Our walk back from Jelly Hill last Thursday was a sad one as we said goodbye to old friends and new. We were also weighed down with amazing gifts...amazing in part because they were totally unexpected and then because they just were. Ann gave us two wonderful scarves, Pam a book of Charles Rennie Macintosh postcards, Tom & Marion Thornton's candy and two books from his personal library, and John & Carol's paperweight (without knowing that Lynn collects them) and a quaich.
The quaich is a ceremonial, communal cup, offered in Scottish households to family and friends, usually filled with usquebah, "the water of life," i.e. whisky.
We mixed a few tears along with the rain as we walked down Byres Road to our flat for the last time on this trip.
The next morning Andrew picked us up at 6:30 a.m. and we off to Glasgow Airport for the 9:00 a.m. Continental flight to Newark, travelling east into the morning. When we landed in Newark we collected our bags and cleared Customs. I had to ask the Customs Agent, who did have a rather thick New Joisey accent to repeat his question, as my ear was still adjusting to life without that Scottish lilt. When we rechecked the luggage we entered into the midst of a brewing argument between two baggage handlers, neither of whom appeared to want to place our bags on the conveyor. We were finally directed to leave the bags, but I lingered just outside the area to watch and insure that the bags actually made it off the cart. They did, quite emphatically, as the baggage agent lifted each bag about chest high and body slammed them into the conveyor. I rushed back into the area, using a few choice variations of THAT WORD I learned at the feet out my Scottish mates.
The flight to San Diego was uneventful and on-time. It even included the airline version of a cheeseburger. We arrived, our bags did not. Nor did they arrive for two other Glaswegians who were visiting San Diego and had been travelling with us all day. Ours were delivered to the house at 2:35 a.m., with only the metal container containing a bottle of Edradour somewhat the worse for wear. I did have visions of Oban soaked clothes. I would have looked the perfect fool sucking on whisky soaked laundry.
And so it's back to the routine. The gym at 5:00 a.m., the office, coaching sessions, preparing for meetings, and a flight back to the East Coast to work with the amazing team at LAZ Parking. We have about 1,500 photos to go through.
Our dinners have been spiced with reading the journal entries from the trip, keeping fresh wonderful memories. We have also been grilled by friends, family, and acquaintances about the trip.
Tomorrow night Alan & Lilian will be stopping by for a wee dram and dinner. They are Weegie ex-pats, planning to return over the holidays to visit their families.
Last evening we hosted a group at Wine Steals. We started at 6:00 p.m. and left about 11:15 p.m. to return home, a solid effort. Much to our surprise we both looked right as we stepped off the curb. Fortunately no vehicle was approaching from the left, the true source of danger here. My new mantra: Look left!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Haggis and The End of Something
All our bags are packed, we're ready to go...
Our last day in our flat on Cresswell Street in Glasgow, Scotland. We had an interesting week to end our nine week stay.
Friday was our last rendezvous with the crowd at Jelly Hill. Wee Lee, Carol's son, somehow got a few of the adults to race him up and down the street. Lee is a 12-year old greyhound and he was battling those who are older, larger, and somewhat debilitated by adult beverages. One of our number, fueled with several wines and tequila shooters, careened off the glass of a nearby retail shop, fortunately only bruising her shoulder. From the glass she caromed into our table, upsetting a few glasses. Within 20 seconds, Lynn and Carol had replaced the chairs, Callum the drinks, and the rest of us the order of the table. Like a well-oiled machine, something we do every day. The erstwhile Sebastian Coe wanna-be's husband put the perfect capper to the event, shaking his wise head and saying, "I am glad my mother wasn't alive to see that."
