May the Fourth Be With You

I know it seems like only a few months have passed, which is accurate, and yet here we are again, thanks to the miracle of air travel.

Speaking of, even though you might be hoping to hear another tantalizing tale of a Swiss quantum computing seat-mate, alas you will have to be satisfied with an AirPods case. A friend and I recently agreed that the most crucial and nonnegotiable travel accessory, besides one’s passport, is a pair of noise-canceling AirPods. They are a matter of survival, even more so than fully bolted airplane doors. On my flight from Redmond to Seattle, after everyone boarded, the flight attendant addressed us all, holding an AirPods case aloft. It had been found in the boarding area, she tells us, so whose is it? As she regarded us expectantly, I joined my two seatmates, both pilots (also an excellent choice, Universe), in immediately double-checking to make sure we had our cases. Because the rule is, when someone says here’s a lost thing so who can’t keep track of their stuff, you immediately must assume that you are the culprit.

Our determined attendant announced the recovery of the case eleventy billion times and not a soul raised their hand. Finally a woman did, but ultimately this was a disappointment as she briefly looked at the case, considered it, and handed it back. Finally the attendant, like she was talking to a bunch of toddlers, waved the case in the air yet again and said in a sing-song voice, “Oh-kaaaay, I’m going to leave it here then,” and handed it to someone who took it off the plane.

One of my pilots said to the other, grinning, “let’s just GO” because at this point our flight was delayed. Over an AirPods case. There wouldn’t have been this much drama had someone had left a baby behind. THIS IS HOW VITAL THEY ARE.

Finally another woman raised her hand. The flight attendant quite understandably shrugged and said, “The airplane’s door is now closed,” and we all know come hell or high water, it will not be opening until Seattle.

But dear reader, the story didn’t end there. The flight attendant said one of the ground crew was going to try to throw the case up to the pilot who would try and catch it out of his side window.

I looked at my two pilots and asked, “Would you guys do this?” And they both nodded like “oh of course yeah,” being men I guess, and also HOW VITAL AIRPODS ARE.

Well, voila, the pilot caught the case and it was restored to the woman who cared so little that she couldn’t be bothered to check her things and decidedly broke the rule that you always have to assume it’s you.

A few hours later I wandered around the Seattle airport for hours in a daze after spending nearly $50 on lunch. Bought a lipstick from the Mac store that I don’t need. I know you feel me. I parked myself in the main terminal and glumly studied the floor. But then an official airport lady came up, handed me a little sticker and said, “May the Fourth Be With You.”

Suddenly my mood brightened considerably. May the 4th is also heavily celebrated in Scotland, as it turns out.

Did you all see Mark Hamill at the White House on this day of days? He visited the press room where 99% of the journalists were thrilled to be in the unexpected and thrilling presence of Luke Skywalker. And then the CBS White House reporter asked why Mark Hamill was there. The Press Secretary, the fabulous Karine Jean-Pierre, gave the sort of off-the-cuff answer you do when someone asks an odd question, at which point the reporter made the mistake of revealing she didn’t know Mark Hamill was in Star Wars and indeed had not seen the films. Our democracy is indeed doomed.

The long leg to London was fine, I was next to an older lady heading to Madrid whose voice was largely sub-audible which meant I could simply nod and smile most of the time. She also very sweetly asked if I minded if she tucked into her dinner “before it gets cold” before mine arrived. She scored hers early as it was a special gluten-free order. I mean really how beyond polite! I didn’t think that particular rule applied on airplanes, unlike the always-assume-it’s- you rule which applies everywhere.

A quick note to whine about the combat zone that is Heathrow when you are making a connection. Holy crap dear reader. You walk for miles even though your connecting flight is in the same terminal. It’s hot. It’s confusing. You have no idea what is happening. You just keep walking, passing through these checkpoints, following the purple “connecting flights” signs. Is this one of my recurring anxiety travel dreams? Am I still walking? Is this purgatory? Will I ever get out of here?

