Monday, July 01, 2013
Whisky Business
Last October, I traveled to Edinburgh for a conference. It was the second of two such events I attended during the course of a nine day expedition farther north than I had ever been. Unlike the first meeting in Copenhagen, where there was relatively little time for sightseeing, I made arrangements to stay in Scotland an extra day or two to explore the Athens of the North. After all, it was unlikely I would have a chance to make another British expedition anytime soon. Why not take advantage of the chance to wander the same streets as Robert Burns, Charles Darwin, and Adam Smith, so many years before?
From one end of the Royal Mile to the other, from the craggy castle gates to the summit of Arthur's Seat, I meandered on the first day of my expedition. I climbed Calton Hill and paid my respects to Greyfriars Bobby. I spat on the Heart of Midlothian, feasted on haggis and neeps and tatties, and pored over the open volumes in a museum dedicated to the city's great writers. All of this I did in a single, exhaustingly beautiful day.
When I awoke the next morning, however, clouds had settled in over the city. This rapid meteorologic transformation, which I've since been told is actually not unusual in that part of the world, prompted a similar shift in my itinerary. The majority of the day I spent in museums. That evening, following the strategic purchase of a now long-broken umbrella, I signed up for a literary pub crawl. There would still be wandering, but now with more of a direction to it.
And a similar sense of purpose motivated me to set aside time for one other thing, between those two rainy-day activities: I shopped for souvenirs. With my European adventure drawing to a close, it seemed only fitting to find something to bring home, some relics of my time in Caledonia. But what to purchase?
After much consideration, I ultimately ventured into a self-proclaimed "liquid deli" that specialized in the manufacture of fine oils, vinegars, and fine spirits. Since I did not intend to check my one piece of luggage on the flight home, I could not purchase large quantities of these items. In the end, I purchased two 100 mL glass containers, which I carefully wrapped and packed for the long trip across the Atlantic. The first contained a strawberry vinegar, perfect for summer salads, or at least making salads taste like summer even in the deep of winter.
The second was arguably even more special. It was a house blend of Scotland's national drink, the finest distillation of the city one could hope to find, in every sense of the word. This whisky was special, liquid gold in a flask, and I vowed that I would only drink it on a special occasion even if at the time I had no idea what would merit opening the bottle. Only after returning home did I make that decision.
The whisky would remain untouched until the conclusion of my job search for the academic year. If it turned out well, it would serve to toast my success. If it turned out poorly, it might help me wash away my frustration, at least for a little while.
All through the year this bottle of whisky sat, untouched on the top shelf of my spice cabinet. How many times did it see me open the door to reach for my black pepper or garlic powder? How many times did I nudge it aside to reach for the nearby bag of popcorn kernels? Did it overhear my phone calls home, as I told my parents about my the some exciting new employment prospect or hear me curse as I struggled to juggle my undergraduate teaching load with unexpected invitations to deliver job talks? Did my laughter bounce off of that bottle when for a moment or two it seemed like everything was going my way and my work had meaning? And did it wobble, just a little, when I slammed my door upon returning home one May afternoon, shortly before writing my most recent blog entry, despondent that all of my plans had gone awry and convinced that my very best would never be good enough, at least not in this lifetime?
I can not say.
Yet there it sat. 100 mL of alcoholic nectar, waiting patiently for the day to arrive when both it and I would be drunk. Of course, what I soon realized was that the official end of the academic job hunting season was somewhat nebulous. After all, there were always temporary positions waiting to be filled and a few curatorial positions whose searches were still ongoing. When would the end arrive? Would the bottle ever be opened or was this the alcoholic equivalent of Zeno's Paradox? I will drink this fine beverage when I reach the wall, but what if I'm always halfway there?
From the bottle's perspective, I suppose it did not really matter. Since settling into its comfortable position on my shelf, its situation had remained unchanged. The days passed and its cork seal remained tightly in place, affixed with a special adhesive tape that had kept its contents secure for the better part of eight months. It could probably have stayed there, secure in the knowledge that unlike its sibling vinegar its treasures would remain intact until the end of time. Whisky grows better with age, one can imagine it thinking. All it would need to do was wait and it would achieve perfection.