The next day was a bit of a scramble, as I needed to rent a kilt, flashes, formal shirt and cravat for that evening. I have the other pieces needed for formal Scottish attire, but the kilt is still being made. The reason, a Scottish dinner hosted by Tom & Marion Brodie. It was an evening of firsts. Most of the men wore their kilts. We were piped into the Brodie home by their amazing piper daughter, Iona. Marion's brother and sister-in-law, Scott & Jackie, turned out an amazing salmon on oatcakes hors d'ourvre.The menu included Cockaleekie soup (thank you, Jerry Allsop), haggis, neeps and tatties, with a small dram of Athol Brose (whisky, oatmeal and honey) and a cheese course (Callan & Kirtseen) with port that followed dessert. As the haggis was brought into the dining room, Iona played "Scotland the Brave." Lucy Allsop addressed the haggis, that "Great chieftan of the puddin' race", with a bit of Rabbie Burns. I will not divulge the ingredients for haggis, lest there be the occasion when you find yourself at table sampling this most Scottish of dishes. All I will say is that the entire meal, top to bottom (well, I do prefer my whisky without honey and oatmeal), was sensational.
Over the mantle of the fireplace a banner hung. Cead Mile Failte, one-thousand welcomes. There can be no better summation of the evening.
The survivors retired to Tom's den. Gylen played the guitar, those who felt the urge sang, and Tom graced us with a couple of monologues and some wonderful stories. Tom was a noted ceilidh performer, and, as often is the case, the stories around the pieces are sometimes as good as the poems themselves. My new goal is to memorize "The Tobermory Treasure."
We walked home at 2:15 a.m.
And rose the next day to watch the Spain versus Netherlands World Cup Final at Callum and Lucy's place.
On Monday, we took our last train trip to Edinburgh. We visited Mary King's Close, a series of streets buried under the nineteenth century construction of the Royal Exchange. Some shopping for gifts for family and friends.
Tuesday we hit City Centre in Glasgow. That evening we hosted a dinner at Stravaigin 2, a restaurant in Ruthven Lane. On the second Tuesday of each month they feature a Dutch Rijstaffel (rice table), an assortment of curried Asian dishes served with Tiger beer and lime and coconut rice. Superb! We toasted each other, we gave a few gifts to show our appreciatian for all the hospitality and help we've been shown these past two months. John Rae read "The 37 Bus", a humourous poem in the style of the aforementioned R. Burns. We closed the restaurant and walked to Oran Mor, a church that has been repurposed as a bar (there's just something so right about that!). There was the lightest of rains, a persistent mist, called a smirr, that fell on us during our walk.
Callum and I walked side-by-side, and I said that I felt like the entire West End had adopted us. "No, mate," he replied, "all of Scotland has adopted you."
And that is how we feel and that is what is making this evening's farewell so hard. Yes, we are eager to return to the familiar and our friends and family. These past weeks though have been, as they say in these parts, "Dead brilliant." New friends, incredible experiences, and a true sense of what it is to live in another culture.
We are off Jelly Hill!
Slainte!
Our last day in our flat on Cresswell Street in Glasgow, Scotland. We had an interesting week to end our nine week stay.
Friday was our last rendezvous with the crowd at Jelly Hill. Wee Lee, Carol's son, somehow got a few of the adults to race him up and down the street. Lee is a 12-year old greyhound and he was battling those who are older, larger, and somewhat debilitated by adult beverages. One of our number, fueled with several wines and tequila shooters, careened off the glass of a nearby retail shop, fortunately only bruising her shoulder. From the glass she caromed into our table, upsetting a few glasses. Within 20 seconds, Lynn and Carol had replaced the chairs, Callum the drinks, and the rest of us the order of the table. Like a well-oiled machine, something we do every day. The erstwhile Sebastian Coe wanna-be's husband put the perfect capper to the event, shaking his wise head and saying, "I am glad my mother wasn't alive to see that."
The next day was a bit of a scramble, as I needed to rent a kilt, flashes, formal shirt and cravat for that evening. I have the other pieces needed for formal Scottish attire, but the kilt is still being made. The reason, a Scottish dinner hosted by Tom & Marion Brodie. It was an evening of firsts. Most of the men wore their kilts. We were piped into the Brodie home by their amazing piper daughter, Iona. Marion's brother and sister-in-law, Scott & Jackie, turned out an amazing salmon on oatcakes hors d'ourvre.The menu included Cockaleekie soup (thank you, Jerry Allsop), haggis, neeps and tatties, with a small dram of Athol Brose (whisky, oatmeal and honey) and a cheese course (Callan & Kirtseen) with port that followed dessert. As the haggis was brought into the dining room, Iona played "Scotland the Brave." Lucy Allsop addressed the haggis, that "Great chieftan of the puddin' race", with a bit of Rabbie Burns. I will not divulge the ingredients for haggis, lest there be the occasion when you find yourself at table sampling this most Scottish of dishes. All I will say is that the entire meal, top to bottom (well, I do prefer my whisky without honey and oatmeal), was sensational.
