Portland, Edinburgh and Time Travel

Hello from Edinburgh (pronounced Ed-in-bruh so stop saying it wrong). Started the journey in Portland, so here’s the obligatory shoes picture with the new carpeting. Not completely legit like back in the day, yet the tradition bravely carries on.

I could have boarded that first flight earlier today, or it may have been yesterday. Traveling pulls one out of the external stream of time. The traveler moves forward in his/her own little time-warped bubble completely unrelated to time as it’s experienced by everyone who isn’t flying. Flight attendants keep bringing meals, in the correct order, but on a compressed schedule. When traveling east, the sun seemingly comes up every ten minutes. Or perhaps it never completely goes down. Night is fleeting. Woah.

So let’s hear all the clueless traveler stories! Sadly, everyone was well behaved all the way from Portland to Edinburgh. I know, disappointing. Only JFK could be counted upon to be its usual cluster. The PDX pilot was so proud he had gotten us there early, but sadly, as the plane drove by all the gates, appearing to be taxiing out for another flight, he told us our gate was ready, but that there were two other planes in the “alley,” blocking our access. One plane had found its way out and he was expecting the other to follow suit. We waited long enough to obliterate his daring speed record and screw people with tight connections.

So I hired a car to ferry me from Edinburgh airport to my hotel, mostly because I’ve always wanted to see my name on one of those signs, but also jet lag. It was a brilliant call, although I got into the backseat directly behind the driver like a doofus. The steering wheel is on the wrong side of the car, you see. Everyone knows that. Say, does anyone know why we decided to drive on the right side of the road instead of the left, like a proper British colony?

My hotel, the Inn On The Mile, is halfway up the Royal Mile. It’s basically some modern, well-appointed rooms above a restaurant with live music every night until 1:00 a.m. so stay tuned. I dropped off my bag and set out to hike up Arthur’s Seat, a steep hill overlooking town. It’s part of Holyrood Park. Holyrood is the Queen’s official Edinburgh residence and it’s where Mary Queen of Scot’s private secretary/maybe lover David Rizzio was murdered in front of her in 1566. A brutal history but such a lovely hike, although rather too many people on the main trail. I did see a bunch of locals walking their dogs, and there was also a group of people dressed like Vikings having a picnic. I regret not asking for a photo, although it did seem that they were off-duty.

One overwhelming observation that penetrated my foggy brain – I had forgotten how unfailingly polite British people are. They form a line within a bus shelter which sometimes completely blocks the sidewalk but the important thing is the sanctity of the queue. They ask if it’s okay if you pay for something that you buy. “Do you mind?”

I’m writing this in the restaurant in my hotel. I had two wee drams of whisky (never call whisky Scotch in Scotland but remember to take the “e” out unless you’re in Ireland), even though the massage therapist said that massage was all about eliminating toxins and so the last thing I should do is put more back in. (PS getting a massage after a long plane ride is brilliant except for the lecture.) Whisky is medicinal, though, and also in Scotland you can buy those tiny airline bottles of single malt scotch, they even come in adorable tiny boxes just like the grown-up bottles, which isn’t related to the first thing but I don’t care.

Definitely a wee bit of jet-lag going on. I did the melatonin thing. I remember very little of the flight from JFK to Edinburgh so I’m assuming sleep. I’m probably totally fine. I also squeezed Benadryl cream onto my toothbrush.

My initial impression is that Edinburgh is a beautiful, historic city of about 500K souls, very few of whom hang out around the Royal Mile. Lots of accents, few of them Scottish. I did have a fabulous Scottish gentlemen in the immigration line. Clearly I looked suspicious because before he stamped my passport he asked me a lot of questions. My favorite: “Why are you visiting Scotland? Outlander?” NO of course not. Silly Outlander fans, going on tours to look at films sites and such. I would never.