Edinburgh is a LONG way from Dunoon (where we are currently staying). Or, rather, it is when my father does not go the speed limit (70 MPH) because every else drives maniacally. We woke up at 6 AM because Dad wanted to avoid the crazy traffic that comes with big cities. We went on Sunday to also avoid this trend.
I don't remember most of the trip because I was asleep in the car. I do remember seeing, through the car window, a graveyard that must have had as many tombstones as my home town has live people (50,000).
It was amazing.
The day looked up from then on. Literally. The entire trip was a bit of an uphill battle as we parked...somewhere (it was probably illegal, but we weren't caught) and walked 1.5 miles to Edinburgh Castle.
The capitol of Scotland is beautiful, full of fantasticly old buildings and churches that are older than the USA. Unfortunately, most of these churches have been converted into shops, cell phone cites, witches covens (yeah, seriously) because the churches are no longer populated in Scotland. Rumor has it that this is the same w/ all of Europe. Sad.
Anyway, we went up to the castle, which puts to shame every other castle I have seen thus far. It's...huge. An entire city (small, granted) lies within the castle walls. Several memorials, museums and exhibits are here as well.
We were walked around by a guide who had a great accent, so, on the sly, I recorded his entire presentation. I have no idea if I was allowed to...
Apparently, Edinburgh Castle rocks and the current line of English monarchs exist thanks to...a Scot taking the throne (James the 1st of England, and the 6th of Scotland). We saw the Scottish crown jewels (the steel for the sword is like 400 years old!) and the "stone of destiny," which is this ancient throne that Scots used to sit on to be crowned king...until the bloody English invaded Scotland, took the stone, and then put it under THEIR monarch's chairs. Well, the Scots got it back in 199(something) and will loan it to the English when the next king is crowned.
It was great. I saw a great war memorial and museum, saw dozens of awesome swords, decided the sword I want for a character in a movie that I and Kyle Cowgill are writing (you know the one Kyle. By the way, no one up here has heard of "him." Go figure).
We spent 2 hours in the castle, left the city...while I was navigating. Several times, i almost got us lost because, well, I'm not used to Scotland yet. but we got to the right place...finally.
And what was the right place? My ancestors' castle, Carrick Castle. Now, when I saw "castle," I mean "tower," and by "tower," I mean "ruin." It was...disappointing. Oh well. It made for some nice pictures and bragging rights (how many of YOU guys' families own a castle?).
Dad and I ended the day by walking around Dunoon and then finally watching Pan's Labyrinth on the tele. Surprisingly, both parents liked it. I think it helped that I warned them that it was rough...I went to bed after reading 30 pages of "Starship Troopers." You guys have to read it. It puts the movie to shame.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Scotland, Day 10
A much better day than yesterday. We left the Coach House, the apartment that we had been staying in. Our hostess, Mrs. MacDougall had been the “perfect” hostess and we’ll miss her. Right before we left, she brought out her husband’s kilt and other paraphernalia and insisted I try it on for a picture.
It was awesome. The man was about a 30” waist, whereas I am a 34” waist, so…it was a bit snug, but I figured out how to “kilt myself” without any help. The picture looks cool. She declared it “lordly” and said, as she had the entire trip, that I looked so Scottish. This is an ironic phrase, since I haven’t seen a single Scot that looks anything like me. In the places we had been thus far, I can count on two hands the number of red heads I’ve seen. I suppose they all left for America.
We left the house and travelled south-west to a place called Oban. We had heard that there was some sort of faux-Coliseum, called “McCaig’s Folly.” The folly laid in trying to go to see it. The streets of Oban are more confusing than the streets of New Orleans (pre or post-Katrina. Take your pick). We finally found a parking place, got out, and were immediately drenched by a pervading mist that passed for “rain.”
We put on our slickers, but the damage was done. We were waterlogged the entire two-mile hike to the tourist center to get directions and then up to the tower, which was ironically on the top of this ginormous hill. Of course, we had to climb up the @&$! thing, all 200 steps of it. We all hated life by the time we got to the top. Mom’s back, Dad’s knee, my flat feet. All were aching.
The coliseum thingy looked cool. It was built of sandstone (I figure) but had been leaking some sort of rock-juice (yeah…don’t ask) so that all of the walls were covered in this sickly white…ooze. I call it “coliseum thingy” because it was only sort of like the coliseum. There were no places to sit and barely anything to see. Waste.
We then traveled another 50 miles (I fell asleep) to the place that Dad was stationed 30 years ago, when he was with the Navy. The town – called Dunoon – is a lovely little bay-side city with buildings that have not changed since they were built in the turn of the century (the 20th, not the 21st).
Our new apartment is gigantic as it was made to accommodate 10 different people, but it was all that was available. It’s nice to have some leg room, but it is weird to have a miniature bathroom in my bedroom.
We walked all up and down Dunoon (by this point in the trip, my calf muscles are larger than my thighs were at the beginning of the trip and my thighs are as big as my waist, which has shrunk a bit), seeing the various sites that Dad remembered, seeing the places he lived, but we couldn’t see where he had worked because the Navy had left the area and taken their toys (buildings) with them.
On the way back, we stopped at a fish & chips shop for dinner (none of us wanted to cook). It turns out that this was the same shop that Dad had often visited when he was stationed here. The food wasn’t bad. Mom and I got chicken & chips because, well, I’m “allergic” to fish and Mom just doesn’t like it. Dad, however, went the fully traditional route and ordered fish & chips. I suppose I should explain to the more ignorant of my readers that “chips” is British slang for “fries.” They are like miniature steak fries. It’s like they heard of “French fries,” scoffed at the idea, and made something better.
We took the food back to our apartment and watched the last Lord of the Rings movie. Well, part of it. We got tired and went to bed right after the first big battle.
We had to get to bed early because tomorrow we are going to Edinburgh. I’m so excited!!!
It was awesome. The man was about a 30” waist, whereas I am a 34” waist, so…it was a bit snug, but I figured out how to “kilt myself” without any help. The picture looks cool. She declared it “lordly” and said, as she had the entire trip, that I looked so Scottish. This is an ironic phrase, since I haven’t seen a single Scot that looks anything like me. In the places we had been thus far, I can count on two hands the number of red heads I’ve seen. I suppose they all left for America.
We left the house and travelled south-west to a place called Oban. We had heard that there was some sort of faux-Coliseum, called “McCaig’s Folly.” The folly laid in trying to go to see it. The streets of Oban are more confusing than the streets of New Orleans (pre or post-Katrina. Take your pick). We finally found a parking place, got out, and were immediately drenched by a pervading mist that passed for “rain.”
We put on our slickers, but the damage was done. We were waterlogged the entire two-mile hike to the tourist center to get directions and then up to the tower, which was ironically on the top of this ginormous hill. Of course, we had to climb up the @&$! thing, all 200 steps of it. We all hated life by the time we got to the top. Mom’s back, Dad’s knee, my flat feet. All were aching.
