pensiveness and meditativeness within me. For a brain that’s always-on and thinks at the speed of light (the fastest-possible speed in the universe, mind you), slowing it down feels like a relief.

I quickly made my way back to my hotel, killing an hour there before meeting my friend Eleanor for lunch. We went to Mia Italian Kitchen on Dalry Road — a stone’s throw from my West Park Place flat — for lunch, and shared a plate of bruschetta before ordering risotto.

What did we talk about? It might have been anything, it might have been nothing. I’ve known Eleanor since my first year at university — that awkward, uncomfortable, confusing time that I somehow made it out of. And while there’s a lot about that year I’d like to forget, it’s never the connections I made. Reader, it’s always good to see an old friend, and even better when there’s carbs involved.

After lunch, Eleanor and I popped into Roasters, a nearby cafe also on Dalry Road, for an afternoon pick-me-up. I got a pumpkin spice latte (sorry), and we then parted ways near Haymarket Station, making loose plans to spend New Year’s Eve together.

Day Nine (30 December): Writing, Meadows, Spillage

A lazy day, but a creative one. Was the burning candle near its end? Had I officially run out of things to do in the city of my heart? No, I was just lazy. And reader, I needed to write. As much as I loved being young, unemployed, and exploring the city on my own time and terms, I’d promised myself that while in Edinburgh, I’d use the inspiration to create something of note. I had countless ideas that I still needed to make a reality. So far, I’d only written a few thousand words of this very Substack post, which I doubt (however earnest) is changing lives anytime soon.

I spent the morning at a Caffè Nero on Stafford Street, drinking a more-dessert-than-drink gingerbread latte, all while trying my best to delve deep into my own creativity, to conjure up the words, the ones that would form a body of work so robust, so cohesive, so profound in nature that it would serve as testament to my long-hidden, extraordinary writing ability. That all this will have been for something. That I too, like Marty Mauser, was on my path to greatness.

Well, I spent the hours writing more of this Substack post on my shitty laptop, people-watching, and scrolling on my phone (the damned thing). By the end of it, I was bored and restless. I didn’t want to go home, but I also didn’t want to go on some great adventure either.

I decided, then, to head to The Meadows, thinking a little walk amidst nature couldn’t hurt. I thought it might even get my creative “juices flowing,” as my old friend Kathi used to say.

On the way, I passed by St. Cuthbert’s Kirkyard, making a momentary (it was cold and I didn’t have it in me to loiter) pit stop to get a photo, as well as admire the ceremonialism we assign to death. I found myself in awe, reader, of the juxtapositions of this city. How within the span of two minutes, I could walk from an ancient, gothic graveyard to a Wagamama.

Soon enough, I’d reached The Meadows. It was freezing outside but sunny, which lent the area a glowing, scenic quality. I walked its northmost perimeter for a bit, stopping briefly at the Little Free Library near the community garden to see what books it contained (nothing that particularly intrigued me).

I’d been mandated by Vaish, early on in my trip, to visit the Nile Valley Cafe and get a bary wrap (filled with falafel, chicken, hummus, and fūl) for lunch at some point. I was nearby and thought, Why not? Nile Valley is a longstanding favorite among University of Edinburgh students, serving up cheap but generously-portioned Sudanese wraps one can grab in between classes and library study sessions.

Bary wrap in hand, I sat on a bench outside the Informatics Forum and ate away. It was delicious, a glorious amalgam of flavors and textures, all neatly packaged together into a neat and portable vessel. And I was careful, knowing that I was a messy eater faced with the most precarious of foods — a saucy, turmeric-y, generously-filled wrap.

And I was doing well. Two thirds of the way down, I was safe and clean. No spillage yet. I even thought I’d make a home run.

But then. But then. Reader, my clumsiness — inevitable and unavoidable — got the best of me. A cursed bite sent a slew of sauce down my sweater and jeans, the latter of which stained, right near the crotch. I’m pretty sure some passersby saw the whole ordeal, but I didn’t have time to dwell on that. I did damage control as best as I could with some napkins. Then, tail-between-my-legs and calling it a day, I took the bus back to my hotel.

