Homecoming Part 1

28 May 2015

Inverness, Scotland, UK

 

A breath of air escapes my lunges as my exhausted body slumps onto the worn black leather couch. My limbs and torso are made of cracked glass, one wrong move from shattering. My pulsing head turns to the wall, where I see a colourful, old-timey, map of the British Isles. It’s strange to see it here. I know I’m going to the UK soon, but why is this map here? My throbbing brain struggles to process the coincidence that is this map, until I realise it isn’t a coincidence. I’m in Inverness at my favourite hostel.

The moment this realization hits me, I’m assaulted with a stream of memories from the past 24 hours. They’re disjointed and sharp like shards of a shattered stained glass window.

• A nice man at the Scotrail ticket office in Edinburgh Waverly is telling me that I’ll be able to use the train ticket for the trip I missed.
• The smell of sweat and fear seeps from my pores as I wait on a chair by the immigration booth.
• My aunt Laura and I are eating a hotdog in Chicago, before everything went wrong – again.
• I’m riding the X100 from Edinburgh Airport into the city centre and telling Rachael they let me in. I feel numb, so very numb, but the relief in her voice almost makes me smile.
• My immigration officer escorts me to the bagging area, where I learn my checked bag is still in Chicago and my carry-on bags are ruthlessly searched through.
• I’m walking aimlessly through the sunny streets of Edinburgh, still in too much shock to appreciate how wonderful it is to be in the city I love more than any other.
• A deadbolt clicks into place, sealing me in a large room overseen by a window. I have access to a toilet, they’ve told me how to work the TV, they’ve offered me food, but all I can think about is the security guard’s voice telling me: “It could be hours.”
• I buy a sandwich from Oink, while wandering through Edinburgh before my next train was due to depart.
• I stand alone at the airport terminal in O’hare amid the other displaced passengers. We had been sitting on the tarmac for two hours before they pulled us off the plane. The sky over Newark is too stormy to allow us to take off, and I can feel the beautiful blue over Chicago, mocking me.
• My immigration officer sets a pile of folders and notebooks in front of me, knowing everything there is to know about my research and my book. I feel so incredibly naked, and I’m so profoundly grateful to be wearing my hat.
• There is a rainbow, no two rainbows, outside the window of my train car. I’m somewhere south of Aviemore, and this makes does me smile.
• I’m holding my head in my hands – trying not to cry – trying not to be sick. I’m certain they’ll send me on the next plane back to the US. It’s been five months, five agonizing months, and now they’re going to keep me from her. I’m so close and so infinitely far away.
• They’re out of the Jeans I like in my size at Primark, but I buy a pair, a size too large, anyway. Without my checked bag, I need an emergency wardrobe. A few new t-shirts, a new pair of trousers, some new pants, and socks – it’s all very me.
• My pillow is pressed to the window of the airplane, as my eyes open from a surprisingly restful and comfortable sleep over the Atlantic.
• I’m walking the streets of Inverness to my hostel like I had done it a thousand times – because, at least metaphorically, I have.

Things are Going South Fast: Part 2

 1 May 2015 @ 9:13AM

I was sitting next to an Indian man (not First Nations, but a man from India). There wasn’t a whole lot of space left on the bus, but I was tired enough where I soon drifted back off into sleep. My eyes fluttered open again to a different scene. Fast moving mountain streams mirrored the colour of the low hanging clouds that hovered at the top of the valley. The sparse tan-green hills were now covered with tall, mostly pine, trees that made up a sea of jagged green spikes punctuated by rivers of grey. This must have been the valley I was told about and it strangely reminded me of Io valley on Maui. I drowsily tried to take a picture with my phone, but the colours weren’t right, and my camera couldn’t capture the outlines of the clouds well enough to do the scene justice. I tried to watch it with my eyes, to take it all in and hold on to it the old fashion way, but my consciousness was like a handful of sand and I could feel the grains slipping through my fingers.

In the end we arrived at Pacific station in Vancouver after the 8:30 bus. I had only about half an hour before my next bus left for Seattle, so I walked into the station and froze. It was almost chilling to stand in the last place I saw her. I deliberated for a long time over if I should take a picture of the uncomfortable wooden bench where we talked about anything but our upcoming five months of separation. In the end, I decided it would be morbid. Vancouver was bright and sunny, budding with life and the essence of spring. But for me, it was haunted by ghosts, and they were all her. I was glad I wasn’t sticking around.