Over the mantle of the fireplace a banner hung. Cead Mile Failte, one-thousand welcomes. There can be no better summation of the evening.
The survivors retired to Tom's den. Gylen played the guitar, those who felt the urge sang, and Tom graced us with a couple of monologues and some wonderful stories. Tom was a noted ceilidh performer, and, as often is the case, the stories around the pieces are sometimes as good as the poems themselves. My new goal is to memorize "The Tobermory Treasure."
We walked home at 2:15 a.m.
And rose the next day to watch the Spain versus Netherlands World Cup Final at Callum and Lucy's place.
On Monday, we took our last train trip to Edinburgh. We visited Mary King's Close, a series of streets buried under the nineteenth century construction of the Royal Exchange. Some shopping for gifts for family and friends.
Tuesday we hit City Centre in Glasgow. That evening we hosted a dinner at Stravaigin 2, a restaurant in Ruthven Lane. On the second Tuesday of each month they feature a Dutch Rijstaffel (rice table), an assortment of curried Asian dishes served with Tiger beer and lime and coconut rice. Superb! We toasted each other, we gave a few gifts to show our appreciatian for all the hospitality and help we've been shown these past two months. John Rae read "The 37 Bus", a humourous poem in the style of the aforementioned R. Burns. We closed the restaurant and walked to Oran Mor, a church that has been repurposed as a bar (there's just something so right about that!). There was the lightest of rains, a persistent mist, called a smirr, that fell on us during our walk.
Callum and I walked side-by-side, and I said that I felt like the entire West End had adopted us. "No, mate," he replied, "all of Scotland has adopted you."
And that is how we feel and that is what is making this evening's farewell so hard. Yes, we are eager to return to the familiar and our friends and family. These past weeks though have been, as they say in these parts, "Dead brilliant." New friends, incredible experiences, and a true sense of what it is to live in another culture.
We are off Jelly Hill!
Slainte!
Friday, July 9, 2010
Sprinting to the finish or When Did Nine Weeks Become Two?
It has been a busy week. Suddenly the nine weeks were down to two and we started to feel a bit of panic for things not done along with the realization that there would some of those things that will remain unaccomplished and best left for a later visit.
In the past week we:
• Had dinner with Jerry Allsop and learned a bit more about Glasgow’s World War II history…because of shipbuilding the city was a favorite target of the Luftwaffe
• Were passengers and guests of John Rae and Carol Smith to a visit to St. Andrews
• Visited Linlithgow and the Castle where Mary, Queen of Scots was born
• Met up again with Bob & Lorna Deeley and enjoyed lunch with their daughter, son-in-law and grandchild, wee Callum
• Joined the Deeleys and the Frames on a train to Edinburgh where Inspector Jamie led us on a tour of St. Leonard’s Police Station and an interesting perspective of the city
• Hired a car
• Drove to the Culloden Battlefield, site of the last major land battle on British soil, where Government troops defeated the Jacobite army in 1746, altering the history of the clans in Scotland
• The Highlands are beautiful
• Spent two nights in Oban
• Took the ferry to the Isle of Mull and a brief stop in Tobermory
• Returned to Oban for the tour of the Oban Distillery, ending with a wee dram
So, let’s go to the videotape and the highlights:
• Even for someone who doesn’t golf, The Royal and Ancient Golf Club in St. Andrews was impressive
• For you Trekkies out there, Linlithgow is the home town of Montgomery “Scottie” Scott, the irascible chief engineer of the Enterprise on Star Trek. He will be born there in 2025.
• Before condemned prisoners were transported by horse and wagon from Edinburgh Castle to Grassmarket where they were executed, they were given a last drink and then gave us two expressions, “One more for the road” and “On the wagon.”