The coliseum thingy looked cool. It was built of sandstone (I figure) but had been leaking some sort of rock-juice (yeah…don’t ask) so that all of the walls were covered in this sickly white…ooze. I call it “coliseum thingy” because it was only sort of like the coliseum. There were no places to sit and barely anything to see. Waste.
We then traveled another 50 miles (I fell asleep) to the place that Dad was stationed 30 years ago, when he was with the Navy. The town – called Dunoon – is a lovely little bay-side city with buildings that have not changed since they were built in the turn of the century (the 20th, not the 21st).
Our new apartment is gigantic as it was made to accommodate 10 different people, but it was all that was available. It’s nice to have some leg room, but it is weird to have a miniature bathroom in my bedroom.
We walked all up and down Dunoon (by this point in the trip, my calf muscles are larger than my thighs were at the beginning of the trip and my thighs are as big as my waist, which has shrunk a bit), seeing the various sites that Dad remembered, seeing the places he lived, but we couldn’t see where he had worked because the Navy had left the area and taken their toys (buildings) with them.
On the way back, we stopped at a fish & chips shop for dinner (none of us wanted to cook). It turns out that this was the same shop that Dad had often visited when he was stationed here. The food wasn’t bad. Mom and I got chicken & chips because, well, I’m “allergic” to fish and Mom just doesn’t like it. Dad, however, went the fully traditional route and ordered fish & chips. I suppose I should explain to the more ignorant of my readers that “chips” is British slang for “fries.” They are like miniature steak fries. It’s like they heard of “French fries,” scoffed at the idea, and made something better.
We took the food back to our apartment and watched the last Lord of the Rings movie. Well, part of it. We got tired and went to bed right after the first big battle.
We had to get to bed early because tomorrow we are going to Edinburgh. I’m so excited!!!
Scotland, Day 9
Today was pretty boring, so I won’t write much about it. We went to Inverness, a city about the size of Corvallis, but with much more history and cooler architecture. Unfortunately, rather than wander around, we spent the time letting Mom shop. Dad and I were bored out of our skulls, but we had spent most of the trip doing what we had wanted to do and had dragged Mom along. It seemed only fair that she get her turn.
Mom tried to get me to go into a store and try on a kilt. Fortunately for the rest of you, it didn’t work.
Later that evening, Dad and I hiked up a trail in the hopes of seeing a 2500 year old fortress. Couldn’t find it, but had an awesome experience of hiking w/o Mom. We ran up the first hill and immediately regretted our decision. Huffing and puffing our way up for the next 10 minutes, we barely even noticed the scenery until we hit a viewing point at the top of the mountain. From their we could see the entire Loch. It was one of the best times in the trip for me.
Mom tried to get me to go into a store and try on a kilt. Fortunately for the rest of you, it didn’t work.
Later that evening, Dad and I hiked up a trail in the hopes of seeing a 2500 year old fortress. Couldn’t find it, but had an awesome experience of hiking w/o Mom. We ran up the first hill and immediately regretted our decision. Huffing and puffing our way up for the next 10 minutes, we barely even noticed the scenery until we hit a viewing point at the top of the mountain. From their we could see the entire Loch. It was one of the best times in the trip for me.
Scotland, Day 8
Dad’s sick. He has some sort of cough-guck in his throat and chest. However, he’s a trooper (always has been), so he sets aside his personal discomfort for the good of the family, which involved taking them on a six-mile hike into the middle of nowhere to be eaten by ghosts. I’ll elaborate.
Last night, over coffee, tea, and pomegranate juice (coffee and tea disagree with me), Sarah (our hostess’ friend) had mentioned that there was a lovely trek through the mountains that ended at a haunted house where she had seen some woman that was supposed to have been dead and where some other guy had seen a bunch of ghost-soldiers slowly march into the loch (lake).
Throwing caution to the wind, we went to this spot and embarked on the journey. Now, the ladies hadn’t told us how far out we had to drive to get to the spot to start walking, or even how long the walk was, so we just shot from the hip on this one. We drove on single-lane roads past construction sites and dodging speedy drivers until we found a dead-end that had a little road for pedestrians, but was “unsuitable for motors.” We got out of our car, prayed a bit that my laptop wouldn’t get stolen, and started walking. Just like Ben Nevis, the trail was covered in poo, only this time, it wasn’t limited to just sheep poo, but deer and cow poo as well!
I’ve seen cow poo back in the states, but since Scottish cows are different then our cows, Scottish poo is much grander. To put it bluntly, it’s roughly the size of a two-year-old child and smells pretty much the same. No one had the guts to take a picture of the poo, so you’ll have to take my word for it: it was epic.
We saw a lot of sheep on either side of the trail and took several pictures. I had never seen a sheep up close before, so I did not realize that they were racially insensitive. I mean, you have these white sheep…with black faces. How much more racist can you get than being a white guy with a black face? I’m surprised that the NAACP hasn’t executed Robert Downing, Jr. for wearing a black face in the movie “Tropic Thunder.”
Anyway, we passed the Aryan sheep and saw some spectacular hillsides from the bottom looking up (more pictures that I will post later). We finally got to the haunted house area, but some inconsiderate twat had put a fence with a gate and made a half-hearted effort to lock the gate. They claim the reason was “dangerous buildings: keep out,” but I think it’s because the Scots are afraid of ghosts.
We…bypassed…the gate and crept around quietly until we realized that we were alone (although, Dad and I did find about 50 used shotgun shells that had been recently discharged). We looked around the building – which must have been 300 years old – and saw that it was less haunted than haunting. It had a depressing loneliness about it. More pictures, will post later.
The day ended with a rather disappointing chicken fajita for dinner. We also caught the tail end of “Along Came a Spider,” which I think is the only movie that Morgan Freeman actually “starred” in. He, as always, stole the screen and made everyone else look like a “B” actor.
Last night, over coffee, tea, and pomegranate juice (coffee and tea disagree with me), Sarah (our hostess’ friend) had mentioned that there was a lovely trek through the mountains that ended at a haunted house where she had seen some woman that was supposed to have been dead and where some other guy had seen a bunch of ghost-soldiers slowly march into the loch (lake).
Throwing caution to the wind, we went to this spot and embarked on the journey. Now, the ladies hadn’t told us how far out we had to drive to get to the spot to start walking, or even how long the walk was, so we just shot from the hip on this one. We drove on single-lane roads past construction sites and dodging speedy drivers until we found a dead-end that had a little road for pedestrians, but was “unsuitable for motors.” We got out of our car, prayed a bit that my laptop wouldn’t get stolen, and started walking. Just like Ben Nevis, the trail was covered in poo, only this time, it wasn’t limited to just sheep poo, but deer and cow poo as well!
