Travel Pathology

It is Friday night and I am in desperate need of a piano.

I need to clear my head, I need to create a song and flow with a scale. To decompress. To just be.

It seems I have made a slight miscalculation in the music department. I did enough research to know there were music rooms on campus equipped with pianos for students to practice, however, it seems I missed the small detail that only students who possess some kind of a “practice room pass” can utilize them.

I roll my eyes recalling the time I recounted this plan with my family members. They would say Are you going to ship your keyboard? and I hastily replied with Oh no, that would cost way too much! I will simply utilize their music practice rooms on campus. I wish I could tell past Kaylin that this experience isn’t going to be like her humble little college in the western desert of Colorado with a mere ten thousand students. This is a massive University of TENS of THOUSANDS of students in a city of half a million people. There are passes and privileges and systems to ensure street rats such as yourself don’t get away with being simply resourceful.

“Do you have a pass?” The kind lady inquired in a British accent.

“Oh well, no, could I get one now?” I confessed.

“Sorry dear, they are all sold out for the season.” Replied the woman, fairly unsympathetic to my case. She doesn’t know how my hands can literally sense the longing absence of ivory or steel guitar strings. She does not know that it’s more than just a hobby; it’s a coping mechanism, a means of personal expression, and a way for me to externally process my emotions. She doesn’t know that since I arrived on this continent, every element of my life that I once considered a given now carries a price tag.

You want to play tennis? That will be ten pounds an hour. A yoga session? You’ll first have to pay a membership fee of thirty pounds, and then after that, it’s but-a-wee two pounds per class. Oh, you like to dance? That will cost you. You want to workout at our gym? You’ll have to sign up for a membership, please. Volleyball? Participation fee. Football? Twelve pounds to reserve a spot on the team. You want to join the wine club? Thirty pounds…oh wait! We are sold out. Sorry lassie, better luck next time.

I left the music building that Tuesday afternoon dejected and, for the first time since my move, nervous. No piano? For a year?! I have been a nomad for years, picking up my life every three months and starting new elsewhere. New apartments were exciting, new cities were an adventure, new climates were fascinating, new jobs were an opportunity. But I always had my guitar in the backseat. I always had either a piano or a keyboard in my home. This is a part of me, my day to day, that I wasn’t prepared to miss.

All of a sudden, the weight of the entire change began to pile on me. And, to be completely transparent, I started to grow angry about everything being a competition for a spot. All the passes were sold out? Why would they accept me as a student then if there wasn’t enough space for me to play the piano? To join the volleyball team? To attend the wine tasting? Why is the “quiz society” the only d*** club in this entire establishment that doesn’t cost anything more than the tuition we all forked up to be here?!

The surprising cost of everything compelled me to consider a part-time job. There was no way I would be able to enjoy anything without at least working ten hours a week. I didn’t come here just to stay in my dorm room studying and eating porridge. Ya… I could be a barista girl in some little stone cafe! Making coffee in this magical city for kind and cheerful Scottish folk. I was a barista in high school, I remember the ratio for cappuccinos. I would rather be busier than anticipated than be completely bored and impoverished.

Unfortunately, it seems that employment was not a unique idea on my part. It seems all tens of thousands of students here are having the same problem and, once again, there doesn’t seem to be enough jobs for all of us. After writing my eleventh cover letter exploiting my ever-dying love for making hearts in latte foam, it occurred to me that I am not used to being in a job market where I am not in demand. For six years I called the shots. I was a walking essential. And now, here I was, trying to convince a Serbian shop keeper that I was once responsible for the heartbeat of five people and all their needs, all at once, for an entire twelve hours; I could handle making a cup of coffee. Dozens of applications and one week later, no job.

Is there any space for me here? Is there room?

From crowded study halls where there is nowhere to sit, events that are all booked up, and cafes that are fully staffed, there doesn’t seem to be a place for me.

My desperation was at a record high as the clock turned to 8 on this Friday night.

Ok, maybe that front desk lady isn’t there at this time of night. Surely she goes home at a reasonable hour. My student card can get me through the front door and if I play it cool, act like I belong, maybe I can walk confidently by the front desk following the signs to the practice room. I wont get in anyone’s way; it’s a Friday night, surely all the music students are out socializing and I can lock myself into an empty practice room and play through the night.