Today, however, things changed.
After months of uncertainty, a few days ago I received an invitation to stay on at my current place of employment. Through the good graces of several colleagues, sufficient funding had been discovered to hire me as a full-time research fellow. I would have the opportunity to work on my book, collaborate on new projects related to the history of innovation, and perhaps even teach again next spring. The only major downside was that the position would only last three years. Still, in the world of academic fellowships, three years is a lifetime, particularly if one is given near complete freedom to design a research agenda.
When I first heard the offer, I was stunned. Here was a turn of events better suited to a Dickens novel than the Helleresque escapades that previously characterized my job search. Months of hope being alternately dangled in front my face only to be yanked away, that was the norm. Now out of nowhere came a benefactor. Someone had not only witnessed my work, but recognized that it possessed potential and was willing to commit substantial resources to furthering its success.
Initially, I deferred. The old saying about things that are too good to be true ran through my head again and again. I kept formulating scenarios, trying to figure out downsides, weaknesses, flies in the ointment, flaws in the plan, but to no avail. The whisky bottle in my cupboard must have wobbled something fierce as it heard me pacing around my apartment, talking on the phone with my father, trying to figure out the best course of action.
But it did not tip, and it did not break. The bottle remained sealed.
Until today. Because in the end, the answer was obvious. Even if this deal seemed to good to be true, even if there were some unforeseen problem, it was still a far better situation than anything else I had lined up. And although it might well be only a temporary position, at least for three years I would be working on projects I enjoyed with people I liked on a personal level and respected on a professional one.
So I took the job. Today was my first official day. An e-mail circulated around the office "welcoming" me back even though I had never been gone. I received a flurry of e-mails and visits from fellow staff members, wishing me well and suggesting possibilities for future projects. The possibilities were all a little overwhelming, but one thing was clear. That evening--this evening--at long last, I would at long last pour out a few fingers of Edinburgh's finest and toast the end of a long and stressful search for an institutional home, one that I finally found right where I already was. I will drink to the family and friends who supported me throughout this quest. I will drink to the colleagues who finally helped bring it to a close. And I will drink to you, gentle readers, for reading my stories and giving me a place to reflect on the strangeness of life over a tumbler of whisky.
Cheers!
From one end of the Royal Mile to the other, from the craggy castle gates to the summit of Arthur's Seat, I meandered on the first day of my expedition. I climbed Calton Hill and paid my respects to Greyfriars Bobby. I spat on the Heart of Midlothian, feasted on haggis and neeps and tatties, and pored over the open volumes in a museum dedicated to the city's great writers. All of this I did in a single, exhaustingly beautiful day.
When I awoke the next morning, however, clouds had settled in over the city. This rapid meteorologic transformation, which I've since been told is actually not unusual in that part of the world, prompted a similar shift in my itinerary. The majority of the day I spent in museums. That evening, following the strategic purchase of a now long-broken umbrella, I signed up for a literary pub crawl. There would still be wandering, but now with more of a direction to it.
And a similar sense of purpose motivated me to set aside time for one other thing, between those two rainy-day activities: I shopped for souvenirs. With my European adventure drawing to a close, it seemed only fitting to find something to bring home, some relics of my time in Caledonia. But what to purchase?
After much consideration, I ultimately ventured into a self-proclaimed "liquid deli" that specialized in the manufacture of fine oils, vinegars, and fine spirits. Since I did not intend to check my one piece of luggage on the flight home, I could not purchase large quantities of these items. In the end, I purchased two 100 mL glass containers, which I carefully wrapped and packed for the long trip across the Atlantic. The first contained a strawberry vinegar, perfect for summer salads, or at least making salads taste like summer even in the deep of winter.
The second was arguably even more special. It was a house blend of Scotland's national drink, the finest distillation of the city one could hope to find, in every sense of the word. This whisky was special, liquid gold in a flask, and I vowed that I would only drink it on a special occasion even if at the time I had no idea what would merit opening the bottle. Only after returning home did I make that decision.