I’ve seen cow poo back in the states, but since Scottish cows are different then our cows, Scottish poo is much grander. To put it bluntly, it’s roughly the size of a two-year-old child and smells pretty much the same. No one had the guts to take a picture of the poo, so you’ll have to take my word for it: it was epic.
We saw a lot of sheep on either side of the trail and took several pictures. I had never seen a sheep up close before, so I did not realize that they were racially insensitive. I mean, you have these white sheep…with black faces. How much more racist can you get than being a white guy with a black face? I’m surprised that the NAACP hasn’t executed Robert Downing, Jr. for wearing a black face in the movie “Tropic Thunder.”
Anyway, we passed the Aryan sheep and saw some spectacular hillsides from the bottom looking up (more pictures that I will post later). We finally got to the haunted house area, but some inconsiderate twat had put a fence with a gate and made a half-hearted effort to lock the gate. They claim the reason was “dangerous buildings: keep out,” but I think it’s because the Scots are afraid of ghosts.
We…bypassed…the gate and crept around quietly until we realized that we were alone (although, Dad and I did find about 50 used shotgun shells that had been recently discharged). We looked around the building – which must have been 300 years old – and saw that it was less haunted than haunting. It had a depressing loneliness about it. More pictures, will post later.
The day ended with a rather disappointing chicken fajita for dinner. We also caught the tail end of “Along Came a Spider,” which I think is the only movie that Morgan Freeman actually “starred” in. He, as always, stole the screen and made everyone else look like a “B” actor.
Scotland, Day 7
Monumental decisions were reached today. Bacon OR eggs? Well, I’ve never been a strong supporter of the Egg Movement, so I cast my ballot for bacon. It was a delicious decision.
After rifling through the hard details of the day, we had to decide what we were going to do with ourselves. The logical thing would have been: stay home, watch TV, eat potato chips (called “crisps” over here). However, the Dickasons have never been accused of being excessively logical, so we decided to hike up the tallest mountain in Scotland.
Ben Nevis (the tallest mountain) is barely taller than a foothill in Oregon. It is 1300 metres (yeah, they spell stuff funny over here), which is roughly 4,000 ft. Mt. Hood laughs at Ben Nevis. However, it is much easier to get up this mountain than it is to get up Mt. Hood. Why? Because we took a trolley up to the top.
We drove the 20 miles (not kilometers. Great Britain does not like kilometers) south to the Ben Nevis park (or something like that). In reality, it’s just a bunch of parking spaces and a trolley system that goes up the mountain. We debated for a while: should we pay the 18 pounds ($36) to ride the trolley? Once again, our better sense was overridden by our desire to do something that was really cool.
We purchased 3 tickets and went to the trolley-car-area. So that they can have a continuous stream of people going up the mountain, the cars are constantly in motion, so you have to get into a moving trolley car. Kinda unnerving. We rode up (Mom occasionally being so rude as to talk while Dad and I were enjoying the quiet scenery. Shame on her) and dismounted at the top. Now…I kinda lied when I said that we went to the top of the mountain. In reality, we only went halfway up, because that’s as far as they allow tourists to come during the non-snowing season (it’s usually a ski resort). There were two trails, however, to two separate cliffs. Both trails were absolutely riddled with sheep crap.
You see, the Scots like their sheep so much that they let them wander everywhere and over everything, including mountainous paths that tourists would be walking on. Therefore, you couldn’t walk 10 feet (3 metres) without almost stepping in little pellets o’ poo that strongly resemble (but don’t smell like) chocolate-covered peanuts. I’m getting hungry right now just thinking about it (the peanuts, not the poo)!
The view from the first (and slightly less arduous) trail was beautiful. We almost got to push some other tourists down the cliff, but they turned around before I could sneak up on them. We ate lunch while looking out over the valley and opposing mountains.
We then retraced our steps so that we could hike on the second cliff. As we approached the fork in the road that led to the two cliffs, a class full of German high schoolers (secondary school) stepped out of the lodge. I was filled with dread at the prospect of having to share OUR path with a bunch of loud people that didn’t even speak my language! Fortunately, the chose the trail that we had just come from.
The second trail was less of a path and more of a climb as you had to walk on very rocky, uneven terrain to get near the top of the second cliff. Dad and I were fine, but…we kinda had to drag Mom along. Eventually, we left her for the figurative vultures and went off on our own (she came up later). The top held one of the most beautiful views I have ever seen. We have pictures of it (which I’ll be posting some time after we get back), so I won’t elaborate.
The trip back was easier, if more boring.
So ended Ben Nevis (By the way, in Gaelic, “Ben” means “mountain.”) and so (more or less) ended our day. Dinner was spaghetti with a healthy viewing of the Simpsons (Apoo cheated on his wife with the Squishy Lady!!!)
Our hostess invited us to coffee and tea at 8 PM. I took my tape recorder and was able to record the entire conversation. Most of the conversation was one-sided as Buddy’s friend (Buddy was our hostess) dominated the evening with her views on…everything, but especially why she hated Margaret Thatcher and why she thought private ownership of property was a bad idea. Father delivered a brilliant reply by saying “Actually, the ability to own property was one of the reasons we Americans rebelled against you Brits.” She wound down after that.
Around 10 PM, I started yawning. Remember that I am still not used to this place’s time system, so it was easy to get tired. We finally left (though I had a lovely time with the ladies and recorded 2.25 hours of wonderful dialogue), but I left with the impression that I had wished that Buddy’s friend, Sarah, had let Buddy talk more. By the way, I have no idea why our hostess goes by the name “Buddy.” She doesn’t SEEM crazy…
After rifling through the hard details of the day, we had to decide what we were going to do with ourselves. The logical thing would have been: stay home, watch TV, eat potato chips (called “crisps” over here). However, the Dickasons have never been accused of being excessively logical, so we decided to hike up the tallest mountain in Scotland.
Ben Nevis (the tallest mountain) is barely taller than a foothill in Oregon. It is 1300 metres (yeah, they spell stuff funny over here), which is roughly 4,000 ft. Mt. Hood laughs at Ben Nevis. However, it is much easier to get up this mountain than it is to get up Mt. Hood. Why? Because we took a trolley up to the top.
We drove the 20 miles (not kilometers. Great Britain does not like kilometers) south to the Ben Nevis park (or something like that). In reality, it’s just a bunch of parking spaces and a trolley system that goes up the mountain. We debated for a while: should we pay the 18 pounds ($36) to ride the trolley? Once again, our better sense was overridden by our desire to do something that was really cool.
We purchased 3 tickets and went to the trolley-car-area. So that they can have a continuous stream of people going up the mountain, the cars are constantly in motion, so you have to get into a moving trolley car. Kinda unnerving. We rode up (Mom occasionally being so rude as to talk while Dad and I were enjoying the quiet scenery. Shame on her) and dismounted at the top. Now…I kinda lied when I said that we went to the top of the mountain. In reality, we only went halfway up, because that’s as far as they allow tourists to come during the non-snowing season (it’s usually a ski resort). There were two trails, however, to two separate cliffs. Both trails were absolutely riddled with sheep crap.
