Here are some thoughts (in no particular order) at the end of day one of our much-anticipated, meticulously planned (by Katherine), ridiculously expensive vacation to Scotland:
- We had dinner this evening at the Butterfly and the Pig, on Bath Street. Here is the restaurant's website. What a charming place! Although it was gray, chilly (by Texas standards), and drizzly outside, it was cozy, warm, and inviting inside. The restaurant is below street level and appears to be tucked away in a basement. The reason we ate here is that we wanted fish and chips twice during the vacation, once early and once late, and this restaurant has excellent fish and chips (according to Fodor's Travel Scotland, 2016). The fish was well battered, tender, and hot. We ate it with vinegar only. The "chips" were not the wimpy, soggy French fries you sometimes get in the States, but hearty, hot potato slices. All in all, a superb meal. Katherine and I enjoyed it very much. (We paid with my VISA card and I gave the server her tip in British Pounds.)
- London's Heathrow Airport is borderline absurd, in the Kafkaesque sense. After zipping through DFW (I had feared the worst), we had to take a shuttle bus at Heathrow from one terminal to another, then walk or escalate up and down and all around as though in a maze, then stand in a line that WAS NOT MOVING. Only two people of a potential four were working at the counter. (At one point, only one was working.) We were worried that we would miss our connecting flight to Glasgow. Finally, an airport employee asked in a loud voice who had a flight leaving at noon. Since we did, we were moved to the front of the line. But then we had to fill out a Landing Card that we had been told was unnecessary. Grrrrr! We got through a few minutes later, only to have to pass another security point. This one required taking off our shoes and passing our carry-on items through a scanner. Katherine's bags got through with no trouble, but my backpack was sent on a separate line for further scrutiny. The poor old man in front of me had to open up the baggie containing his drugs and sprays. He fumbled with it for a long time, probably out of nervousness. Meanwhile, Katherine and I were sweating bullets, thinking we were going to miss our flight. Once my backpack was examined and approved, we ran (okay, hustled) to the boarding area. We made it. Don't fly through Heathrow if you can avoid it (or unless you're a fan of Franz Kafka and want to see an illustration of his novels).
- The nine-hour flight from DFW to London was awful. I can't tell you how much I hated being confined to a seat for that amount of time. The only escape was to squeeze up the aisle to use the restroom, and even then you felt rushed because someone else might need to use it. There were movies and television shows on the screen in front of me, but I wasn't interested and kept it off. I didn't even read. I just sat there, unable to sleep and trying to stay warm, for nine hours. As I say, awful. This may be my last international vacation. I'm good for about three hours on an airplane. Any more is torture. I'm already dreading the return trip. (To be fair, the airline meal was good. I had chicken and rice; Katherine had vegan pasta.)
- We spent some time this afternoon walking the streets of Glasgow, both before and after dinner. The City Centre appears to be a mix of very old and very new architecture. One old building is now the home of the Hard Rock Cafe. I took many pictures of beautiful old stone buildings with gargoyles, columns, and statutes. The young people we saw looked rougher (perhaps the word is "tougher") even than those one sees in American cities. Almost all wore denim. Many wore leather jackets and boots. Some of the women had butchy, edgy, or choppy haircuts. These young people could have been the Mod Rockers of the Who's Quadrophenia, or, if that's too early, the punk rockers who gave us the Sex Pistols and the Clash. I'm not judging these young people, mind you, only describing what I saw. Goodness knows my generation cultivated its own image. (I think of mine as country-boy rock and roll, replete with work boots, faded bell-bottom jeans, flannel shirts, and long clean hair on males.)
- The first Scot we met was our taxi driver at the Glasgow Airport, and we couldn't have been luckier. He drove us to our hotel in City Centre. It was difficult to understand what he was saying to us, in part because he spoke rapidly and in part because my hearing isn't what it once was, but we muddled through. He told us about Paisley (which he pronounced "PEAS-ley"), Chivas Regal (a Scottish whiskey), the River Clyde, and other local attractions, and answered a few of our questions, such as whether Scotland uses the metric system. (It doesn't.) When he dropped us off at the hotel, I tried to give him 32 British Pounds for a 23-Pound fare. That's 39%. He said no. He said he would take 30 Pounds (which is 30%), but not 32. I wasn't about to argue with him, so I gave him a 50-Pound note, he gave me a 20-Pound note as change, and we parted. What a great introduction to Scotland and the Scottish people! This man would never see us again, so he could easily have pocketed the extra two pounds (about three American dollars). He wouldn't. I like to think it was a matter of honor to him.
More to come in subsequent days. I hope you enjoy my musings.