When I walked back through the doors, the man who inspected tickets asked me. “Where are you headed?”

I told him, “Seattle.”

I must have been grinning because the man said, “You look really happy to be going to Seattle.”

And that was when it dawned on me that I was happy to go to Seattle. For the first time in a long time, I was really looking forward to seeing a new city. I was really looking forward to being in the US. I was really looking forward to going home, even if just for a short while. So I grinned wider, in an aggressively American way, and said honestly, “I am.”

He tells me my gate, and I pull my suitcase behind me to gate 14 where I stand behind an Australian couple and in front of three girls speaking Spanish. I end up sitting in front of a woman who was from Oregon, but had lived in Canada for the previous decade. This was the first time she was going home, and her happiness was almost infectious.

Going through customs on the ground is a lot less strenuous than by air. The people are more relaxed, and when they saw my US passport I was told “Welcome Home” as opposed to the “Where were you? Why did [would] you leave? What were you doing abroad for that long?” battery of questions I was used to receiving from US customs. If ever given the choice, I strongly recommend it. Either way, I had a laugh with the Australian couple over the dichotomy.

When I got back to my seat, I noticed the girl sitting across from me had a YES button from the Scottish referendum. I asked her about it. She was from Perthshire, and her voice was a dead ringer for Karen Gillan (she didn’t look anything like Karen Gillan though). As often seems to be the case with me, the conversation soon migrated to the Edinburgh vs. Glasgow discussion. She said she liked Glasgow much better than Edinburgh, that Glasgow was all about the people and that once you got over the whole fairy tale thing, Edinburgh didn’t have a lot to offer. I smiled and shook my head and wondered phocesiously where I had heard this before.

After the next stop, the woman who was returning to the US got off to be reunited with some family. I told her “Welcome home” not realising until after it had left my mouth that I had tacked on an “eh?” at the end of my statement. She smiled at me warmly and gave the most sincere “thank you” I’ve ever received. I nearly hugged her on instinct, but that would probably have been weird so I stayed in my seat.

The bus continued to chug along, and I began to write about my southward journey. The view from my window was nice enough, but nothing compared to the earlier Canadian vistas. Eventually, a woman with an accent that sounded Caribbean sat next to me. She had several bags and it made the end of the trip uncomfortably cramped. Apparently she was at the start of three solid days of Greyhounds on her way to New York City. I really didn’t envy that journey, as dreadful as my own was.

Eventually the bus pulled onto a bridge overlooking Puget Sound. I switched my iPhone to from a podcast to my music player and played Owl City’s Hello Seattle (first the original then the remix). These tunes seemed like the perfect soundtrack for my entrance to the city. The bus station was right next to the light train line that led to the airport. Home was just two flights away.

Things Are Going South Fast: Part 1

30 April 2015 @ 9:00PM

There was a German girl sitting across from me in the Prince George Greyhound bus station. I hadn’t asked her name; she hadn’t asked mine. It didn’t really matter. Her west bound bus was leaving in a half an hour, while I had another two hours before the south bound bus departed. It had been a while since I’d spoken with a backpacker, but it was nice to start the trip off that way. I was leaving Prince George for the first time in 115 days, and having this person to talk to about travel things helped me to get back into the traveller mind-set. Hell, just having someone to talk to was a nice distraction from the battle of emotions churning through my body. I wanted to leave so badly it hurt, but I also didn’t want to leave my new friends or this new place I now called home.

When the girl got on her bus, I turned on my phone and plugged my headphones in. Earlier that day, I had downloaded Cora Carmack’s “Losing It” and right about then, I couldn’t think of a better distraction than the awkward Sexyness that is the hallmark of Carmack’s craft. Awkward people need love too; I should know. Anyway, I was so engrossed that I almost didn’t notice that people had begun to queue up for the south bound bus to Kamloops.

After getting my luggage stowed in the cargo bay beneath the seats, I found a widow seat and snuggled up next to my pillow. It was already half past 11, and I so I told myself that I would just listen to one more chapter. I’ve told myself this lie so often that one would think I’d know better. Needless to say that when we stopped at a Tim Horton’s around half 2, I was still awake.

I considered getting a coffee, but I’m sorry Canadian friends, Timmy’s sucks for coffee. So I bought a sandwich instead and then proceeded to listen to the audio book until its completion. I think I finally nodded off during the epilogue.