You see, the Scots like their sheep so much that they let them wander everywhere and over everything, including mountainous paths that tourists would be walking on. Therefore, you couldn’t walk 10 feet (3 metres) without almost stepping in little pellets o’ poo that strongly resemble (but don’t smell like) chocolate-covered peanuts. I’m getting hungry right now just thinking about it (the peanuts, not the poo)!
The view from the first (and slightly less arduous) trail was beautiful. We almost got to push some other tourists down the cliff, but they turned around before I could sneak up on them. We ate lunch while looking out over the valley and opposing mountains.
We then retraced our steps so that we could hike on the second cliff. As we approached the fork in the road that led to the two cliffs, a class full of German high schoolers (secondary school) stepped out of the lodge. I was filled with dread at the prospect of having to share OUR path with a bunch of loud people that didn’t even speak my language! Fortunately, the chose the trail that we had just come from.
The second trail was less of a path and more of a climb as you had to walk on very rocky, uneven terrain to get near the top of the second cliff. Dad and I were fine, but…we kinda had to drag Mom along. Eventually, we left her for the figurative vultures and went off on our own (she came up later). The top held one of the most beautiful views I have ever seen. We have pictures of it (which I’ll be posting some time after we get back), so I won’t elaborate.
The trip back was easier, if more boring.
So ended Ben Nevis (By the way, in Gaelic, “Ben” means “mountain.”) and so (more or less) ended our day. Dinner was spaghetti with a healthy viewing of the Simpsons (Apoo cheated on his wife with the Squishy Lady!!!)
Our hostess invited us to coffee and tea at 8 PM. I took my tape recorder and was able to record the entire conversation. Most of the conversation was one-sided as Buddy’s friend (Buddy was our hostess) dominated the evening with her views on…everything, but especially why she hated Margaret Thatcher and why she thought private ownership of property was a bad idea. Father delivered a brilliant reply by saying “Actually, the ability to own property was one of the reasons we Americans rebelled against you Brits.” She wound down after that.
Around 10 PM, I started yawning. Remember that I am still not used to this place’s time system, so it was easy to get tired. We finally left (though I had a lovely time with the ladies and recorded 2.25 hours of wonderful dialogue), but I left with the impression that I had wished that Buddy’s friend, Sarah, had let Buddy talk more. By the way, I have no idea why our hostess goes by the name “Buddy.” She doesn’t SEEM crazy…
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Scotland, Day 6
Today we went to Urquhart Castle. As castles go, this one was largely unimpressive. It was a smaller castle – or was smaller than I imagined a castle should be – with, what seemed to me, a boring history. I suppose I have grown too accustomed to the intrigue and battles that I read in my books and find “real” history to be a drag. Pity.
My dad summed it up well for us: Castles are neat, but in the end, they are just big, empty houses. For which one has to pay $40 to enter.
Did I fail to mention earlier that everything here is a gigantic tourist trap?
We watched The Simpsons today, which made Dad and I feel more at home. The rest of the day passed smoothly. I don’t think you need an account of what we ate, the poor conditions of the roads, or any of the other things that I have harped upon thus far.
My dad summed it up well for us: Castles are neat, but in the end, they are just big, empty houses. For which one has to pay $40 to enter.
Did I fail to mention earlier that everything here is a gigantic tourist trap?
We watched The Simpsons today, which made Dad and I feel more at home. The rest of the day passed smoothly. I don’t think you need an account of what we ate, the poor conditions of the roads, or any of the other things that I have harped upon thus far.
Scotland, Day 5
Today began like any other day: once again, I awoke from slumber far too early, and once again, I had a few hours with which to occupy myself before my parents likewise awoke and we could actually do stuff. I used my time to read (The Canterbury Tales) and write the events of the previous day.
When Mom finally woke up, she began to cook a delicious breakfast of bacon, eggs, and pancakes. I have since learned that there is nothing tastier pig-product in this world than Scottish bacon. It is thick with very little fat and has extra smoky flavor. So tasty!!!!
Today was going to be a lazy day as we were not going to drive anywhere. We felt that the Scottish roads were too tough on Father’s nerves, and, since we don’t want him a nervous wreck in one week when he has to return to work, Mom and I agreed to let him off the hook. So we walked around the Loch.
I have said it before, but it bears repeating: Scotland is a beautiful nation and is never more beautiful than up here, by the Loch Ness and in the Highlands. The hills are either covered with trees or brown-and-purple heather. It is not inaccurate to say that Scotland is like the Willamette Valley in Oregon, but all of the beauty of that small portion of Oregon is stretched out and multiplied throughout this entire nation. Well, technically Scotland is neither nation nor country, but do not tell that to a Scot. They’ll take your head off!!
We hiked up a very long and steep mountainous trail that happened to be right behind our house (more or less). Twice, father and I almost fell down the mountain, and one time, we did fall a distance and skidded. We have the cuts and bruises to prove it! Both parents took marvelous pictures of the forests with rocks as old as Creation sat covered in inch-thick moss and spider webs that glistened on tall, stately grass-stalks.
We reached the top of the mountain, gazed West out over the Loch and let out a collective sigh. Imagine looking upon Crater Lake and its still beauty, but, instead of a round lake, imagine it like a river that stretches as far as the eye can see with 1000 meter mountains all around. As I said earlier, the mountains are not as tall as Oregon mountains, but they still make an impressive sight.
While Mom napped after our expedition, Father and I hiked down to the Loch to see if we could find Nessie. We did see a large ripple under the water, and we are claiming that that was the great monster, herself.
The day ended peacefully (read: boringly) as we watched some British television and waited for it to grow late enough to go to bed. This nation has a drowsying effect on a person.
When Mom finally woke up, she began to cook a delicious breakfast of bacon, eggs, and pancakes. I have since learned that there is nothing tastier pig-product in this world than Scottish bacon. It is thick with very little fat and has extra smoky flavor. So tasty!!!!
Today was going to be a lazy day as we were not going to drive anywhere. We felt that the Scottish roads were too tough on Father’s nerves, and, since we don’t want him a nervous wreck in one week when he has to return to work, Mom and I agreed to let him off the hook. So we walked around the Loch.
I have said it before, but it bears repeating: Scotland is a beautiful nation and is never more beautiful than up here, by the Loch Ness and in the Highlands. The hills are either covered with trees or brown-and-purple heather. It is not inaccurate to say that Scotland is like the Willamette Valley in Oregon, but all of the beauty of that small portion of Oregon is stretched out and multiplied throughout this entire nation. Well, technically Scotland is neither nation nor country, but do not tell that to a Scot. They’ll take your head off!!
