Worldview is a new column featuring articles from students abroad.I stepped off the airport bus into the center of the city, and the first thing I saw (and heard, very loudly) was a bagpipe. Seizing on this stereotypically endearing Scottish tradition, a stout, balding man clad in a kilt and kneesocks in September had decided to wring some coins from tourist passersby by loudly bleating the Scottish national anthem on the deafening instrument in front of a McDonald's.

Welcome to Edinburgh.

As I braced myself for a very long-(and very loud)-sojourn in this quirky little city, little did I know that a sarcastic, self-effacing Jersey girl could feel so at home in a place full of men in skirts. Before arriving in Edinburgh, I'd romanticized my upcoming study abroad experience to the extent that when I thought of it, I was filled with rosy images of magnificent stone buildings, lush greenery and rough-tongued locals (a sort hybrid between Braveheart and Trainspotting).

Instead, I discovered a city whose charm lay not only in its legacy but in its oddities. I live in East Newington Place, a University housing development conveniently located next to a graveyard and a coffin and hearse warehouse, so that we can be constantly reminded of our own mortality. This slightly off-putting backdrop to our humble abode is a strangely fitting symbol of our time at East Newington Place-As opposed to our decaying neighbors, the four of us living in flat 4, building 5, more than at any other time we can remember, feel very much alive.

It all started with one Parisian, one Marseillese, one Milanese and one New Jerseyite. Clemence grew up in a suburb of Paris, and although none of us would admit it, we were all slightly intimidated by her sultry cat eyes and Parisian poise. Then there's Juliette, our charismatic thespian whose dramatic hand gestures and soulful shower serenades were instantly endearing. Giulia is our little Italian charmer. We like to joke that her blood is made of tomato sauce and her veins of spaghetti, but we all know that there is much more to Giulia than that.

And then there is me, the wide-eyed member of Britain's ex-colony, tiptoeing into European territory like an elephant in pointe shoes. I remember my first encounter with the girls, all three of them clad in tailored peacoats and high-heeled boots, each with a cigarette dangling carelessly from between their fingers to dot the "i" of a perfectly constructed image.

I approached them cautiously, an apologetic American eager to break the unflattering stereotype branded upon her-to warm herself in the glow of their European grandeur. At first it seemed as though we were from different planets, let alone different countries. But on closer inspection, we found that we were more similar than we could imagine.

We were all artists, idealists, dreamers, thinkers, gourmets, jokers, fun-lovers, rebels, eccentrics, lovers and life-lovers.

We all were here for similar reasons: curiosity, discontent, introspection, boredom, fantasies, fears, hopes, escape, escape, escape.

We each burst into Edinburgh like conquistadors, eager to chart out a territory of our own, a life truly of our own. Little did we know, Edinburgh had a stronger personality than the four of us combined. The scrappy Southend of Edinburgh, where East Newington Place is located, is the leading lady of my walk to Edinburgh University every morning, demanding constant attention from the greedy eyes of its audience, those of yours truly.

Firstly, you must always say hello to the temperamental neighborhood cat, Haggis, who will be waiting for you on the windshield of a Volkswagen Bug, staring with contempt at funeral-home workers carting a new shipment of coffins into the warehouse opposite. Next comes the bus stop in which a queue is forming of pallid, bleary-eyed commuters and, occasionally, a woman with bright-red hair who is a compulsive whistler.

Up next the stationary shop that has its store window inexplicably filled with porcelain figurines of ferrets in various outfits: ballerina ferret, World War II fighter pilot ferret, two pornographically intertwined amorous ferrets. It is at this point that you may hear the sound of smashing bottles and, without much trouble, will be able to locate the source of the commotion-a wild-eyed, gray-haired man with very few teeth, furious about the local pub not being open yet. It is 10 a.m.

There are a few other stand-out characters in this daily performance: the bearded man clad in a purple velvet suit and Indiana Jones-type hat with peacock feathers poking out; an old woman with green hair, lace-up combat boots and 1990s emo leather, complete with the choke collar and studded belt; and the muscular shirtless man with cornrows that brush the bottom of his back, to name a few.

Did I mention that the Scots love to dress up? And, of course, the streets are peopled with Edinburgh's notorious "little old ladies" who flock to Marks and Spencers on Sundays for tea, as well as the infamous "men in skirts," who flock to the local pub.

All of a sudden, your nose alerts you to the fact that you are getting close to the local fishmongers, and with slight trepidation, you glance into the store window to see its workers with little white hats perched jauntily over their foreheads, carelessly arranging a collection of the most gruesomely ugly fish you have ever seen. Deciding to stop off at the local café, you take a cursory look at the wallpaper of flyers: A women's anarchist knitting group is advertised next to an event called "Psychedelic Ceilidh," a form of square dancing and one of the most fun things to do on a night out in Edinburgh.

To combat the dreariness of the weather, the locals of Edinburgh do their best to be the most vibrant and intriguing of people, as well as the friendliest. Even a misanthropic Brandeisian like myself has been able to meet people, whenever and wherever.

There's Joel, the barrista and resident riddle-master at Black Medicine café, who tosses plates up in the air because it helps him think. Ronny, an avid book collector who owns one of the best used bookshops in Edinburgh, is working on a book about the history of human conception of outer space and has been looking for the first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird for over 2 decades. Rory, an environmental engineer and lover of German 1930s singing groups, works part time in a shop that sells locally produced bath and body products because he likes the smell.

Yet among this cast of characters, places and things that will never cease to amaze, the most important of them are my fellow friends, flatmates, runaways, confessors and partners in crime. Subsisting on cigarettes, crisp packets and bottles of wine, our unlikely foursome has sifted through the grab bag that is Edinburgh and come across a world of unpredictability, fascination, love and immense beauty. In our little Ikea-furnished, plaster-walled apartment next to a cemetery, we have found a new, albeit unlikely, home.

Our brush-ins with Edinburgh have been both thrilling and more than a little surprising: the whisky-fueled nights at the jazz bar; seeing Scottish actors impersonate Russian Jews in Fiddler on the Roof; attempting to share the United Kingdom's passion for tea, as well as Scotland's unpredictable hail storms in March; and the night I got a black eye, Clemence got a stalker, Giulia got bangs and Juliette got a lesbian tango dancer.

Like Edinburgh, we have embraced our various quirks, oddities and idiosyncrasies-our own differences, as well as each other's. Smelly fish, bottles of whiskey (well, any type of alcohol for that matter), men in dreadlocks, tea, anarchists, knitting and black eyes will always transport us to this magical place where we are learning to be ourselves.