Scotland, Pt. 1

With a gap month before starting grad school, and one of my closest friends living and working in Europe, I realized I had a golden opportunity to travel to Scotland – a place I was naturally interested in due to my surname, and, more recently, family tree research. My friend, Jason, was totally game to meet up in the capital city of Edinburgh, and I was totally relieved to have a worldly travel partner (more worldly than I, anyway). I planned our itinerary with excitement, poring over travel guides and websites all the way up until it was time to go.

On the drive to the airport, I confessed to feeling nervous because it was my first time traveling overseas (though I’m sure the way I was bouncing my knee gave me away). “Don’t worry about it,” my dad said. “You guys are gonna have a lot of fun. Enjoy it!” I wound up with plenty of time to calm down. After the whirlwind of getting from Detroit to New York, I found myself grounded on the plane meant to take me to Scotland, owing to a computer error. Hurry up and wait…

The closest I can get to sleeping on a plane is closing my eyes and trying to make it happen by sheer will. It never works. Not even chatting with my seat neighbors bored me sufficiently enough to sleep. To my great relief, the plane finally took off; and, content with being underway, I started reading. An in-flight movie also helped pass the time. When the ocean gave way to a rolling green landscape, I felt a second wind coming on, and on landing, I smiled broadly at my seatmate and said, “We made it!”

Once deplaned, through customs, and in possession of my… possessions, my first challenge presented itself: how to get into town? I wandered around a bit, looking for signs, and reflecting that I’d never actually hailed a cab before. I chose to follow the time-honored protocol of the socially awkward: observe others and do as they do. This lead me to the bus area and cab stand.

I considered the buses, trying to determine their destinations, when a voice shouted, “Going to Edinburgh?” Yes, yes I was. I climbed into a little, beetle-like black car. The driver was talkative and I did my best to follow his brogue. He pointed out some sights as we chatted, and he brightened even more when I mentioned my last name. I told him I wasn’t visiting family as such, but hoped to visit the clan grounds on the Isle of Mull.

The buildings grew older and more gothic in appearance as the taxi bumped and rattled up winding cobblestone streets and came to a stop outside the hostel. Edinburgh Castle loomed just across the way. The next challenge? Paying for things while jet lagged. I fumbled with bills and coins to give the driver, trying to make sure I tipped well while simultaneously wondering if it was appropriate to tip at all. I did better inside, paying for my stay and storing my stuff with the help of a very hip Canadian (is that an oxymoron? just kidding) working the desk. Jason wouldn’t arrive until much later, and even if I thought I could nap, the room wasn’t open yet. So I dropped off my stuff, washed the travel off my face, and hit the streets.

Already I felt far from home, yet as I began to walk, I heard a very familiar sound: jazz music! I was surprised and delighted to find some kind of jazz festival going at full tilt in the Grassmarket area behind the hostel. I stuck around long enough to hear Jim Petrie’s Diplomats of Jazz play selections from some of my favorite artists – Tiny Parham, McKinney’s Cotton Pickers. They were pretty smokin’, and full of character. The banjo player would stick his tongue in one cheek while playing, then switch to the other cheek the moment he switched chords. The sousaphone filled out the bottom end with playful embellishments. It wouldn’t have been unprecedented for me to break into some Charleston right then and there, but I felt just a little too self-conscious.

And, frankly, though charmed by my surroundings, I also felt a little wistful. Jazz dancing had become an important part of my life and identity over the last four years. I was thinking of how all the friends I’d made – as well as my enthusiasm for jazz dancing – would likely fade when I went off to grad school in a new city, surrounded by new people. Yet, it seemed fitting for hot jazz to kick off my adventure in Scotland – only the first, actually, of many big life events to come.

It wasn’t until many years later that I realized what a treat it was to see Jim Petrie play with his band. By the time I happened across them, they’d been playing together for 25 years already, and Jim Petrie had more than 50 years under his belt as a career musician.

Eventually, I wandered from Grassmarket up the West Bow, one of the city’s most storied and picturesque streets. A staircase – built in the 19th century and marking the original route of the street – led me to the Upper Bow. Here I paused to stand at the railings and take in the hustle and bustle of the street below. From there I reached a visitor’s center housed in a restored church building called The Hub. I ate lunch at the cafe inside, immediately making an ignorant American out of myself by asking the waitress how much half a liter of beer was. I mean, I kind of knew how much half a liter should’ve been, but being in an unfamiliar place can make you second guess a surprising amount of simple things. Frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t ask her what “beer” was.

The next most important tier in my hierarchy of needs was an internet connection. Luckily, I’d noticed a hole-in-the-wall internet café on my way through the West Bow. As I entered, the owner argued with some French tourists about how much they owed – a bad sign? I kept it simple and had better luck – half an hour of time for one pound. The connection was remarkably slow, to the point where I thought I might’ve paid for nothing, but with patience I managed to get a few messages out, letting friends and family know I’d arrived in one piece.

This time, I walked east on Candlemaker Row from Grassmarket, which brought me past Greyfriar’s Kirk and the National Museum of Scotland. The thought of spending time in a quiet museum was tempting, but fatigue drove me back to the hostel, where I was relieved to find the room was open. I claimed a bed and locker, arranged my belongings, and lay down to nap fitfully as new arrivals came and went.

An Australian visitor was settling in to the room around the time I decided to get up. He introduced himself as Bret. He said he’d been traveling alone for five and a half months. I could barely process that – my 8-day itinerary seemed plenty long to me! He’d been across Asia and Europe, visiting friends when possible, and now in Scotland his adventures were reaching an end. “I miss my family. And my dog,” he told me.

We embarked on a search for dinner. The Royal Mile featured many pubs, yet none that were still serving food. We turned back toward Grassmarket and ended up at Biddy Mulligan’s. After a hearty chicken and leek pie and a couple of smooth Belhaven beers, I was ready for another nap, despite the boisterous efforts of pub-goers to get everyone joining in on pop song singalongs.

Jason arrived about 11:30pm. I was really glad to see him. He’d been working in Stuttgart for some time now. I couldn’t have been happier to have a close friend with me.

We joined in conversation with the other hostelers, discussing politics, economics, and sports. I hadn’t realized that hockey is huge in Scotland. Kevin, of Dundee, made a point of it to play every day. Not being a sports fan, the only thing I could offer as a Michigander was to hassle him for preferring the Maple Leafs over the Red Wings. Abhay – from India but living in London – mentioned that he’d studied in the United States. When I spoke of my plans to attend Carnegie Mellon in just a few weeks, he recognized the school and congratulated me on my acceptance.

And with that, as the room wound down, I did my best to actually sleep.