We hiked up a very long and steep mountainous trail that happened to be right behind our house (more or less). Twice, father and I almost fell down the mountain, and one time, we did fall a distance and skidded. We have the cuts and bruises to prove it! Both parents took marvelous pictures of the forests with rocks as old as Creation sat covered in inch-thick moss and spider webs that glistened on tall, stately grass-stalks.
We reached the top of the mountain, gazed West out over the Loch and let out a collective sigh. Imagine looking upon Crater Lake and its still beauty, but, instead of a round lake, imagine it like a river that stretches as far as the eye can see with 1000 meter mountains all around. As I said earlier, the mountains are not as tall as Oregon mountains, but they still make an impressive sight.
While Mom napped after our expedition, Father and I hiked down to the Loch to see if we could find Nessie. We did see a large ripple under the water, and we are claiming that that was the great monster, herself.
The day ended peacefully (read: boringly) as we watched some British television and waited for it to grow late enough to go to bed. This nation has a drowsying effect on a person.
Scotland, Day 4
I woke up at 6 am. I never wake up at 6 am. It was still dark outside, but my body was saying “Hey Ken!!! In Oregon, it’s only 10 pm!!! Let’s hang out w/ the guys of Diakonos and raid Charis (for those of you that don’t understand the context…it’s safer that you remain that way).”
I was awake for 2.5 hours before either parent awoke and was dinking around on my laptop (until my battery died) or was reading. I got a lot finished on my book (The Canterbury Tales). Finally the parents awoke and we decided that we needed groceries if we were going to stay in this little cottage. So we went to Costco.
Yeah, Costco has stores in Europe; who knew? The only problem is, Costco was 80 miles away. We said “No problem,” until the round-abouts nearly turned father into a nervous wreck. The trip lasted 2.5 hours both ways. Though I may complain about a LOT of things, don’t underestimate the beauty of the Scottish countryside. It is like the Oregon Willamette Valley, but kinda squished together so that you see mountains and hillsides everywhere you travel. There is nothing that even comes close to the size of Mt. Hood, but the sheer volume of hills and mountains and foothills more than makes up for their size.
On every mountain lies one of three things: heather, trees, or grazing land. Heather is a scraggly little flower that grows…everywhere. It is purple. It kinda looks…well, I have nothing to compare it to, so it kinda looks like heather. As for the trees, it is easy to imagine that there are about as many trees in Scotland as there are in Oregon, only, since environmentalism is so strong over in Scotland, they cannot log as much as we do in Oregon. For once, I did not mind the anal retentiveness of the environmentalist (it may be because I do not live in Scotland).
The grazing fields are quite a sight to see. In every city and in every shire (county) you’ll find that much of the acreage is devoted to grazing land for sheep, horses, cows (weird looking cows. No horns and furry. They make up the Angus burger that you are eating right now) and goats. I’m used to seeing animals eat stuff, but I was shocked (I’m shocked by a lot of things over here) to see animals grazing in the middle of a large city. Yeah. Go figure.
In the north-eastern part of Scotland (the Highlands), it is not uncommon to see ginormous wind turbines. These things have to be at least 150 ft with 3, 100 ft long tines. To put that in perspective, each turbine is as tall as a 15 story building (probably taller). We took several pictures (most of them came out poorly) of these turbines.
Eventually (after getting lost for a LONG TIME), we got to Costco. It was the first familiar thing we had seen (I am not counting the Burger King or Pizza Hut we saw when we first got to Scotland). It was our North Star; our point of reference. After seeing Costco, we knew that everything would be alright. Until we saw the prices.
The first thing you need to know about UK pricing is that the British pound is roughly twice as valuable as the US dollar. In other words, take anything you see that is priced in pounds and double it and that’s how much it costs in the U.S. Well, when we went into Costco, we saw things that were priced the exact same as they were in the States, but, since they were priced in pounds, cost twice as much. We were flabbergasted. Where do the Scots make all of this money?!?! It’s not like there is a booming entertainment industry in the U.K. (trust me. I’ve watched BBC television. It sucks.)!!!
We purchased some familiar looking food (hamburgers, chips, sodas, eggs, bacon) at unfamiliar prices and then went home, this time with the journey taking 3 hours. Not because we stopped to admire the countryside; at this point, we had SEEN the countryside, we just wanted to get back “home” so that we didn’t have to sit in the car anymore. No, we got lost for about 1 whole hour. Awesome.
We came home, ate ham sandwiches and potato chips (and some frozen chocolate-chip cookie dough…Heaven) and watched Agatha Christie murder mysteries. And a bit of “The Notebook.” That is, until Dad agreed with me that it was boring tripe (save for the bits with James Garner, the old dude talking to his wife in the Alzheimer’s Ward.) In fact, irony of ironies, my Dad and I both guessed the “big shocking moment” at the very beginning of the movie: the old people in the clinic are the two kids that Garner is talking about and the woman has Alzheimer’s and can’t remember any of it. I’m arrogant enough to put that in here so that you’ll realize that my Dad and I are so much cooler than anyone else that had to sit through the entire movie to reach that revelation. ;)
I went to bed – exhausted – at 10 pm…I think it’s because there is nothing to do here at night. The nearest town is 13 miles away, all the neighbors are old, there’s nothing on the television (seriously. British TV sucks.), and I cannot surf the internet. In fact, the reason I have been incommunicado since I reached Scotland is I cannot find a single place with wireless internet access. Go figure.
I was awake for 2.5 hours before either parent awoke and was dinking around on my laptop (until my battery died) or was reading. I got a lot finished on my book (The Canterbury Tales). Finally the parents awoke and we decided that we needed groceries if we were going to stay in this little cottage. So we went to Costco.
Yeah, Costco has stores in Europe; who knew? The only problem is, Costco was 80 miles away. We said “No problem,” until the round-abouts nearly turned father into a nervous wreck. The trip lasted 2.5 hours both ways. Though I may complain about a LOT of things, don’t underestimate the beauty of the Scottish countryside. It is like the Oregon Willamette Valley, but kinda squished together so that you see mountains and hillsides everywhere you travel. There is nothing that even comes close to the size of Mt. Hood, but the sheer volume of hills and mountains and foothills more than makes up for their size.
On every mountain lies one of three things: heather, trees, or grazing land. Heather is a scraggly little flower that grows…everywhere. It is purple. It kinda looks…well, I have nothing to compare it to, so it kinda looks like heather. As for the trees, it is easy to imagine that there are about as many trees in Scotland as there are in Oregon, only, since environmentalism is so strong over in Scotland, they cannot log as much as we do in Oregon. For once, I did not mind the anal retentiveness of the environmentalist (it may be because I do not live in Scotland).