The whisky would remain untouched until the conclusion of my job search for the academic year. If it turned out well, it would serve to toast my success. If it turned out poorly, it might help me wash away my frustration, at least for a little while.
All through the year this bottle of whisky sat, untouched on the top shelf of my spice cabinet. How many times did it see me open the door to reach for my black pepper or garlic powder? How many times did I nudge it aside to reach for the nearby bag of popcorn kernels? Did it overhear my phone calls home, as I told my parents about my the some exciting new employment prospect or hear me curse as I struggled to juggle my undergraduate teaching load with unexpected invitations to deliver job talks? Did my laughter bounce off of that bottle when for a moment or two it seemed like everything was going my way and my work had meaning? And did it wobble, just a little, when I slammed my door upon returning home one May afternoon, shortly before writing my most recent blog entry, despondent that all of my plans had gone awry and convinced that my very best would never be good enough, at least not in this lifetime?
I can not say.
Yet there it sat. 100 mL of alcoholic nectar, waiting patiently for the day to arrive when both it and I would be drunk. Of course, what I soon realized was that the official end of the academic job hunting season was somewhat nebulous. After all, there were always temporary positions waiting to be filled and a few curatorial positions whose searches were still ongoing. When would the end arrive? Would the bottle ever be opened or was this the alcoholic equivalent of Zeno's Paradox? I will drink this fine beverage when I reach the wall, but what if I'm always halfway there?
From the bottle's perspective, I suppose it did not really matter. Since settling into its comfortable position on my shelf, its situation had remained unchanged. The days passed and its cork seal remained tightly in place, affixed with a special adhesive tape that had kept its contents secure for the better part of eight months. It could probably have stayed there, secure in the knowledge that unlike its sibling vinegar its treasures would remain intact until the end of time. Whisky grows better with age, one can imagine it thinking. All it would need to do was wait and it would achieve perfection.
Today, however, things changed.
After months of uncertainty, a few days ago I received an invitation to stay on at my current place of employment. Through the good graces of several colleagues, sufficient funding had been discovered to hire me as a full-time research fellow. I would have the opportunity to work on my book, collaborate on new projects related to the history of innovation, and perhaps even teach again next spring. The only major downside was that the position would only last three years. Still, in the world of academic fellowships, three years is a lifetime, particularly if one is given near complete freedom to design a research agenda.
When I first heard the offer, I was stunned. Here was a turn of events better suited to a Dickens novel than the Helleresque escapades that previously characterized my job search. Months of hope being alternately dangled in front my face only to be yanked away, that was the norm. Now out of nowhere came a benefactor. Someone had not only witnessed my work, but recognized that it possessed potential and was willing to commit substantial resources to furthering its success.
Initially, I deferred. The old saying about things that are too good to be true ran through my head again and again. I kept formulating scenarios, trying to figure out downsides, weaknesses, flies in the ointment, flaws in the plan, but to no avail. The whisky bottle in my cupboard must have wobbled something fierce as it heard me pacing around my apartment, talking on the phone with my father, trying to figure out the best course of action.
But it did not tip, and it did not break. The bottle remained sealed.
Until today. Because in the end, the answer was obvious. Even if this deal seemed to good to be true, even if there were some unforeseen problem, it was still a far better situation than anything else I had lined up. And although it might well be only a temporary position, at least for three years I would be working on projects I enjoyed with people I liked on a personal level and respected on a professional one.
So I took the job. Today was my first official day. An e-mail circulated around the office "welcoming" me back even though I had never been gone. I received a flurry of e-mails and visits from fellow staff members, wishing me well and suggesting possibilities for future projects. The possibilities were all a little overwhelming, but one thing was clear. That evening--this evening--at long last, I would at long last pour out a few fingers of Edinburgh's finest and toast the end of a long and stressful search for an institutional home, one that I finally found right where I already was. I will drink to the family and friends who supported me throughout this quest. I will drink to the colleagues who finally helped bring it to a close. And I will drink to you, gentle readers, for reading my stories and giving me a place to reflect on the strangeness of life over a tumbler of whisky.
Cheers!
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