Day Ten (31 December): Eilidh and Old Pal

It was the last day of the year and my friend Eilidh was coming into the city from Glasgow to see me! I had a bit of a hectic start to the morning, which involved me running with a cup of hot coffee in hand for my Haymarket-to-Edinburgh-Waverley train. Coincidentally, it was the same one Eilidh was on. When I saw her on the platform at Waverley, I let out a little obnoxious American scream and gave her a hug.

Edinburgh was busy — but beautiful — this day. We exited the station and settled on Pep & Fodder, a cozy cafe on Waterloo Place, for breakfast and a catch-up. I had a panini (underwhelming) and lentil soup (really good). Eilidh had been my flatmate (one of nine) during my second year of university. I hadn’t seen her for about three years, give or take, and was grateful for the chance to meet on this trip to Edinburgh.

After breakfast, she and I went into St. James Quarter, where we browsed a few clothing stores, and later a Ryman Design (I wanted to get The Journal That Would Change Everything). We then popped into the Five Guys downstairs to get a milkshake for me (don’t ask) and a Coke for Eilidh.

We exited St. James to visit the Marks & Spencer on Princes Street. On the way, we were handed a “Hogmanay or Heaven?” pamphlet, which I thought was funny, and later made its way into my junk journal.

After shopping, Eilidh and I decided to ride the Starflyer, an eighty-meter-high swing ride at the Edinburgh Christmas Market, located at the Princes Street Gardens. We had to take a long, winded path to the ride itself, which was a little annoying, but we were there soon enough. I even got a photo of the Edinburgh sign on the way (below). It’s no Hollywood Sign, but to me, it might as well be.

I love a good amusement park ride. Something about the helplessness when you’re at the apex, the thrill of it, of giving up control. It’s just fantastic. I’ll save you some great philosophical take on what it means to ride a roller coaster. Just know I had a lot of fun on the Starflyer, and I was glad to ride it with Eilidh. Afterward, she and I boarded the same train, which was headed to Glasgow. I rode it four minutes and got off at Haymarket, thinking that it had been a pretty good day in an otherwise (pardon my French) shit year.

And reader, I was excited to spend New Year’s Eve in Edinburgh, and looked forward to seeing the fireworks. I thought it would’ve been a rather positive end to a terrible year. Around 9:00 p.m. that night, I met Eleanor and a friend of hers at Old Pal Bar and Kitchen and ordered a glass of rosé to start off.

But 2025 wouldn’t end without pulling a fast one on me. One last fast one, reader, just for the sake of it. About thirty minutes in, I felt a familiar nausea creeping in, insidious and slick. I also broke out into a cold sweat and developed a terrible headache. Was it the eleven days of travel and hotel living? Was it something funny I ate? A stomach bug? Was it the sniffly cold I’d harbored for the past week? I didn’t know. I only knew that I felt awful and that despite what my mind wanted, my body was calling the shots here.

Apologetic and panicked, I told Eleanor and company that I needed to leave, and speed-walked back to my hotel. Once in my room, I fell into a troubled and unsatisfying sleep, only to wake around half-past-one in the morning on January 1st, 2026. The nausea had gone, but midnight had passed, I’d missed the fireworks, and rung in the new year sick and asleep.

Could only get better from here (touch wood).

Day Eleven (1 January): New Year’s Breakfast, Coffee with Makaela, Picking Up Ritu

Happy new year!

Despite the unpleasantness of the night before, I woke up feeling rejuvenated and optimistic. It was a new dawn, and it belonged to me. I dragged myself out of bed, adamant that the day (and the year) was going to be a good one, that 2025 couldn’t reach me here.

I had nothing particular planned for the day, other than picking up my friend Ritu from Waverley Station later in the evening. I decided to visit The Palmerston for breakfast, where I ordered a quince pastry topped with almonds and powdered sugar, and an Americano. It was pretty busy for a Thursday, and I assumed fellow Haymarket residents had had the same idea as me. As far as starts to the new year, there are worse ones to have.