The grazing fields are quite a sight to see. In every city and in every shire (county) you’ll find that much of the acreage is devoted to grazing land for sheep, horses, cows (weird looking cows. No horns and furry. They make up the Angus burger that you are eating right now) and goats. I’m used to seeing animals eat stuff, but I was shocked (I’m shocked by a lot of things over here) to see animals grazing in the middle of a large city. Yeah. Go figure.
In the north-eastern part of Scotland (the Highlands), it is not uncommon to see ginormous wind turbines. These things have to be at least 150 ft with 3, 100 ft long tines. To put that in perspective, each turbine is as tall as a 15 story building (probably taller). We took several pictures (most of them came out poorly) of these turbines.
Eventually (after getting lost for a LONG TIME), we got to Costco. It was the first familiar thing we had seen (I am not counting the Burger King or Pizza Hut we saw when we first got to Scotland). It was our North Star; our point of reference. After seeing Costco, we knew that everything would be alright. Until we saw the prices.
The first thing you need to know about UK pricing is that the British pound is roughly twice as valuable as the US dollar. In other words, take anything you see that is priced in pounds and double it and that’s how much it costs in the U.S. Well, when we went into Costco, we saw things that were priced the exact same as they were in the States, but, since they were priced in pounds, cost twice as much. We were flabbergasted. Where do the Scots make all of this money?!?! It’s not like there is a booming entertainment industry in the U.K. (trust me. I’ve watched BBC television. It sucks.)!!!
We purchased some familiar looking food (hamburgers, chips, sodas, eggs, bacon) at unfamiliar prices and then went home, this time with the journey taking 3 hours. Not because we stopped to admire the countryside; at this point, we had SEEN the countryside, we just wanted to get back “home” so that we didn’t have to sit in the car anymore. No, we got lost for about 1 whole hour. Awesome.
We came home, ate ham sandwiches and potato chips (and some frozen chocolate-chip cookie dough…Heaven) and watched Agatha Christie murder mysteries. And a bit of “The Notebook.” That is, until Dad agreed with me that it was boring tripe (save for the bits with James Garner, the old dude talking to his wife in the Alzheimer’s Ward.) In fact, irony of ironies, my Dad and I both guessed the “big shocking moment” at the very beginning of the movie: the old people in the clinic are the two kids that Garner is talking about and the woman has Alzheimer’s and can’t remember any of it. I’m arrogant enough to put that in here so that you’ll realize that my Dad and I are so much cooler than anyone else that had to sit through the entire movie to reach that revelation. ;)
I went to bed – exhausted – at 10 pm…I think it’s because there is nothing to do here at night. The nearest town is 13 miles away, all the neighbors are old, there’s nothing on the television (seriously. British TV sucks.), and I cannot surf the internet. In fact, the reason I have been incommunicado since I reached Scotland is I cannot find a single place with wireless internet access. Go figure.
Scotland, Day 3
The Highland Games
Day Three found me waking up far too early (8:30 AM), as I awoke well before my parents. I slipped on some clothes and went downstairs for breakfast. I assumed that some friendly Scot would see me sitting alone, take pity on me, and join me and I could then record their accent (I brought an audio recorder for just such a purpose). What a nice thought!
Reality, however, sunk in as I realized that half of the food that was offered was inedible to me (I have a violent allergy to milk products: my stomach cramps up and I pray for death.) and the other half tasted vaguely of cardboard. I ate – quickly – got some coffee for my Dad (instant coffee. He hated it) and helped my parents get ready to leave.
Before we could leave the hotel, we had to go to the local supermarket to load up on food. In America, it’s Wal-Mart. Here, it’s “Tesco.” They are exactly the same, only Brits have weird names for stuff. None of the British food looked edible, so we grabbed some American-looking food and bolted.
Irrelevant side note: European Cola tastes better than our stuff because they use Sugar where we use high-fructose corn syrup. It may explain why Brits have awful teeth.
We traversed to some far-off location with an unpronounceable name to see the last of the Highland Games. The Scottish Highland Games are much like our County Fairs combined with Track Meets. Lots of big, sweaty men in kilts throwing heavy things all over the place. Lots of food, very expensive, though quite tasty. Did not take the opportunity to sample Scotland’s signature dish, haggis (sheep guts).
The games were fun and we got to experience loads of bagpiping, caber-tossing and hammer-throwing – Mom even got to watch the Scottish lasses’ dance competition [snore] – but we stayed for 4 hours, which began to get a bit dreary. We took our lives into our own hands to again travel down the Scottish Motorway. It took another three hours to find our new hotel near Loch Ness. Nothing eventful happened. Correction: nothing REMARKABLE happened. We were almost driven off the road (or died from head-on collision) several times. Loads of fun!!!!
However, it is safe to say that the scenery was/is remarkable. Americans have no concept of age. We think a building that has been around since the Revolution is old. That’s not old. Buildings that have been around since the Magna Carta was signed are old. Scotland has hundreds of such buildings, many of which are still in practical use and are in relatively good shape. In most Scottish cities, the landscape is dotted with soaring chapel steeples, all of which were constructed in the Pre-American era.
We found our cottage (The Coach House) and met Mrs. MacDougal; a nice lady who lived in the first floor of our cottage. Our cottage overlooks Loch Ness and some mountain (Comparison to Oregon: it is roughly as tall as Mary’s Peak but has fewer trees).
Dinner consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. By this point, I have lost 5 lbs and .5 inch around my waist.
Sleep came at 10 PM that night as we were all exhausted beyond all rhyme or reason.
Day Three found me waking up far too early (8:30 AM), as I awoke well before my parents. I slipped on some clothes and went downstairs for breakfast. I assumed that some friendly Scot would see me sitting alone, take pity on me, and join me and I could then record their accent (I brought an audio recorder for just such a purpose). What a nice thought!
Reality, however, sunk in as I realized that half of the food that was offered was inedible to me (I have a violent allergy to milk products: my stomach cramps up and I pray for death.) and the other half tasted vaguely of cardboard. I ate – quickly – got some coffee for my Dad (instant coffee. He hated it) and helped my parents get ready to leave.
Before we could leave the hotel, we had to go to the local supermarket to load up on food. In America, it’s Wal-Mart. Here, it’s “Tesco.” They are exactly the same, only Brits have weird names for stuff. None of the British food looked edible, so we grabbed some American-looking food and bolted.
Irrelevant side note: European Cola tastes better than our stuff because they use Sugar where we use high-fructose corn syrup. It may explain why Brits have awful teeth.
We traversed to some far-off location with an unpronounceable name to see the last of the Highland Games. The Scottish Highland Games are much like our County Fairs combined with Track Meets. Lots of big, sweaty men in kilts throwing heavy things all over the place. Lots of food, very expensive, though quite tasty. Did not take the opportunity to sample Scotland’s signature dish, haggis (sheep guts).