My eyes opened to the soft, pale-yellow, glow of the eastern hills gradually blending into the lightest baby blue. Scattered cumulus clouds looked pinkish-purple in the glassy clear water of the numerous ponds and streams strewn about the rugged tan-green hills. This landscape could only have been the illegitimate love-child of Turkish Anatolia and the Scottish Highlands, and when seeing it awash in the predawn light, it was hard to imagine anything more beautiful.

The scene flickered before me, on and off, several times before a consistent shutter sound jarred me into a more stable state of consciousness. It took me a bit to recognise the skeuomorphic noise as a camera phone. It was a good idea so I followed suit.

After about half an hour, the sun rose above the hills and we had arrived in Kamloops. A twinge of sadness ran through me as I stumbled out of the bus and into the bus station. Memories of a black January night, bitter cold, and missing her flooded through my mind, as I took a seat and watched a line of bleary-eyed passengers shuffle into the station with all the grace of a horde of zombies seeking the all illusive grey matter, or maybe just coffee. 
The Kamloops bus station is nothing to write home about, which is probably a poor turn of phrase considering I’m literally doing that. However, my time here wasn’t supposed to be long, and so soon enough, I was back in queue to board the next bus to Vancouver.

I ended up chatting with two older gentlemen about one of those grab the prize with the claw and joystick games. A few days before, I had been listening to NPR’s “How to do Everything” and they explained the trick behind these types of games. So I shared it with my new companions, as I will here: Not surprisingly, the game is rigged to insure you lose the overwhelming majority of the time. So the secret is that not only does the claw have to be positioned exactly right to grab a prize, but also that the actual strength of the claw’s grip changes each time. This works out to where only around 1 in 20 times the claw is actually strong enough to pick up the prize, assuming the claw itself is aligned perfectly. The moral of the story is that those games are not worth yours or anyone’s time.

Our line slowly marched towards the bus, and we began to wonder if there would be enough space for all of us. There wasn’t. As it would turn out, there were two busses to Vancouver in quick succession and some of the passengers from the later bus were on my bus. The first bus was scheduled to leave at 7:00; the second bus (an express bus) was due to leave at 8:30. It took so long to get all the passengers sorted onto their correct busses, that our bus didn’t leave Kamloops until 8:00. No one, and especially not the bus driver, was happy.

There's Something Fishy About This

Friday 15 August 2014

6:57 PM

The Isle of Rousay, Scotland, UK

It’s almost 7:00 now and so I should start thinking about dinner. As it would happen, there are two brown trout in the fridge. Sean, my hostel-mate from last night, caught them for me in Peerie Loch. Trouble is, I only kind of know what to do with them… I remember dad fileting the fish when Tom and I were little. I know we watched him do it loads of times, but I’ve never actually done it and it’s been years since I’ve seen it done…

The Kitchen in the Rousay Hostel was actually quite nice for a hostel.

Right, so what do I need? Cutting board, plastic bag, knife... well that's not very sharp... brilliant. I pull out the bag with the fish and remove the first one. Umm, I think I'm supposed to chop off the head.

This proves more difficult than I had anticipated... Now I have to figure out the best way to get rid of the organs. I was given a B in high school biology; I've got this.

I've just sliced through something I shouldn't when a couple walks in. They're from Switzerland, the French speaking part. I say I would shake their hand, but I'm covered in fish. I admit I have no idea what I'm doing, and they assure me that I seem to be doing the right thing.

I start trying to work out what to do about the ribs and the spine while they start cooking their dinner. It's a struggle, and I manage to ruin the first of the two fillets but this is marginally a success.

I begin working on the second fish, and I seem to be getting the hang of this because it goes much faster. I still manage to destroy the first of the two fillets but it's at least recognizable. Now all I have to do is skin them... (or maybe de-scale them would be more accurate)...

The Swiss couple has just sat down for dinner when I begin work on the first and most damaged of my fillets. It doesn't go well. By the second fillet, the couple is wrapping up dinner and is talking about tea and board games.

Fillet two is good, fillet three is not, and by fillet four I "know what I'm doing" to the point where it actually resembles something real people would eat.

I've just begun to prep the veg when the couple says they're going to bed. They tell me they hope I have the best meal ever, and that I've earned it... Covered in fish bits and staring at un-peppered potatoes I couldn't agree more.

The veg goes smoothly. Chopped potatoes in the microwave with butter and salt, Minnesota style. Sautéed red bell peppers and green beans with a hint of garlic, pepper, and teriyaki. When the potatoes are out of the microwave, I begin to fry them. Now it's time for the fish. Maybe this isn't a good time to mention that I don't even really like fish...