While at The Palmerston, my friend Makaela messaged me. She’d just arrived at Edinburgh on a flight from the United States. We agreed to meet at Chapter One Coffee Shop, a vegan, woman-owned cafe on Dalry Road. I went back to my hotel after breakfast and took a much-needed shower. Then, desperately wanting not to spend the day indoors, I headed to Dalry Road a few minutes early, taking a brief stroll past the shops I’d frequented during my time living on West Park Place. It had changed a little, like much of the city, but for the most part, had retained the essence of how it had been three years ago.

Soon enough, Makaela arrived, and we went into Chapter One for our catch-up. She’s the kind of friend with whom I can talk through my weirder, more “contrarian” ideas about the world, and I’m proud to say that our conversation definitely passed the Bechdel test.

We spent a few good hours at Chapter One, after which I parted ways with Makaela around 3:30 p.m.. I then headed back to my hotel for some rest before picking up my friend Ritu, who was traveling into Edinburgh from London to see me. I hadn’t seen Ritu in a year and then some, a common occurrence in lives as nomadic as ours.

Around 6:00 p.m., I took the tram to St. Andrew Square and walked over to Waverley Station. I met Ritu up the stairs from her platform, after which we took a fifteen-minute walk in the Edinburgh cold to Café Andaluz, where I’d made a dinner reservation. Over tapas and iced Cokes, we caught up on the past year and made a rough itinerary for the next day.

How lucky I was, to have friends that would travel the distance to see me.

Day Twelve (2 January): Calton Hill, Dishoom Lunch, and Christmas Market Shenanigans

For our first full day in Edinburgh, Ritu and I had planned an early morning walk up Calton Hill. Then we were grabbing lunch with Juma at Dishoom, a popular UK-based Indian restaurant chain. But first, I dragged Ritu to (reader, you already know) The Palmerston for breakfast. She’d never been before, and I was excited to introduce her to the place. I was also excited for my morning pastry. I ordered (what I think was) a pain au chocolat and an Americano, and Ritu got a mint tea.

While eating, I was hit with the knowledge that this was going to be my last visit to The Palmerston this trip, and for a while until my next one. Ritu pointed out that I could always come back the day after — and it was true, I could have, it was open — but there was an air of finality to the morning. I knew, spiritually (as spiritual as one can feel about a cafe/restaurant), that this was it. On our way out, I said my silent goodbye to the place, and knew I’d come back as soon as the next opportunity arose, whenever that was.

Ritu and I then took the long walk from Haymarket and past Princes Street to Calton Hill. There was a serenity to the city in the morning, the air was crisp, and though cold, the skies were mostly clear and sunny.

In about thirty minutes, Ritu and I had reached Calton Hill. We took the long, stair-free way up, enjoying views of the city below as well as the National Monument of Scotland, the nation’s memorial for the soldiers and sailors who died fighting in the Napoleonic Wars.

I appreciated the bird’s eye view of Edinburgh, and the perspective served as a reminder that most things — events, places, people — can become quite small and inconsequential, once you’re far away enough.

Calton Hill was gorgeous and a beautiful start to the morning, but it was cold. And I was frozen right down to the bone. To warm up and do some window shopping, we headed to St. James Quarter, where the Lego store caught our eye. Ritu’s a diehard Lego enthusiast fanatic (I’ve already been advised that her wedding present must be a Lego set), and I figured we might as well have a gander while there. The entire store was packed to the brim by families with their young children. We spent a moment browsing, then made little custom Lego figurines as a souvenir. Ritu also bought a Batman keychain.

Afterward, we popped into the Ryman Design downstairs (I finally bought The Journal That Would Change Everything) before heading to the Caffè Nero at Waverley Station to have a drink and kill some time before we met Juma for lunch. Once lunchtime rolled around, we took the quick walk to Dishoom, where Juma was already waiting for us.