The games were fun and we got to experience loads of bagpiping, caber-tossing and hammer-throwing – Mom even got to watch the Scottish lasses’ dance competition [snore] – but we stayed for 4 hours, which began to get a bit dreary. We took our lives into our own hands to again travel down the Scottish Motorway. It took another three hours to find our new hotel near Loch Ness. Nothing eventful happened. Correction: nothing REMARKABLE happened. We were almost driven off the road (or died from head-on collision) several times. Loads of fun!!!!
However, it is safe to say that the scenery was/is remarkable. Americans have no concept of age. We think a building that has been around since the Revolution is old. That’s not old. Buildings that have been around since the Magna Carta was signed are old. Scotland has hundreds of such buildings, many of which are still in practical use and are in relatively good shape. In most Scottish cities, the landscape is dotted with soaring chapel steeples, all of which were constructed in the Pre-American era.
We found our cottage (The Coach House) and met Mrs. MacDougal; a nice lady who lived in the first floor of our cottage. Our cottage overlooks Loch Ness and some mountain (Comparison to Oregon: it is roughly as tall as Mary’s Peak but has fewer trees).
Dinner consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. By this point, I have lost 5 lbs and .5 inch around my waist.
Sleep came at 10 PM that night as we were all exhausted beyond all rhyme or reason.
Scotland, Day 2
3 Admissions to the William Wallace Monument: $40. A dinner for 3 at Burger King: $25. Almost getting killed on the Scottish Motorway: Priceless.
Ok, so this day started out far too early for me. We were in our hotel room, preparing to get on our flight to Scotland. Having not slept much the night before, I was weary and ready to go get on the flight so I could go to sleep. We left our hotel room at noon. I was expecting a couple of hours – thanks to the Patriot Act – and then fly out. I was sorely mistaken. Security took us ten minutes to get through, BUT we still had 3.5 hours to wait until our flight. Beautiful planning.
The Portland Airport is a fascinating place, full of many restaurants that peddle their overpriced wares. Having only eaten a cinnamon roll for breakfast, by 1:30 pm, I was hungry enough to eat my own face. I wound up eating an Italian Sausage with onions and sauerkraut. Tasty, but not that filling. The fries were a much better value. The meal cost $10. Had I done it at home, it would have cost $1.50, tops.
The airplane trip was...unique. It lasted ten hours, but we had little video screens wherein we could watch about 1 dozen movies, should we so choose. A neat idea, but one that got old fast as my butt started hurting and the food from the airplane maintained its reputation for being disgusting.
As we began to land in Amsterdam, I was struck with one of those brilliant revelations that only comes from the truly sleep-deprived: Amsterdam (and Europe in general) looks exactly like the U.S. (from the air, at least).
After landing, we began another glorious 2-hour wait for our flight. This flight was, perhaps, the most disturbing and irritating experience of my entire life.
When the boarding call came, instead of going onto the plane, we were ushered onto some buses and were driven to our plane. This plane was known as a “City-Hopper,” and was, quite possibly, the dirtiest, most hazardous plane I have ever ridden in. As we were on the tarmac, the electricity shorted out, all the lights went dead, and the pilot had to reassure us that everything was fine; we’d just be delayed a bit longer. At this point, my fear-factor spiked sharply. The waiting for takeoff was nothing compared to the actual flight.
I believe that there is no creature more hated among man than the parent of crying, whining, screaming children. The parents in question were in possession of two such children; children that were most likely possessed by demons. I shall refer to them as Azazel (younger) and Mephistopheles (older) from here on out. Azazel was a little baby of 1.5-2 years of age and insisted in screaming at EVERYTHING. Now, this isn’t the persistent scream of a baby in pain. No, this is, in fact, the gnawing scream of a child that is bored and hates his parents and every other thing in creation. By the time the plane landed, all fifty passengers, three stewardesses, and the pilots of the plane wanted to brutally murder the parents and then travel back up to 30,000 feet and drop the children out the airlock.
Therefore, we landed in the Glasgow Airport in Scotland. Our car is a Ford (go figure) with excellent gas mileage, and a terrifying feature: the wheel is on the right side of the car. Yes, we’ve all heard that the Brits travel on the Left (wrong) side of the road, but you never know the terror and confusion until you experience it first hand.
Not only does Britain have the audacity to violate the travel norms by staying on the left-hand side of the road, but they exhibit their truly sadistic nature by creating “round-abouts,” which are supposed to take the place of intersections and stop lights. I’d try to explain them to you, but…well...Their kinda a circle in which everyone travels and then gets off on the road they want to. You can yield to cars coming your way (but you apparently don’t have to). It is Hell.
Our tourist goal for the day was to see the William Wallace Memorial. After deciphering the illegible road maps and traversing the demonic round-abouts, we arrived at the Memorial. To put it succinctly: big castle, big sword, big man. When you ascend all 254 steps (if you have weak knees, I’d advise against it), you can gaze out over all of Scotland and see the beauty of Stirling and the areas beyond. It is a sight well worth seeing. We bought two cans of Iron Brew to commemorate the event (Iron Brew – often spelled “Irn Bru” – is a bubble-gum flavored soda with a hint of iron flavor. It’s like drinking a clown’s blood. Delicious.)
We left so that we could find our hotel. If you have been keeping track, we have not eaten since dinner on the plane the night before (unless you count the Iron Brew). After three hours of travelling in this cesspool of torment known as the Scottish motorway, we finally find our hotel. It is a lovely little Holiday Inn Express with a television (12 inches across), a bed (lumpy) and a fold-away couch (probably created by those sadists at IKEA). After convincing Dad that Mother and I were starving and did not want to eat the MREs that he had packed (yuck), we went to…Burger King. The meal cost $25 (12 pounds) and they botched our order. We started laughing so hard (because we were all exhausted) that we didn’t even notice how terrible the food tasted (although, to be fair to Scotland, the food probably didn’t taste any worse than Burger King food usually does).
So ended Day Two.
Ok, so this day started out far too early for me. We were in our hotel room, preparing to get on our flight to Scotland. Having not slept much the night before, I was weary and ready to go get on the flight so I could go to sleep. We left our hotel room at noon. I was expecting a couple of hours – thanks to the Patriot Act – and then fly out. I was sorely mistaken. Security took us ten minutes to get through, BUT we still had 3.5 hours to wait until our flight. Beautiful planning.
The Portland Airport is a fascinating place, full of many restaurants that peddle their overpriced wares. Having only eaten a cinnamon roll for breakfast, by 1:30 pm, I was hungry enough to eat my own face. I wound up eating an Italian Sausage with onions and sauerkraut. Tasty, but not that filling. The fries were a much better value. The meal cost $10. Had I done it at home, it would have cost $1.50, tops.
The airplane trip was...unique. It lasted ten hours, but we had little video screens wherein we could watch about 1 dozen movies, should we so choose. A neat idea, but one that got old fast as my butt started hurting and the food from the airplane maintained its reputation for being disgusting.