• A free dram, a free Glencairn glass, a discount coupon for £3.00 of a bottle of Oban whisky, and a tour? At £7.00 the best tour value in Scotland.
• After 450 miles covered in three days behind the wheel of a Vauxhall, I am a bit more comfortable driving on the “wrong side of the road”…just in time to return to San Diego next week.
We have a week of “last things” before us. Tonight our last Friday night visit to Jelly Hill. Tomorrow we are guests of the Brodie family for a Scottish night, featuring haggis, neeps and tatties, Cullen skink, song, and bagpipes. Tuesday we’re hosting a thank you dinner for some of our friends at Stravaigin 2. A last jaunt to Edinburgh and a stroll through our environs for some photo opps.
Business note: We hired our cars through Enterprise. The model translates very well here. The same clean-cut recent college graduates, same courtesy, thoroughness and cleanliness of vehicles and location, same opportunities for rapid promotion for the go-getters.
In the past week we:
• Had dinner with Jerry Allsop and learned a bit more about Glasgow’s World War II history…because of shipbuilding the city was a favorite target of the Luftwaffe
• Were passengers and guests of John Rae and Carol Smith to a visit to St. Andrews
• Visited Linlithgow and the Castle where Mary, Queen of Scots was born
• Met up again with Bob & Lorna Deeley and enjoyed lunch with their daughter, son-in-law and grandchild, wee Callum
• Joined the Deeleys and the Frames on a train to Edinburgh where Inspector Jamie led us on a tour of St. Leonard’s Police Station and an interesting perspective of the city
• Hired a car
• Drove to the Culloden Battlefield, site of the last major land battle on British soil, where Government troops defeated the Jacobite army in 1746, altering the history of the clans in Scotland
• The Highlands are beautiful
• Spent two nights in Oban
• Took the ferry to the Isle of Mull and a brief stop in Tobermory
• Returned to Oban for the tour of the Oban Distillery, ending with a wee dram
So, let’s go to the videotape and the highlights:
• Even for someone who doesn’t golf, The Royal and Ancient Golf Club in St. Andrews was impressive
• For you Trekkies out there, Linlithgow is the home town of Montgomery “Scottie” Scott, the irascible chief engineer of the Enterprise on Star Trek. He will be born there in 2025.
• Before condemned prisoners were transported by horse and wagon from Edinburgh Castle to Grassmarket where they were executed, they were given a last drink and then gave us two expressions, “One more for the road” and “On the wagon.”
• A free dram, a free Glencairn glass, a discount coupon for £3.00 of a bottle of Oban whisky, and a tour? At £7.00 the best tour value in Scotland.
• After 450 miles covered in three days behind the wheel of a Vauxhall, I am a bit more comfortable driving on the “wrong side of the road”…just in time to return to San Diego next week.
We have a week of “last things” before us. Tonight our last Friday night visit to Jelly Hill. Tomorrow we are guests of the Brodie family for a Scottish night, featuring haggis, neeps and tatties, Cullen skink, song, and bagpipes. Tuesday we’re hosting a thank you dinner for some of our friends at Stravaigin 2. A last jaunt to Edinburgh and a stroll through our environs for some photo opps.
Business note: We hired our cars through Enterprise. The model translates very well here. The same clean-cut recent college graduates, same courtesy, thoroughness and cleanliness of vehicles and location, same opportunities for rapid promotion for the go-getters.
Friday, July 2, 2010
The World's Most Interesting Urinal
At the outset we must know how the Scots pronounce "urinal", not "your-in-al" as we do but "your-eye-nal", and yes the long "i" makes all the difference.
On the Wednesday that saw the final day of group play in the World Cup for Group C, England against Slovakia and USA v Algeria, I went to visit Tom Brodie. Not to be unsocialable I accepted Tom's offer of a wee dram. The sun was over the yardarm as we said in the Navy, and it was past noon, even a bit past 1:00 p.m. I distinctly remember asking my host for a wee dram, emphasis on the wee. Tom's definition and mine are seperated by a factor of four. Tom regaled me with tales of his early days in the label business, working for an America boss, whose catch phrase, "Do we have a problem, friend?" has become our unofficial greeting.