Ritu, Juma, and I had actually met for lunch and a catch-up at Dishoom during the summer of 2024, when I had visited Edinburgh for two brief days (it wasn’t enough, and I was left frothing at the mouth for more). It occurred to me that now that we were on the verge of doing it twice, it had become a ritual, and all subsequent catch-ups could only ever be here. I recalled all the other occasions for which I’d been to Dishoom — lunch with Tanvi during my second year, introducing Melissa to it during my last, my 23rd birthday dinner, Ritu’s graduation lunch. Its walls had seen so many versions of me. I’d eaten off so many of its plates.

I ordered a glass of the bottomless house chai, a bowl of the okra fries to start, and the jackfruit biryani. All delicious (as always), and perfect for how cold it was outside. In no time, I was warmed up. Ritu, Juma, and I spent a good two-plus hours catching up at Dishoom, so much so that a member of staff had to come over toward the end and give us a fifteen-minute warning.

After lunch, warm and content from our feast, the three of us went to the Edinburgh Christmas Market. Not wanting to upchuck all we’d just eaten, we forwent the Starflyer, and settled for a ride on the Ferris wheel instead.

And I really enjoyed it. From high above, we had a fantastic view of the Scott Monument and Edinburgh beyond, as well as the ocean in the distance. At some point, Juma began playing bagpipe music (which she pulled up on her phone dangerously fast), which added a nice Scottish charm to the whole experience. After about three rotations, we were done, and disembarked our gondola.

Fresh off the Ferris wheel and giddy, the three of us spotted a photobooth as we strolled through the market. What better way to memorialize the day? After a short wait, we entered the booth, realized we didn’t fit on the bench quite right, and didn’t notice how quickly the camera began taking photographs upon payment. It took us two tries, and while we might have been £20 down by the end of it, the memory itself was priceless. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Day Thirteen (3 January): The Meadows, My Infamous Scotland Nails, the Royal Mile, Chaophraya

Reader, I don’t like endings. Ask anyone I know, they’ll tell you just as much. Yet my time in Edinburgh was — slowly but excruciatingly — coming to an end. I didn’t want to think about it too much. This last had to be a day just like any other. I figured that if I didn’t acknowledge its finality, it didn’t exist. It was like an elephant in the room, except the room was my mind, and the elephant was a tragedy.

In the morning, I took a relaxed walk through Haymarket and Lothian Road to meet Ritu on The Meadows, where we were going to get drinks from Uplands Roast, a coffee truck near the university library.

I passed by my beloved St. Cuthbert’s Kirkyard while walking on Lothian Road, thinking that there were not many cities in the world where one could make a casual pit stop at a graveyard on the way to see a friend. (Or maybe there are, I don’t know.) I also walked by Usher Hall, a concert hall in the city’s West End. I’d never been inside, but it looked majestic and beautiful in the morning light.

As I made my way onto The Meadows, I passed by New York Nails, a nail salon on Home Street. Eleanor had been the one to recommend it to me back in the day, and I’d become a frequent patron of it while I was still living in Edinburgh. I’d even revisited it in the summer of 2023, where they did such a shoddy job that I vowed never to come back again. That indignation had faded now, and was replaced with sentiment. I looked down at my bare-yet-grown-out nails, and an idea that I’d been sitting on rose to the surface of of my mind.

A few minutes later, I met up with Ritu at The Meadows. We walked to the Uplands Roast truck, where I ordered a Proper Hot Chocolate and Ritu got an iced Vietnamese coffee. We sat at the tables to its side as we drank and caught up. I mentioned that I’d walked by New York Nails and floated the idea of getting our nails done.

Ritu was in; after finishing up our drinks (the Proper Hot Chocolate delicious as always; I’d always get them back when I was an undergrad), we walked the perimeter of The Meadows toward Home Street. I wish I could say we took it slow and frolicked in the memory of our time here, but unfortunately, we didn’t. It was cold and we were rushing to get indoors.