However there is nothing an obscene amount of butter can't fix.

By the time I sit down at the table, it's just past 10:00. I can't remember the last time I spent three hours cooking a meal, and it was the best meal I've made in years.

Mainstream Stone Age

Sunday 10 August 2014

4:19 PM

Orkney Mainland, Scotland, UK

To say "I'm tired" would be an understatement. I'm staying in Kirkwall, but I had to bike to Stromness today so Ethel could get a tune-up. I suppose that wouldn't be too bad, but I didn't get to bed until 4 AM. Last night I started listening to Where She Went, and I couldn't stop. Now I'm on my way back to Kirkwall. I'm a figurative zombie, but I'm listening to it again as I ride because it's therapeutic in some very painful way.
I've just passed the village of Stenness and now I have to make a judgement call. Do I keep on, or stop and take some photos of the standing stones? I've been fairly good about not repeating things I've already done on this trip, but it really would be a shame if I stayed in Orkney for a whole month and never visited the stones.
So I turn off onto the B road, and make my way towards the monuments. There are people everywhere. Tour buses stop one after another, and people stream out like ants descending on an unsuspecting picnic.
Despite the masses, I'm happy I came here. The Stones of Stenness are what brought me to Orkney in the first place.

The Stones of Stenness now only has three stones which stand to their original hight, but originally it was comprised of 12 stones in a circular formation spaced 10 Megalithic Yards (MY) across. These very tall stones in such a tight circle would have felt very enclosed when the circle was complete.

Stenness is nice, but near by there is a Neolithic village called Barnhouse. I completely missed it last time I was here, and so I'm fairly eager to check out this peculiar village. All the buildings are worn down almost entirely to their foundations. It's strange because it just outlines where the walls and doors would have been. I'm reminded of when I was a little kid and I would draw the outlines of a house on the side walk.

Barnhouse Village, contemporary with late Skara Brae, is strange for two key reasons. The first is obvious, it's positioned extraordinarily close to the monuments mentioned in this post as well as Maes Howe. This tends to imply that the inhabitants of this village had a bit of status. Also these Grooved ware people don't seem to have a butchery like all the other Neolithic villages in the archipelago. No they weren't the world's first village of vegetarians, we know they ate meat. Was someone bringing this village it's meat? I'm willing to bet they weren't just stopping at Tesco.

The best bit about Barnhouse is that there weren't any tourists. The village isn't well known nor was it sign posted so people seem to miss it. But soon, I'm back into the throng of people hopping from monument to monument.
Next up is the big dig. I also missed the Ness of Brodgar excavation the last time I was here. Unfortunately, it's not exactly in a visit-ready state.

This Ness of Brodgar was not a village. They're calling it a ritual complex. With over 100 buildings that were originally surrounded by a stone wall unlike anything else from its time and a startling lack of domestic supplies, it's hard to come up with something better to call it. Only 10% has been excavated, and just that is completely revolutionizing what we thought we knew about the Neolithic.

If you're really interested in the Ness of Brodgar, I suggest you start with this video. It's really long so just be warned.

As with most in-progress digs, it's difficult to make heads or tales of what's going on unless you're working on the dig yourself. There is a person giving an explanation of the site, but they're just rapping up when I arrive. So I wander around, snap a few photos, and then head on to the Ring of Brodgar.

I'm not going to ramble on about the Ring of Brodgar because I already did that. So if you want some Neolithic Facts about the Ring of Brodgar check out this old blog post: A Peedie Adventure Part 2

It's a bit long winded as is the trend with my posts from last year, but it also details the village of Skara Brae so that's a plus.

Although you can't see them in this photo, it's crawling with tourists. This is as far as I make it before I decide to turn back. I'd go back to Brodgar later, but for now I just wanted to get back to the hostel and I had a long way to go.

Troubling Britishisms

This post doesn't really have a date to go along with it.
It's more just a series of observations I've made during my time in Orkney which I've found troubling.
Pitfalls are the joys of travel, and I wouldn't be travelling if I never saw anything strange or did anything... well, culturally ignorant.