From there to Jelly Hill to meet Callum and John, my running mates for the afternoon. We hopped a cab to City Centre and entered The Griffin. There we joined John's friend John, and his son, Johnny, an actor. A couple of Guinnesses, some crisps, suffering under the shrill announcing of the BBC commentators, and a rather lackluster 1-0 win for England rounded out the afternoon. The pub owner offered me a seat in his office to watch the USA game, a much better match as it turned out...with Landon Donovan propelling the team to the top of the group and the knockout round with an injury time goal in the 91st minute, but I chose to remain with my mates to cheer against England in a show of solidarity.
My friends then took me to two authentic, old-time Glasgow pubs. The first was McPhabbs, where I retreated to an Irn Bru. This is NOT a local beer, Irn Bru is the orange-colored (orange-coloured?) soft drink that outsells Coca-Cola in Scotland. It tastes like bubble-gum. I'm sipping some now, causing me to muse about an Irn Bru 12-step program when we leave.
Then it was another taxi ride to The Lismore. The pub's theme is the Highlands Clearance, a dark nineteenth-century social engineering program that led to the destruction of a way of life, the deportation of thousands to the United States, Canada, and Australia, and the primacy of sheep over humans. The pub boasts about about 125 single malts, and the young lady behind the bar, regaled by my mates about my quest to drink my way throught the single malt alphabet, found a whisky that began with an "R", Rhosdhu. I was already sipping a Tobermory. Callum kept urging me to go to the urinal and after a fashion I went.
The urinal, one of those stainless steep troughs, boasted three separate areas, each featurning a short biography of a villian of the Highland Clearances. I held my water, read the bios, selected the most worthy candidate and did the business.
Only to be interrogated upon my return. Who did I piss on? "George Granville was and English peer, landed gentry, so he was operating out of his own self-interest," I answered. "Colonel Fell was a military man, following orders, but Patrick Sellar, that bastard, had a choice. He turned on his own people and, acting as Granville's factor, helped clear the highlands. I pissed on him."
Evidently the right choice.
There were a few more rounds to round out the evening.
A word on the World Cup: An unexpected benefit of our visit has been watching the World Cup in a football crazed society. Not "soccer" as we call it in the USA, but football. It has been extraordinary. The Scots, nearly to a person, cheer against England. The most popular tee-shirt (I bought one and wore it to the pubs under my USA tee-shirt) is "A.B.E. Anyone But England. South Africa 2010." To plumb the depth of this enmity you need to delve a bit deeper than the apparent history and listen to the commentaries on television and the reporting in the newspapers. Talk about "homers"! The English press is beyond rabid, they are demented. The expectations are outsized and have proven to be unrealistic. The analysis is painfully indepth, the level of scutiny microscopic. No detail is too small to be painfully probed.
On the Wednesday that saw the final day of group play in the World Cup for Group C, England against Slovakia and USA v Algeria, I went to visit Tom Brodie. Not to be unsocialable I accepted Tom's offer of a wee dram. The sun was over the yardarm as we said in the Navy, and it was past noon, even a bit past 1:00 p.m. I distinctly remember asking my host for a wee dram, emphasis on the wee. Tom's definition and mine are seperated by a factor of four. Tom regaled me with tales of his early days in the label business, working for an America boss, whose catch phrase, "Do we have a problem, friend?" has become our unofficial greeting.
From there to Jelly Hill to meet Callum and John, my running mates for the afternoon. We hopped a cab to City Centre and entered The Griffin. There we joined John's friend John, and his son, Johnny, an actor. A couple of Guinnesses, some crisps, suffering under the shrill announcing of the BBC commentators, and a rather lackluster 1-0 win for England rounded out the afternoon. The pub owner offered me a seat in his office to watch the USA game, a much better match as it turned out...with Landon Donovan propelling the team to the top of the group and the knockout round with an injury time goal in the 91st minute, but I chose to remain with my mates to cheer against England in a show of solidarity.
