Hold Edinburgh by its coastal edge and start rolling. Flatten the pathetic sliver of murky grey they call a beach, and wrestle those chip stealing seagulls into submission. Make sure you get those nice little cafes and bookshops with the experienced bakers, authors and baristas attached, of course. Who else is going to provide me with my daily caffeine, sugar and tell me whether Don Juan, the Birachal Slavic-Chinese, tapas loving, vampire dictator made it in his space adventure to Jupiter? But get rid of the sharp wind, the bad bagpipe players by Dean’s village and the lonely school nights that stalked me throughout half my life. I don’t want that stupid, biscuit red bean smell, either. They make me sick.
Now pay extra attention to what I’m about to say next. When you get to the meadow parts of the city, slow down. That’s right, slow. Make sure to get the cherry blossoms in late April and the purple heather in the Pentland hills early September. Take the moon that hangs like a giant, midnight sun, and roll up the drunk-laughter of my first love, and the friends who flocked about, free as mindless sheep.
Are you taking notes? You did such a terrible job with Valletta last time I’m still recovering from the heat rash. And don’t even get me started on those drunk, half-naked tourists you packed back. At least the gbejniet were tangy and the pastizzi crispy and buttery. The mediterranean waves are the same crystal, glorious blue as I remembered. Those are the only reasons why I haven’t fired you.
But for now, the most important thing is that you wedge as many castles, churches and monuments under the lid compartment, and make sure to save space for a couple of the lochs. Shake them upside down first. I don’t want any mythical creatures to stalk my mind. Oh, and do bribe the airport security. They can be quite rectal about liquid limit.
Once you’re done with that, pack up Harbin next. Pack the freezing cold, the northeast dialect, the piping hot baozi I ate, and the child I was fifty years ago. Because somewhere around there, in one of the cities, on one the streets, there’s a building made of brick or lime rock or sandstone that I once imagined home.
Annie ZH Sun is a Chinese Writer who grew up in Malta. She graduated with a Master's in Creative Writing with distinction from the University of Edinburgh. Her work has appeared and forthcoming in Pseudopod, Flash Fiction Online, Hex, Bull, IHRAM Press and others. She is the winner of the Horror Competition in Edinburgh Writer's Club.