That’s nothing compared to the security screening. Listen, I know they don’t care that you are TSA pre-check or Global Entry or the Queen of Sheba. But don’t yell orders to a bunch of jet lagged people. Don’t aggressively challenge me on clothing categorization. “It’s a sweater.” “No it’s a coat, take it off, what you have on underneath is a sweater.” Then a guy walks over and tells me also to take off the sweater, which he categorized as a hoodie. I mean I legitimately could have had only a bra going on underneath. Also had to remove my boots. Put my phone inside a pocket of something that is in a bin. DO NOT LEAVE YOUR BIN you have to push it onto the belt personally. You CANNOT take anything out of your bag while it’s in a bin. Am I being checked into a prison?

I guess I’m used to Amsterdam with the bland but efficient indifference. Or Charles de Gaul with the barely concealed condescension. All way better than yelling arbitrary bossiness even with an English accent.

It all worked out, I found my flight to Inverness. Pro-tip – to avoid the crazy way the Brits load planes, agree to gate-check your carry-on. By this point you are happy to be rid of it anyway. And they let you board first. Hahahaha first class people, byeeee.

And one final transportation thing. I finally decided to pull the trigger on renting a standard transmission car. Automatics are more rare in the UK and thus more expensive. I learned to drive using a stick on a VW Fastback. (Am old). I was dizzy with the control it offered! But – this being the UK, the shift is on the left, I’m jet-lagged, it’s been 30 years, driving on the left….was it all a bridge too far? As it turns out, no. Driving a stick is apparently hardwired. I only stalled my shiny Blue Captur (a sporty car made by Renault) once, after I had been on a highway and just forgot completely I was driving a stick. The car juddered to a halt and by the time I clocked what was happening – it took a minute – McRaggie had turned himself back on like a boss! If only that had been a thing when I learned to drive, my dad would have been much less irritated with me.

McRaggie you ask? My car’s name is Ragnar, Raggie for short, and his spirit inhabits every vehicle I drive. In Scotland he is known by a slightly different name.

And at last, Glencoe where I am staying for three nights at my usual spot, the Kingshouse, which is marvelous. Had a lovely dinner, a wee walk from the hotel up the West Highland Way and reveled in the glorious (aka not raining) weather. Yes indeed, happy to be back.

The following day I was finally able to complete a hike that I had started my last three trips. It’s a relatively level trail that runs down the glen between the two great ridges, the Buachaille Etive Mor and Etive Beag. It’s a magical path with a tantalizing notch in the hills ahead that seems to get further away the longer you walk toward it. I’ve always wanted to see what was there, but once all the streams you must cross along the way were in spate, and there simply wasn’t enough time the other two excursions. The trail is part of a nine-mile loop hike.

This miraculous day it hadn’t rained and there was all the time in the world. And it surpassed my imagination. At the end of the glen is a gorgeous cairn – and just beyond lies the neighboring valley of Glen Etive which is surprisingly far below like a doorway to freaking Narnia. I couldn’t believe it.

The loop hike takes you around the base of Buachaille Etive Beag and – I am happy to announce – it is done. At last.

After a quick visit to the Glencoe Visitor Center (best gift shop ever) and a meal at the Boots Bar at the Clachaig Inn as per usual, I drove to the Glencoe Ski Area specifically to see a wee white house known as Black Rock Cottage because of Scottish landscape photographers on Instagram. There’s another heavily photographed white house in Glencoe called the Lagangarbh Hut (see blog from May) and another infamous white house, not as photographed because it’s falling down and covered with graffiti, known as Allt-na-Reigh. The latter was sold to famous mountaineer Hamish MacInnes in 1961 for $1,000 and later bought by dreadful serial sex offender Jimmy Savile in 1998, although the The National newspaper said he was seldom there and “there is no evidence that any of his offending took place [there].” It is now owned by a global convenience store company (sigh) and, sidebar, they plan to knock it down and build a “modernist luxury villa” which was well and thoroughly protested but hashtag private property.

Anyway, back to Black Rock. It is owned by the Ladies’ Scottish Mountain Club which I must try to join if I ever move here. The bottom of the driveway is blocked with a bar (not the fun kind) and a woman was just leaving the house as I arrived. If you feel like staying in a place that people are photographing quite a lot, it’s available as a holiday let. It sounds a little rustic – if you want drinking water you need to get it from the shower as there’s no running water in the kitchen. One also must bring all of one’s linens although mattresses are thoughtfully provided.

All in all, a quite excellent first day.