One Sweet Dream

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The rain subsided but low clouds threatened the morning and I knew well enough to pack my rain pants (quick reminder- all of this is internally accented with a fine brogue).

It takes some courage to get started the first few mornings of a journey. I have to brace myself for awkward misunderstanding and periodic puzzle-solving to make my way in the world. Of course, the language is a breeze here, and the culture is predictably Western.

However, I tend to have the codependent problem of worrying about being polite enough, and I'm convinced that by simply being American, I'm ignorantly offensive in dozens of subtle ways. This gives me a nervous tick of uncontrollable bursts of thank-you-so-very-much and please-if-it's-not-too-much-trouble and I'm-so-sorry-to-be-a-bother.

Meanwhile, I count my change like a baby who hasn't learned about numbers. It doesn't help that I now have to pull out my glasses to double check the denomination. This leaves me paying with bills to avoid hassling those poor clerks who have to deal with tourists all day. Now I have a bag of change and a daily challenge of preparing a certain amount of coins ahead of time as if I'm rehearsing for life. The pounds weigh heavily, friends.

Before leaving the apartment I organized my coins for the purchase of some snacks for the day. Automatic machines at the grocer saved me several apologies.

First stop was a breakfast place I'd scoped out online the night before. The walk was about 30 minutes, so I put on some musical accompaniment.

I've had a hankering for Beatles since I arrived. I wonder if it has to do with the weather, with the atmosphere that must be similar to where the four lads spent their formative years. How much does a consistently overcast sky influence an artist? How does music reflect the cold damp and stone structures softened around the edges by moss and so much time?

Nowhere Man. Eleanor Rigby. Norwegian Wood. She Said. All made sense over curbs and puddles, under the gentle weight of gray above.

You guys. Loudons Bakery. I'm not kidding. Poached eggs over avocado toast and cherry tomatoes drizzled with thyme olive oil.

I sat next to two bleach-blonde sisters in fashionably torn and bedazzled jeans. One was visiting and talking about a boy who did her wrong. The other did some shopping and described what she'd be wearing tomorrow if the sun came out. I could listen to these young women chirp all day in their singsong cadence. I didn't want to be creepy though, so I left after eating.

My walk took me back down the Royal Mile, where there were many more tourists without the rain. Whiskey shoppes. Ancient bars with silly names. Kilts. Arched entrances to closes (very narrow alleyways that often have a dead end and are named after prominent medieval citizens) and wynds (another word for narrow alleys).

It was much easier to take in the sites without rain in my face. I reached the end of the Mile as the end of Abbey Road played. "And in the end..." I approached the palace "Her magesty's a pretty nice girl..." and it was closed for the queen's visit! You can't make this stuff up! "..someday I'm gonna make her mine"

Suddenly I was concerned about *my* end; I needed a restroom! Ahead and above me was the glorious mini mountain on which sits Arther's Seat, the location of a fort dating back 2000 years and a good 45 minute hike upwards. My belly grew frantic with eggs and avocado yearning to be free and I tried not to panic as I eyed nearby bushes.

I finally asked a parking lot attendant for directions to the WC - way across the green field in "the wee red building". Food and WCs are a bigger deal in strange places.

The hill, an ancient volcano, rises in glorious green above the town. I passed the ruins of 15th Century St. Anthony's Chapel, a tiny rabbit, wildflowers. I passed other tourists as I chugged my way upward, careful to keep my breath quiet so they'd think I'm in better shape than I am.

The top. Rocky. Packed with tourists taking selfies. Two gentlemen, dressed in 19th century garb, stood gazing down at Edinburgh with canes and nonchalance.

At the bottom of the hill, a cavalry of Scots in kilts filled the parking lot. Groups of five and seven circled together practicing their bagpipes. An older man led a decorated Shetland from group to group. I assume this was all for the royal guests. The sound of the pipes made me tear up. Its song is so earnest. Or it seemed so at the time in that parking lot by the hill.

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Photos

Practice
I guess they come in vans. A van of pipers.