As we began to land in Amsterdam, I was struck with one of those brilliant revelations that only comes from the truly sleep-deprived: Amsterdam (and Europe in general) looks exactly like the U.S. (from the air, at least).
After landing, we began another glorious 2-hour wait for our flight. This flight was, perhaps, the most disturbing and irritating experience of my entire life.
When the boarding call came, instead of going onto the plane, we were ushered onto some buses and were driven to our plane. This plane was known as a “City-Hopper,” and was, quite possibly, the dirtiest, most hazardous plane I have ever ridden in. As we were on the tarmac, the electricity shorted out, all the lights went dead, and the pilot had to reassure us that everything was fine; we’d just be delayed a bit longer. At this point, my fear-factor spiked sharply. The waiting for takeoff was nothing compared to the actual flight.
I believe that there is no creature more hated among man than the parent of crying, whining, screaming children. The parents in question were in possession of two such children; children that were most likely possessed by demons. I shall refer to them as Azazel (younger) and Mephistopheles (older) from here on out. Azazel was a little baby of 1.5-2 years of age and insisted in screaming at EVERYTHING. Now, this isn’t the persistent scream of a baby in pain. No, this is, in fact, the gnawing scream of a child that is bored and hates his parents and every other thing in creation. By the time the plane landed, all fifty passengers, three stewardesses, and the pilots of the plane wanted to brutally murder the parents and then travel back up to 30,000 feet and drop the children out the airlock.
Therefore, we landed in the Glasgow Airport in Scotland. Our car is a Ford (go figure) with excellent gas mileage, and a terrifying feature: the wheel is on the right side of the car. Yes, we’ve all heard that the Brits travel on the Left (wrong) side of the road, but you never know the terror and confusion until you experience it first hand.
Not only does Britain have the audacity to violate the travel norms by staying on the left-hand side of the road, but they exhibit their truly sadistic nature by creating “round-abouts,” which are supposed to take the place of intersections and stop lights. I’d try to explain them to you, but…well...Their kinda a circle in which everyone travels and then gets off on the road they want to. You can yield to cars coming your way (but you apparently don’t have to). It is Hell.
Our tourist goal for the day was to see the William Wallace Memorial. After deciphering the illegible road maps and traversing the demonic round-abouts, we arrived at the Memorial. To put it succinctly: big castle, big sword, big man. When you ascend all 254 steps (if you have weak knees, I’d advise against it), you can gaze out over all of Scotland and see the beauty of Stirling and the areas beyond. It is a sight well worth seeing. We bought two cans of Iron Brew to commemorate the event (Iron Brew – often spelled “Irn Bru” – is a bubble-gum flavored soda with a hint of iron flavor. It’s like drinking a clown’s blood. Delicious.)
We left so that we could find our hotel. If you have been keeping track, we have not eaten since dinner on the plane the night before (unless you count the Iron Brew). After three hours of travelling in this cesspool of torment known as the Scottish motorway, we finally find our hotel. It is a lovely little Holiday Inn Express with a television (12 inches across), a bed (lumpy) and a fold-away couch (probably created by those sadists at IKEA). After convincing Dad that Mother and I were starving and did not want to eat the MREs that he had packed (yuck), we went to…Burger King. The meal cost $25 (12 pounds) and they botched our order. We started laughing so hard (because we were all exhausted) that we didn’t even notice how terrible the food tasted (although, to be fair to Scotland, the food probably didn’t taste any worse than Burger King food usually does).
So ended Day Two.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Scotland I: A Journey Begins
Ok, so usually I hate blogs. Most people use them as political rants or to reveal their pseudo-intellectual opinions about...anything.
Well this blog is not nearly as obnoxious as those. This is a travel log of my trip to Scotland. I'll leave out the boring stuff, since we should really only care about the hilarious anecdotes.
The adventure began when my father came home from work Wednesday night at 8pm. He decided that there was no rush to leave for Portland (we were staying the night, flying the next day) because none of us would be sleeping because of the anticipation. An hour after he gets home, he goes to the computer to print our boarding passes. As it turns out, our internet stopped working. For two hours. We even called Comcast to get them to make it work remotely. Nothing.
So, we leave the house at 10:15 PM, no boarding passes in hand, and travel the boring 1.5 hours up to the Portland Airport to stay at the Holiday Inn Express. When we went to be checked in, we were forced to endure some brain-dead college student to try to check us in. It, um...was...tedious. We had to repeat the simplest statements several times to make sure she understood it. Turns out, she gave away our room, so we got something sub-par - although H.I.E. is still a nice hotel.
When we got in the room, Dad went to their computers to print off our boarding passes. One hour later, he returns...but has forgotten our passports. Realizing his catastrophic error, he runs out of the room and recovers them, fortunately before the airhead secretary had wandered in, saw the pretty colors on the passports, and taken them.
Mom and I then realize that we forgot some of our medicine and get read the third degree by our Pharmacist father. Once the tirade (mostly directed at himself), Dad then realized that he had almost lost our passports, and Mom and I were off the hook!
Would have gotten to sleep early, but...well...I don't sleep. Ever, so I pretty much TRIED to sleep, listening to the rattling air conditioner, praying for death.
So begins the first day!
Well this blog is not nearly as obnoxious as those. This is a travel log of my trip to Scotland. I'll leave out the boring stuff, since we should really only care about the hilarious anecdotes.
The adventure began when my father came home from work Wednesday night at 8pm. He decided that there was no rush to leave for Portland (we were staying the night, flying the next day) because none of us would be sleeping because of the anticipation. An hour after he gets home, he goes to the computer to print our boarding passes. As it turns out, our internet stopped working. For two hours. We even called Comcast to get them to make it work remotely. Nothing.
So, we leave the house at 10:15 PM, no boarding passes in hand, and travel the boring 1.5 hours up to the Portland Airport to stay at the Holiday Inn Express. When we went to be checked in, we were forced to endure some brain-dead college student to try to check us in. It, um...was...tedious. We had to repeat the simplest statements several times to make sure she understood it. Turns out, she gave away our room, so we got something sub-par - although H.I.E. is still a nice hotel.
When we got in the room, Dad went to their computers to print off our boarding passes. One hour later, he returns...but has forgotten our passports. Realizing his catastrophic error, he runs out of the room and recovers them, fortunately before the airhead secretary had wandered in, saw the pretty colors on the passports, and taken them.
Mom and I then realize that we forgot some of our medicine and get read the third degree by our Pharmacist father. Once the tirade (mostly directed at himself), Dad then realized that he had almost lost our passports, and Mom and I were off the hook!
Would have gotten to sleep early, but...well...I don't sleep. Ever, so I pretty much TRIED to sleep, listening to the rattling air conditioner, praying for death.
So begins the first day!
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