Harry Potter World

“Let us step into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure.”

― Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince 

It has come to my attention that some people, upon seeing my photos, doubt that I am living in a real city, rather suspecting that I have entered some painted park or, like Alice, slipped through a window to a fantastic wonderland.

This post makes no attempt to disabuse them of that notion.

The beautiful city of *Edinburgh is where J.K. Rowling was living, working as a single mother, when she pinned "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" in a cafe called the Elephant House.



...which also makes a delicious marshmallow hot chocolate.

It's easy to identify places where she would have found inspiration. Just across the street from the Elephant House cafe is a cemetery where, rumor has it, names like "Tom Riddle" and "McGonagall" can be found.
 

Edinburgh also has an alleyway, a stone's throw from the School of Divinity at New College, that bears alarming resemblance to Knockturn Alley.

The discerning Potter fan might also experience castles for all occasions...

 
...suits of armor
 
...OWLS
 
broomsticks...
 
...and song.

 

“Ah, music," [Dumbledore] said, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here!” 
Many in Edinburgh make wild claims about how Scotland inspired Madam Rowling's creative wizarding world. Surely this gothic, picturesque place, they say, needs a very few literary embellishments to be transfigured into a full-scale land of enchantment.

And I agree with them.

* One of my Scottish friends bids me inform you that Edinburgh is quite different from the rest of Scotland. I don't know what he means by it. But that's my only disclosure!

Falafel in Edinburgh

Tonight, I felt like a bit of a jerk. 
While buying a falafel sandwich for dinner last week, I overheard someone speaking in Arabic to a hummus-buying student. When my turn came, I brought my best, rusty Arabic to the forefront.
And so tonight, the worker I met last Friday picked me up after class. We drove around the beautiful city of Edinburgh (which was terrifying - imagine sitting in the passenger's seat on the left side of the car moving down the wrong side of a street that looks too narrow to admit cars while the driver shares his views on the Middle East!).

 He also shared his life story.

He is a Syrian refugee from Aleppo, working and studying in the UK while sending money to his family back in Turkey. Most of his friends are dead or missing, and he left his home country for the first time to avoid joining them, as military service is now compulsory for young men like him.
He talks about missing his friends and family, especially his sister and mother, who sacrificed to help him leave the country and start a new life here in Scotland. He told me how his mother stayed up with him through the night while he was studying for his entrance exams to the university. He misses asking her advice about decisions, girls, and life in general.
"Our moms sacrifice so much, and we never even realize it, until we get older," he says.
The process of reaching the UK and obtaining asylum was lengthy and arduous, but he is glad he came to Scotland, which he says is welcoming and kind. Edinburgh, with its castles and narrow streets, reminds him of Aleppo, although he finds the lack of religious observance puzzling and concerning.

He spent his first months working long hours to both situate his new life and send back to his family. He received his driver's license and bought a car, which - notwithstanding my having a minor panic attack every time we turned right on the left side of the road - he drives with deft skill. (I declined his offer to try driving.)
He is now working part-time so he can study. None of his certifications from Syria or Turkey transferred, he says in resigned frustration, but his English is improving steadily. He is going to have a marvelous Scottish accent actually. We practiced saying, "We'll get it sor'ed for ya!"
He laughs easily, tells me jokes in Arabic that I sometimes understand, and asks about my studies and family with interest. But we keep coming back to Syria and the war he views with pained, but not bitter, resignation.
"All we wanted was a little freedom," he says. "We didn't know that other countries would come in and start a war."

We drive up Arthur's seat, and he teaches me the Arabic word for duck. Then he buys me dinner at KFC - which is why I am a jerk.
I try to prevent it, honestly, but as my Arabic professor once told us in a cutting hyperbole, "I can't even imagine a situation in which an Arab would allow you to pay for food. You'd have to kill them first."

And so over French fries (which he reminds me are properly called "crisps" in Britain), he tells me that Syrians would return to the days before the war - that they don't need freedom this much - if only they could.
"America and Russia are fighting a war, did you know that?" he asks, dipping a Kentucky-fried chicken thigh in ketchup. "But they are fighting it in Syria, and there is no doubt which is giving the most support."

Helplessly, I listen as he tells me that Europe and America are marvelous places, where you can make life better if you only organize yourself, plan, and apply yourself. In Syria, he says, both now and before the five-year war that killed 300,000 people and counting and scattered millions like him across the globe, no such opportunities exist.

. 
He asks for help selecting a pair of glasses, then he drops me off at my church for an evening meeting.
For the refugees remaining in Middle East, he says, "All we can do is pray."