My friends then took me to two authentic, old-time Glasgow pubs. The first was McPhabbs, where I retreated to an Irn Bru. This is NOT a local beer, Irn Bru is the orange-colored (orange-coloured?) soft drink that outsells Coca-Cola in Scotland. It tastes like bubble-gum. I'm sipping some now, causing me to muse about an Irn Bru 12-step program when we leave.
Then it was another taxi ride to The Lismore. The pub's theme is the Highlands Clearance, a dark nineteenth-century social engineering program that led to the destruction of a way of life, the deportation of thousands to the United States, Canada, and Australia, and the primacy of sheep over humans. The pub boasts about about 125 single malts, and the young lady behind the bar, regaled by my mates about my quest to drink my way throught the single malt alphabet, found a whisky that began with an "R", Rhosdhu. I was already sipping a Tobermory. Callum kept urging me to go to the urinal and after a fashion I went.
The urinal, one of those stainless steep troughs, boasted three separate areas, each featurning a short biography of a villian of the Highland Clearances. I held my water, read the bios, selected the most worthy candidate and did the business.
Only to be interrogated upon my return. Who did I piss on? "George Granville was and English peer, landed gentry, so he was operating out of his own self-interest," I answered. "Colonel Fell was a military man, following orders, but Patrick Sellar, that bastard, had a choice. He turned on his own people and, acting as Granville's factor, helped clear the highlands. I pissed on him."
Evidently the right choice.
There were a few more rounds to round out the evening.
A word on the World Cup: An unexpected benefit of our visit has been watching the World Cup in a football crazed society. Not "soccer" as we call it in the USA, but football. It has been extraordinary. The Scots, nearly to a person, cheer against England. The most popular tee-shirt (I bought one and wore it to the pubs under my USA tee-shirt) is "A.B.E. Anyone But England. South Africa 2010." To plumb the depth of this enmity you need to delve a bit deeper than the apparent history and listen to the commentaries on television and the reporting in the newspapers. Talk about "homers"! The English press is beyond rabid, they are demented. The expectations are outsized and have proven to be unrealistic. The analysis is painfully indepth, the level of scutiny microscopic. No detail is too small to be painfully probed.
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Rocky Road to Dublin
Our friends Jerry and Debbie arrived from San Diego on Friday, June 11th, after nearly a full day's travel. We had a rather ambitious ten days planned for them, beginning with a visit to Glasgow's City Centre and donning our USA World Cup gear for the USA v England match. We met some friends at The Rock, and made quite a few more, including Andy and Scott, with whom we shared a table.
When Jerry said something about "the British", that all-inclusive term for the United Kingdom, Andy grumbled, "Call us English bastards, Irish bastards, Welsh bastards, Scottish bastards, but nae British!" I wore a red USA tee shirt over another tee-shirt I have purchased for the evening...A.B.E. (Anyone but England.) Truly, the Scots favorite team is Scotland first, then whoever is playing England.
The game ended in a draw, "You should be very happy with that result," our new friend Andy opined, "but you Yanks don't quite understand the draw." We don't, preferring instead the clear winner and loser in our sporting events. Hell, we even changed the rules in the NHL to reduce the number of ties.
That evening, John, a group commander for Scotland Fire and Safety, offered to drive us to the Isle of Mull and the Isle of Iona at week's end. Another of those startling examples of Scottish hospitality that leave you breathless. More on that later.
A quick trip to Edinburgh on Sunday, the obligatory visit to the Castle, St, Giles, and Greyfriar's Bobby. Monday was the great adventure...driving. We "hired" a car from Enterprise and then drove to Stirling to visit Stirling Castle. We took a slight detour to Bannockburn, site of one of the most significant victories in Scottish history, Robert the Bruce's much smaller army defeating the English under Edward II, through the unerring use of terrain and local knowledge. A home-field win, if you will. We also toured Argyle's Lodging, the home of the Duke of Argyle, a 16th century Georgian home, and the Church of the Holy Rude, the only other Church in the UK to offer services and have hosted a coronation...the other, Westminster Abbey.
