Travel, 50+, Scotland

Arriving to Scotland was a bit of a challenge. I received the most substandard airline experience, if we ignore that one time the Koreans nearly killed me. Every single staff member was either absolute rubbish or a complete tosser. Thanks ez, especially @ Gatwick. Before the first flight, I confirmed that I can make the connecting flight and I was assured I will "easily" (har, har) make it. Well, the plane landed late, but "You'll still make it." they said. Alas... The computer says no as I reach the electronic gate. I check the time, I'm approximately one minute and a few seconds late from the gate access deadline. A geezer said "go to staff downstairs, they'll be able to help you". There was still plenty of time, so I had no reason to doubt this. The plane had not left and they were still processing the passengers there, anyway.

So, I went to the staff (a couple of minutes had passed, still a long time to liftoff) and the first one was a lady with a heavy accent combined with a visible struggle to speak English. She said she knows nothing and pointed me to another guy. This one was a young Indian boy, probably still a teenager. He knew nothing and could not help, but he pointed me out to a more experienced worker. This guy, another young'un, said he "does not deal" and pointed me to their manager on the floor. This lady, maybe mid twenties or so, looked like she had eaten a bowl of excrement, already before I arrived with my humble request. She was neg-gossiping with another sour looking lady. I said hello and the other one immediately ran away, which made the manager extra sour, like those skull blast death candies kids like to eat to show how tough they are. "No!" She said before I could present my case. "What?" I asked with a hint of surprise. She scoffed and crossed her arms. I got to half present my case and she begun to yell at me "Buy a ticket!" I suggested the plane, to which I have bought a ticket, is still there for quite a while before liftoff. She raged at me "We're not a real airline! You have to buy a ticket!" Before I could appeal my case, she turned her back in a swift, whirling motion and stomped away. I turned to look at all the staff of the airline and somehow five of the floor staff had vanished and the linguistically challenged lady and the little boy were actively turning their backs on me. Grand!

...but you have to go through a little hardship to set the mood for Scotland. Right?

As luck would have it, many mistakes had been made and there was an extra red-eye with a couple of seats. With only a few hour delay, I could finally haul my arse alongside a plane full of people tired and complaining about a series of mistakes by all the collective flights they had been on. All of which were late to a variety of London airports. As our little jump over the GB was an extra flight, we landed to an airport full of waiting locals and empty public transportation area and taxi stand. Us foreigners with no one to give us a good Scottish knuckle-dust and a flood of insults at arrival competed over the one or two taxis that were actually not too busy to pick us up. I missed the first opportunity, but was well positioned for the second. Behind me, a guy was organizing a group together. A taxi arrived and I grabbed the handle before anyone else could, the organizer guy asked me whether they could pool with me and whether I'm going to Inverness. I replied Nairn. The guy explained to his group "That's Scottish for no." I jumped in before their antics would turn into an extra layer of difficulty and off we went to Nairn. Which is a place.

My travel buddy was already calling me for the millionth time as it was pitch black and we were supposed to be on the same flight from London, anyway. I had to explain that my chauffeur indien was lost in the dark. Even with the GPS and all. My friend said "This place is on one of the, like, two main streets" to which I had to reply "Well, he can't find it." On the bright side, the driver turned the meter off as he attempted to figure out where he was.

Nairn and Inverness were alike in what comes to wet. When it was not raining, it was pouring. On a good moment, you had only a dry drizzle for a few seconds and then cats and dogs again. To protect us from all this scorching desert weather, the environmental thinking had arrived to Inverness. As we went to purchase something, the clerk said "Oh, we're green nowadays. We only have paper bags." Which are fun like a barrel full of monkeys when it's raining. Aka when you're in Scotland in the middle of the most summery summer. Needless to say, the paper bag was moist in seconds and ruptured rubbish in a minute. A brilliant victory of reason and location awareness. The dead tree must be glad for its participation in protecting the environmental image of the company in question.

The rain and the amount of which continued to be a central theme on our travels. We kept asking people "How's the day going?" and the reply was commonly "Well, at least it's not raining / a lot / inside." with variations. Despite these struggles against the nature, we got to see places through varying amounts of droplets. We got to hear a Scottish classic of "It's called a kilt because, if you call it a skirt, you'll get kilt." We got to sample the dreaded dish called haggis... and it's good. Do not miss it, if you're up there.

Then comes Glasgow, the place where I have spent the most of my time in Scotland to date. It's a special place. Arguably one of the best places to live in the UK, but also a place where death is ever present. And other things like drugs and homelessness. It was perhaps more often, in Glasgow, than anywhere else in the world that we got stopped by a lad high on one thing or another. One of the cases took place as I had to wait a minute outside an establishment that graciously allowed my travel buddy to do business a minute or two after closing hours. As you would expect, I was immediately, out of nowhere, approached by some guy whose eyes were standing in place and he appeared to have lost the ability to blink.

The lad came to me and demanded I give him a squeeze. He was certain I was a Viking who had come to meet him. I thought, why not, let's entertain the guy. He offered his arm and said: "Squeeze:" With his dead stare drilling into my soul. So I squeezed. "Harder." He demanded. I gave him a harder squeeze. Time stood still like this guy's eyes for a moment. He processed the squeeze strength with no rush. Finally, he got the results and the force was adequate to his vision. He went, logically, "I'm Dutch." To which I replied with a simplistic okay. He went "Do I look Dutch?" I agreed that he could, indeed, pass for a Dutch. At this point, my buddy had done his business and he arrived at the scene. The ol' still-eyes went "I'm Dutch." My buddy introduced himself. The guy repeated "I'm Dutch." We opted to leave him there to continue to dry his eyes and go as Dutch as he wanted to go. Charming fellow.

I was supposed to have a peep at the competing city, but the weather forecast, while bad for Glasgow, was much worse for the big E. We parted our ways as my buddy really, really wanted to cover the other one as well. I continued to explore the bright and colorful wonders of Glasgow with a sprinkle of water here, a crazy homeless fellow there and other curious experiences with the locals somewhere else. And then came the moment we were supposed to meet up to hunt down a dinner location. No buddy, just silence. I did my bit, finding a place and sinking my teeth into something, and then, much later, learned that Edinburgh had a pleasant little flood and my buddy had to basically swim back to the train station. To find out no train was going as the tracks were flooded somewhere along the way in nearly all directions. The situation resolved itself at some point, just long enough to allow some passenger vehicles through. Ah! Summer in Scotland.

The Judgment:
Scotland is kind of expensive to visit and not for the weak. You might, at first, get a little shock and wonder what were you thinking. Kick yourself and all that. The situation varies depending on the city, the weather and whether you support the correct football team on the correct evening. It's rough and brutal, hot and cold, but overall it is an experience you are not likely to forget. The locals will generally let you be, except for "Dutch" and possibly that guy who wants a quid or he'll stab you. Were you to approach the locals, they are surprisingly warm under that shield of Scottishness.

Dress for the weather because there will be ... weather. Take your own plastic bags, apparently. Do not fear the accent. It's still easier than in Belfast (or York, for some reason). Be prepared for everything and dress like a Norwegian.

Would I go again? Yes.