Worth a try.

I layered on my coat and stepped out onto the beautifully lit cobbled streets. Clusters of students meandering between pubs, boisterously shouting and laughing freely, occasionally checking their phones for directions. Somehow the night air presented warmer compared to the inescapably chilly afternoon. As if the rain smoothed out the cold edges of the air and it was now a softer, gentler atmosphere.

I rehearsed a series of scenarios and my potential responses in my mind. Whether the same lady was loyally guarding her post since Tuesday and recognized me when I entered through the front door, or if there was someone new and I had a fresh opportunity to execute my scam. I arrived and examined the state of the building. There was a light coming from the front window which allowed me to veer into the front office and assess the gate keeper. From my angle on the street (and behind a car), I could only make out the beginning of a balding head peering over a cubicle divider.

Well, it’s not the woman. I assessed my chances. I resolved to badge in and walk nonchalantly past the front desk, but as I scanned my ID I noticed a small laminated sign:

“Mon-Fri 9am-6pm

After Hours use designated pin.”

Shoot. I reached to pull on the door, hopeful. I envisioned the man at the front desk hearing my pitiful sounds coming from the other side as I lost the battle with the locked door.

You outsmarted me yet again, University of Edinburgh. University: 2 Kaylin: 0.

Stepping back down the stone steps of the high-security music building, I sighed as a small idea popped into my mind.

The chaplaincy, they have pianos. The house of God always has a piano, because that’s what heaven is like.

I made my way to the center of the campus, seeing the regal building of McEwan hall, where I attended the Principles Welcome Ceremony more than a week ago, lit up with the street lights.

Keeping my expectations low, I approached the front door of the Chaplain building. In fact, my expectations were so minimal that I had already started heading back home when the door unexpectedly swung open with my gentle tug. Well they must just keep the innermost door locked, I thought as I reached for the second door which also surprised me when it opened.

The security guard at the front desk paid no attention to me and I wasn’t going to spoil this opportunity by appearing out of place. I ran upstairs looking for an abandoned room with a piano. During my search I found almost every room was occupied as I hurriedly passed through the hallway, avoiding eye contact with students eating cake from plastic plates, trying to act as though I had purpose. That I had a place here.

The upstairs had no spaces available. My last hope would be the large common room on the main floor. I slinked past the security guard once more passing by the front lobby, reaching the main common room. Of course, it was locked. I cupped my hand above my eyes as I pressed my face against the window to see the inside of the room. Not that it would make a difference if there was fifty five pianos in the room, I couldn’t get to them. Maybe, if I paid a small fee of seventy pounds per note played…

Standing up straight, I had only one option left. Believing in the goodness of humanity, I approached the security guard.

“Hello.” I presented an innocent and jovial demeanor.

“Hi…” responded the middle-aged security guard. He seemed nervous. I wonder what his past experiences have been with 26-yr old American students.

“How are you doing this evening?” I reinforced that I was no threat.

“Fine.” He gave a somewhat trusting smile.

“I, uh, I play piano here sometimes and I need to practice. The upstair’s rooms seem to be occupied at the moment. I wonder if I perhaps might be able to access the piano in the common room? I need to practice and I…”

“Sure, but you have to be out by nine” the man interjected my haphazard fib.

A whole hour??

I exhaled with relief and gratitude as the man rose to unlock the room. “No need to turn on the lights or anything, I don’t want to give you any more to do, I’ll be fine!” I reassured the only benevolent soul I encountered this evening and darted to the far corner to reach the only piano in all of Edinburgh available to riff-raff such as myself.

I settled onto the bench as he closed the door behind him returning to his duties and I was alone, alone with a piano. In a large dark hall, silent except for the dull base coming from the music outside and upstairs, no one but the security guard knew I was here. I could play. Play whatever my heart wanted. And I played. I played Chopin, Beethoven, and Yiruma. I danced several scales and eventually landed in a chord progression that then became a song. I played every last minute of that blessed hour.

I emerged from the dark meeting hall refreshed. I bid the security guard a very good night and I made my way back to my little dorm with the little ivory plant I love so much.

All I needed was a little space just for me. What a gift that was.