Scotland Stories, Part I
April 13, 2009
So I had a cold--in every stage of its glorious, week-long manifestations--for pretty much the entire time we were in Scotland. Not a bad cold, I wasn't confined to my bed or delirious with fever, but enough of an illness to take the edge off of my enjoyment of pretty much everything. It was maddening to be aware of my lack of enthusiasm, because grad school or no grad school, this was the first vacation I'd had in a long time, and I wanted to savor it. I felt terribly sorry for Paul, too; what a joy to travel with someone who has to blow her nose every ten minutes.
But the first day, at least, I determinedly denied what I referred to as my "symptoms," and right after we'd checked into the über-hip Budget Backpacker's Hostel (painted in such loud pairings of complementary colors that I can only assume it was intentional), I decreed that we would head up the Royal Mile to see Edinburgh Castle.
The castle is everything a castle ought to be--which is to say, one can easily imagine that it was a perfectly miserable place to live during the middle ages--except that it is very clean, the armory has been replaced with a gift shop and café, and the original inhabitants have been replaced with scores of shrieking or snogging students. The city was much colder than I'd anticipated, mostly due to the merciless wind blustering in off the sea, and I reflected that I should have brought my wool peacoat instead of a sweater and a rain jacket. But the views of the city are impressive despite the snarly weather, the wax figures illustrating the story of the crown jewels are hilarious, and my exchange with the elderly ticket agent at the entrance is forever engraved in my memory.
"One adult for the castle, please?"
"Aright, that'll be ten pound seventy." I fumble through my wallet in the first of many attempts to figure out the system of British coins. "I like yer red hair."
"Thank you!"
"Ye know Mary Queen of Scots had red hair."
Yes I know this. "Did she?"
"Aye, and they cut off her head."
Quite a ringing character endorsement. "What are you suggesting?"
"Mebbe ye should keep yer hat on."
What dry humor these Scots have. "Duly noted."
"My daughter had red hair like that."
Expecting that this was another of those stories wherein I am regaled with the fading of one's brilliance into auburn or brown (or grey)--I get a lot of that when I work at the chocolate counter--I jokingly ask, "And does she still have her head?"
"Actually she died a few months ago."
".......I'm sorry!"
"Aye she 'ad a stroke..." He continues to add medical details, but I am deaf to everything but the sound of my own flaming embarrassment. I bid him a cheerful thank you and farewell, then scuttle over to where Paul has been waiting throughout this dialogue.
"Oh my god," I mutter. "If I open my mouth will you help me shove my foot down my throat?"
But the first day, at least, I determinedly denied what I referred to as my "symptoms," and right after we'd checked into the über-hip Budget Backpacker's Hostel (painted in such loud pairings of complementary colors that I can only assume it was intentional), I decreed that we would head up the Royal Mile to see Edinburgh Castle.
The castle is everything a castle ought to be--which is to say, one can easily imagine that it was a perfectly miserable place to live during the middle ages--except that it is very clean, the armory has been replaced with a gift shop and café, and the original inhabitants have been replaced with scores of shrieking or snogging students. The city was much colder than I'd anticipated, mostly due to the merciless wind blustering in off the sea, and I reflected that I should have brought my wool peacoat instead of a sweater and a rain jacket. But the views of the city are impressive despite the snarly weather, the wax figures illustrating the story of the crown jewels are hilarious, and my exchange with the elderly ticket agent at the entrance is forever engraved in my memory.
"One adult for the castle, please?"
"Aright, that'll be ten pound seventy." I fumble through my wallet in the first of many attempts to figure out the system of British coins. "I like yer red hair."
"Thank you!"
"Ye know Mary Queen of Scots had red hair."
Yes I know this. "Did she?"
"Aye, and they cut off her head."
Quite a ringing character endorsement. "What are you suggesting?"
"Mebbe ye should keep yer hat on."
What dry humor these Scots have. "Duly noted."
"My daughter had red hair like that."
Expecting that this was another of those stories wherein I am regaled with the fading of one's brilliance into auburn or brown (or grey)--I get a lot of that when I work at the chocolate counter--I jokingly ask, "And does she still have her head?"
"Actually she died a few months ago."
".......I'm sorry!"
"Aye she 'ad a stroke..." He continues to add medical details, but I am deaf to everything but the sound of my own flaming embarrassment. I bid him a cheerful thank you and farewell, then scuttle over to where Paul has been waiting throughout this dialogue.
"Oh my god," I mutter. "If I open my mouth will you help me shove my foot down my throat?"
Your cold allowed my jet lag to seem a bit less troublesome, so I had no problems with it. That merciless wind though, egads!