It started early on, when I would wander around Kirkwall and look at all the shops and restaurants. Occasionally I would see one of two very strange things. Some establishments had a sign saying "Licensed Restaurant" while others advertised a "Public Bar." Now these terms themselves aren't all that troubling. I would assume all restaurants would be licensed to be a restaurant and that Bars would be open to the general public.
The troubling thing is that in stating such a property of the establishment it tends to imply that there are establishments in which the corollary is true. But why would anyone go into such a dodgy establishment as an "Unlicensed Restaurant" and what is the point in even listing a "Private Bar" ?
Such listings don't have a point - but, surprise surprise, I was way off base.
As it turns out, "Licensed Restaurant" means that the establishment has a licence to sell alcohol. Unlicensed restaurants, not that you would see such a sign, still have to follow food health and safety. And "Public Bar" shows up when there is a pub in a hotel, but the pub is open to the pubic.

Next we have this little beauty:

Toilet Light. This isn't my first trip to the UK, and I really should know better, but still this was the image that instantly came to mind.

Please tell me I'm not the only one.
The reality is much less interesting.

We prim and proper Americans would refer to this room as the "bathroom" regardless of the presence of any actual bath. The British call the room the toilet. Really why skirt around the subject?
Of course this is in a hostel, so I've known more spacious broom cupboards, and it's Scotland so the switch for the toilet light is on the outside of the actual room it's intended for.

So some time later I cut my finger. It wasn't a bad cut... actually it was an incredibly small cut (almost literally a paper cut), but we all know those sting like hell.
So I go to the desk at my hostel and ask:
"Can I get a band-aid and some neosporin?"
"A what?" I'm asked as though I suddenly started speaking Greek.
"You mean a plaster, and what?"
"Neosporin..." I offer sheepishly... "It's like an antibacterial cream"
"Like an antiseptic?"
"Sure..."
So I was given a plaster and an antiseptic wipe... Apparently, neosporin is an American thing... you never really know which brands permeate international boarders.

For the record, this foreign object is known as a plaster. Who knew?

My last pit fall is a layover from my previous trip to the UK... and it remains, in my opinion, the one unforgivable sin this country commits. I mean, it's a paper cut of an issue. They say no place is perfect, and in my opinion this is the reason why the UK is not perfect.

I kind of think this picture says it all. Whenever, I mention this they say "ohh the plumbing is old." So are we to assume that the rest of the world has state of the art piping, but the UK (a first world country) just hasn't gotten around to it?
No, I'm sorry that's not an answer. This is an inferior system found across most sinks most everywhere in the UK.

And on that cheery note, this is where I think I'll leave you. Enjoy washing your hands with a mixed tap. Rest assured knowing that I'm jealous.

Stone Skipper Paradise

Saturday 6 August 2014

4:19 PM

The isle of Papa Westray, Scotland, UK

I've left the kirk of St. Boniface. There is a fair bit of time to kill before the ferry back to Westray, but I don't really care. I'm still partly reeling from my time in the kirkyard. I just need to pedal hard until it's out of my mind.

I haven't even made it back to the shop when I spy a field of puffins, or at least I think they're puffins (my ornithological knowledge base is seriously lacking). They're tiny! also exceptionally adorable for birds...

This was the best photo I could get. The iPhone has it's limitations.

                             

The wind is starting to get to me and the puffins won't come any closer, so I press on. The pier is on the southern tip of the island, and I'm in the middle. So it's a long ride back to the pier. Most of it is down hill, but the wind is so strong that I have to pedal anyway just to keep moving forward.

I've been quite fortunate in Orkney. I almost always seem to miss the rain, but for some reason I'm always biking into the wind wherever I go.

All that said, I'm able to make it back to the pier with over 30 minutes to spare. There are people congregating around the shelter house, assorted bikes laying alongside buildings and cars with multi coloured helmets strewn about. Families and little children and elderly couples. 

I don't really feel like being social, nor do I feel like being the anti-social person ignoring everyone while listening to an audio book. So I choose option C, go to the beach.

I'm glad I did.

This is the beach that lay before me.

A collection of skipping stones so good that the ones I discard would have been considered 'perfect' on any other beach.

And it's like this, as far as the eye could see.

I make my way down by the water, where I notice some peculiar round purple blobs. I think they're beached jellyfish, but I'm not about to touch them and find out.

The bay before me is glassy calm, so I shrug off my jacket and set it on the ground next to my hat and bag. Then I begin to skip stones.

3 skips

7 skips

4 skips

16!

I stop counting. The reflexive rocking of my torso and the sling of my arm all falling into rhythm.

Eventually, my first collection of stones runs out and I have to get some more. When I return, arms laden with perfect skippers, I notice that several of the people waiting on the pier have turned to watch me.

Truthfully, my right arm is getting sore, but I skip anyway.