# Edinburgh, Tobacco

5/2–Mid-air between London and Singapore.

I had to get from Leeds to Heathrow this morning, for a 11:15 flight, so
I needed to get up at 4:45. Only just got to Heathrow on time, because
the UK rail network is largely ineffectual and there also happened to be
a tube strike going on. (The train I took from Leeds was half an hour
late due to building works at Leeds Station that required the
electricity to be turned off sometime during the night. This explanation
of proximate cause is about as satisfying as saying that planes crash
because they come too close to the ground, but it was merrily provided
at every possible opportunity.)

I went to Leeds to visit my cousin, who is studying there. We ate Indian
food for dinner and something in the brew flicked a switch in my body
that’s made my sinuses explode. I’m suffering, suffering, dying. You
have no idea.

Before Leeds I was in Edinburgh. Edinburgh was very good and very
interesting. I find that I could easily live there, which is all the
more surprising since a) I was, and am, getting rather sick of
travelling; b) for the four days I was there, it rained almost
continuously; c) for about the first time ever, a friend fucked me off
with her raging duplicity, if not historical revisionism. (I do not know
which is worse.)

[I got to Edinburgh in one day from Prague, which required a walk- tram-
subway- bus- plane- subway- train- walk–a personal record for quantity,
I think.]

The only tourist attraction I visited was the castle. (Which is
certainly worthwhile.) In my family, the castle is notorious for
being–according to my mother–the site of the best and cleanest toilets
in the world. (She visited the castle 18 years ago, and whenever
Edinburgh comes up in conversation, the toilets are mentioned.) So
naturally the toilet block was not missed.

From the outside, it does seem unexceptional. But upon stepping inside,
one of the first things you see is a wall of framed awards testifying to
the loo’s greatness. Best Loo of 1997, 1998, 1999. Toilet Attendant of
the Year 1999. And so on. Astonishment. Amazement. Independent
authorities confirm the loo’s greatness. When I get home I shall
apologise–profusely–to my mother.

I did see two movies in Edinburgh–Suzhou River (excellent), and Traffic
(okay), and I also walked around a lot. I found the smoking venue of
choice for cashed-up teens: Costa (like Starbucks) off Prince’s St, on a
first floor. Cute 14 year-old girls bend themselves even cuter in their
attempts to do smoking right.

I am quite fascinated by smoking, or at least its social and political
aspects. I’m interested in the reasons people start, the lies they tell
their parents and (especially) teachers (if in boarding-school), the
point at which they intend to stop. I’m interested in the measures
governments take to try and reduce smoking, from the amusing hectoring
they print on cigarette packets, to the laws they pass that make it
impossible (in some countries) to open a restaurant entirely staffed by,
and entirely frequented by, smokers, even though smoking itself is
perfectly legal.

I do appreciate I’m breaking numerous “Smoke Club” rules by actually
talking about it. But it so thrills me that there _are_ such rules. I
find it intriguing that there are supposedly “good” and “bad” reasons to
take up smoking–are there good and bad reasons to drop babies from tall
buildings? I suppose so, but they sort of pale into insignificance when
compared to the deed itself.

Smokers like to pretend that smoking is like breathing–it’s not
something that you think about, it’s not something that you enjoy, it’s
just something that you _do_. (This is in contrast to cigars. There’s a
magazine called Cigar Aficionado, but there could be no analogous
Cigarette Aficionado.) So, to be perverse, I collect Magical Smoking
Moments, which are as follows:

1.  Paris. Sitting on the steps of La Grande Arche, late at night,
    looking toward the Arc de Triomphe.
2.  Paris. Sitting of the lip of a dry fountain near the Pompidou
    Center, watching skaters go round and round and up and down.
3.  Barcelona. Inside the half-finished Gaudi Cathedral (Sagrada
    Familia), listening to Massive Attack, and watching people go by.
4.  Bilbao. Sitting by the river, looking up at Frank Gehry’s beautiful
    Guggenheim.

Very few people understand my fascination with smoking, both smokers and
non-smokers. Actually, if anything, smokers are more troubled, pained,
and puzzled by it than non-smokers. (Also, the three most passionate and
persuasive anti-smoking lectures I’ve received have come from
(practising) smokers.) It’s true that I myself don’t completely
understand the fascination I have with smoking, but it’s not that hard
to comprehend, is it?

(For the most part, my smoking is not done in the name of sociological
research.)