This entire trip, reader, I’d been filled with a deep sense of love and admiration for the great nation that is Scotland. It may not be my country by law or descent, but I feel a deep, generational, spiritual pull toward it regardless. Am I not Scottish as much as I am Bangladeshi, American, and Filipino? In this day and age of “multiculturalism” (a failed social experiment, and I say that as a product of it, but more on that later) and globalism, did I not have the right to fly the Scottish flag high and proud?

Scotland forever! Walking into New York Nails, I knew what I wanted and I couldn’t be talked out of it. There was a bit of a wait, and Ritu went first (she was getting the much more labor- and time-intensive acrylic nails). But when it was finally my turn and the nail technician asked me what I wanted, I said to her, “Gel manicure, with the Scottish flag.” I’d even pulled a reference photo off Google Images of what I was looking for.

She laughed and so did I. She likely thought I was insane, and I likely was. But reader, I had a vision, and when I get a vision, I don’t stop until it becomes a reality. Until I can pull it out of my mind’s eye and manifest it in the flesh.

I got the Scotland nails of my dreams. It was a quick job, and the line work (just as in 2023) was shoddy, but I was a happy woman. As I was showing Ritu my nails outside the storefront, a woman walked by and said she loved them.

And that, reader, is what I do it for.

After the nail appointment, Ritu and I — cold but relatively happy with our respective nail jobs — popped into Pho, a Vietnamese restaurant, for a quick lunch. We acknowledged that the quality of New York Nails’ work had deteriorated in recent years, but that we attached too much sentimental value to the place, and could never, ever go anywhere else.

After lunch, I walked with Ritu in the direction of the Royal Mile, where she was meeting a friend for coffee. We had some time to kill, so I figured I’d accompany her and visit one of the souvenir shops to get something for my friends and father. On the way, we passed by Armchair Books, a family-run bookshop on West Port with a massive selection of rare and secondhand books. I wasn’t going to buy anything, but popped in to have a look.

It was super crowded inside, and I could barely maneuver myself around. After a few quick minutes, we exited the bookshop and continued onto Grassmarket, walking past the (sadly) hibernating Mary’s Milk Bar, as well as Cold Town House, a bar that Ritu, Bryn, Holly and I had visited on a long-ago Edinburgh summer evening in 2022, after dropping Tanvi off at the airport.

Soon enough, we were on the gorgeous (and tourist-heavy) Victoria Street, a sloped, cobbled street with a number of colorful buildings and independent shops and cafes. I read once that it inspired Diagon Alley in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, but can’t be sure.

We continued onwards onto the Royal Mile, where we stopped for a bit outside the gorgeous St. Giles’ Cathedral. It was gothic and glorious, and I was filled with a deep sense of admiration and longing for the architectures of the past, back when buildings were made to look unique and intricate. When they actually had some character to them.

I walked into a Thistle do Nicely (clever play on words, isn’t it?) to do my souvenir shopping, and picked up three pairs of Scotland-themed socks, a deck of Scotland-themed playing cards, and a miniature figurine of Edinburgh Castle, which sits on my bookshelf in Manila right now.

Should I have picked up one of these cheeky coasters too?

Once I was finished shopping, I dropped Ritu off at The Milkman before returning to my hotel for a quick rest.

Later that evening, I reunited with her at Chaophraya, a Thai restaurant on George Street, for our final dinner together. We ordered the Wang tasting menu, which came with their classic starter selection, sweet and sour crispy chicken with dragon fruit, beef Panang curry, salt and pepper king prawns, and chicken fried rice with Thai basil, jasmine rice, and prawn crackers. For dessert, a coconut crème brûlée.

For Thai food in the United Kingdom, it was good. Would an actual Thai person think so? Given Ritu and I had both been to Bangkok and eaten the food there, we thought probably not. It was heavy on the sugar, and missed that authentic Thai kick. But we weren’t Thai — we were just two women at the beginning of a long goodbye.

Reader, I’m a notoriously last-minute packer. Exhausted from the day — and cold — I crawled into bed immediately upon returning to my hotel. I decided all packing had to wait until the next day. I can’t remember how I slept on that final night in Edinburgh. Did I dream? Did I toss and turn? Did I sleep like the dead, the way Ritu and Vaish (I’ve slept next to both of these women, so I can say that) do?

It didn’t matter. Soon enough, it was morning, and time to go.

Day Thirteen and a Half (4 January): Visit to Uncle Bari’s, and Take-Off

I woke early and took a quick shower. I had an errand to run, reader — a last-minute one that formed the real, “official” reason I paid Edinburgh a visit. I had to pick up some important documents from my Uncle Bari (an old friend of my father’s), one of which was my diploma from NYU. He’d been away abroad for the past two weeks while I was in Scotland, so it had to be today, in the eleventh hour. I took an Uber to his around 7:00 in the morning, where I was greeted by his sons — two lovely, energetic twin boys that I’d known ever since they were toddlers in strollers. I love them with my whole heart, and then some. What a privilege it is, to witness a child’s growth over time.

I had porridge, coffee, and fruit as I caught up with Uncle Bari and his boys. I’d known the man since my first year of university (yes, that troubled time), when he’d warmly welcomed me into his life and family, no questions asked. His support and presence formed a crucial, valuable part of my time in the city, and for it I am eternally grateful.

After about an hour and a half, it was time for me to go back to my hotel. Before leaving, his boys presented me with two crocheted frogs, given to them by a lady in Portugal, as parting gifts. I accepted them with gratitude, and they (also) sit on my bookshelf in Manila now.

I was back at my hotel by approximately 9:00 a.m.. Immediately, I got to packing, which wasn’t too bad. Ritu arrived at my hotel about an hour later, ready to see me off, just as she had three years ago, bringing it all full-circle. And a little past 10:30, we were off to the airport. If I was running from the finality before, there was no avoiding it now. I was — as I always am — leaving, no matter how much I wanted to stay. I can’t remember what we spoke about in the cab, but it must have been something, and it must have been meaningful.

Ritu waited in the check-in line with me, which was considerably long, but presented us with enough time to say our goodbyes. It was, by all accounts, a reiteration of our parting in 2022 — just three years, two master’s degrees, and countless complexities later. There may or may not have been tears involved, but (for the sake of the crier’s privacy) I won’t disclose whose. Once I was checked in and rid of my big suitcase, Ritu and I parted by the escalators leading to security.

Her last memory of me (look, I made it special) is me giving her the finger from the top of the escalator. Catch you on the flip side, kiddo.

And reader, having done what I came to do, I was off. The Philippines was calling, and I needed to answer.

I’m back in Manila now, and relatively settled in (the jet lag still gets me sometimes). I’m excited for the year ahead; I know what the work is, how it’s been cut out for me, and just how I’m going to do it. I’m taking a major gamble on myself. If it works, it works. And if it doesn’t, I tried. That’s all you can do in this life, really.

The entire trip, I was listening to Adrianne Lenker on repeat, namely her song Sadness as a Gift. There’s a lyric in the song that really stood out to me:

We could see the sadness as a gift and still
Feel too heavy to hold

Memory is sadness is heavy is painful. It’ll weigh you down in moments that you should be flying high, and act like an anchor when you’re trying your best to stay afloat. I don’t want to come off as tone-deaf; I know that the perils of a global life are, simply put, first-world problems. My sadness is one of immense privilege. But all that movement, all that time I lived in displacement and memory, does eventually take its toll. My entire life, I’ve left parts of myself behind in the cities I’ve inhabited, however briefly. An eye in Dhaka, a leg in New York, a soul in Manila. A nose hair at the Qatar airport. And a heart in Edinburgh. Would I give up the pain of that loss if I could? In pursuit of a still life?

No, reader, I suppose not. As it only serves as a reminder that there was something good here, something beautiful, something whose roots run deep into the earth and time. And that, in my long river running, I’ll always have it to come back to.

Alba gu bràth. Till next time, Edinburgh.