So, what was it like driving on the "wrong" side of the road? Rather odd. Total concentration. Left turns are the easier, the roundabouts maddening, and a tendency to drift to the left, as your entire perspective in driving changes. But at day's end I counted a few love taps on the curb (kerb) and a couple of rather sharp turns as the only mistakes. We returned the car intact.
On Tuesday we were off on three-day trip to Ireland. Our taxi driver was an engaging fellow, so much so that we enaged him to appear at trip's end for a return to the airport.
Ah, Ireland. If only we had met more Irish people. The country is filled with Russian and Eastern European emigres who work in the hospitality industry (wouldn't be my first choice if I was running the career counseling here) and Dublin itself seems to cater to the large number of American tourists who return to the Auld Sod in search of their roots and a pint of Guinness.
Make no mistake, the Easter Rising of 1916 is still a current event in the collective consciousness of the Irish. Walking past the Post Office, the G.P.O., on O'Connell Street and viewing the bullet holes in the columns and facade makes you a believer. During our three days we saw the following:
We returned Thursday evening at midnight and then we were awake and out the door to meet John at 4:45 a.m. for the sixteen hour plus day to the Isles of Mull and Iona. In Iona we visited the abbey where the Book of Kells had been written, putting a nice finish to that endeavor. We rode four ferries and covered nearly 300 miles by car. We toured Duart Castle on Mull, a rather interesting mix of Disney and modern photography. The castle is the home of the Chief of the Clan Maclean. The crest for clan Maclean includes an emu and a seal (as in the type you'd see at a Sea World show.) This caused us to imagine how those symbols were selected.
"We'd like an eagle on the clan crest."
"Sorry, taken."
"All right. A hawk then!"
"Sorry."
"An osprey?"
"No, but we do have an emu available. If you select that, then we will add a seal at no charge."
"Brilliant!"
We spent the last few days of Jerry's and Debbie's visit wandering around Glasgow, usually in a pub, expanding our knowledge of single malts, ales, and porters. There was an interesting bit of larceny on Saturday afternoon, that will remain unpublished, though it will be a tale oft-told upon our return.
We bid Jerry and Debbie farewell this morning and are regrouping for another week.
When Jerry said something about "the British", that all-inclusive term for the United Kingdom, Andy grumbled, "Call us English bastards, Irish bastards, Welsh bastards, Scottish bastards, but nae British!" I wore a red USA tee shirt over another tee-shirt I have purchased for the evening...A.B.E. (Anyone but England.) Truly, the Scots favorite team is Scotland first, then whoever is playing England.
The game ended in a draw, "You should be very happy with that result," our new friend Andy opined, "but you Yanks don't quite understand the draw." We don't, preferring instead the clear winner and loser in our sporting events. Hell, we even changed the rules in the NHL to reduce the number of ties.
That evening, John, a group commander for Scotland Fire and Safety, offered to drive us to the Isle of Mull and the Isle of Iona at week's end. Another of those startling examples of Scottish hospitality that leave you breathless. More on that later.
A quick trip to Edinburgh on Sunday, the obligatory visit to the Castle, St, Giles, and Greyfriar's Bobby. Monday was the great adventure...driving. We "hired" a car from Enterprise and then drove to Stirling to visit Stirling Castle. We took a slight detour to Bannockburn, site of one of the most significant victories in Scottish history, Robert the Bruce's much smaller army defeating the English under Edward II, through the unerring use of terrain and local knowledge. A home-field win, if you will. We also toured Argyle's Lodging, the home of the Duke of Argyle, a 16th century Georgian home, and the Church of the Holy Rude, the only other Church in the UK to offer services and have hosted a coronation...the other, Westminster Abbey.
So, what was it like driving on the "wrong" side of the road? Rather odd. Total concentration. Left turns are the easier, the roundabouts maddening, and a tendency to drift to the left, as your entire perspective in driving changes. But at day's end I counted a few love taps on the curb (kerb) and a couple of rather sharp turns as the only mistakes. We returned the car intact.
On Tuesday we were off on three-day trip to Ireland. Our taxi driver was an engaging fellow, so much so that we enaged him to appear at trip's end for a return to the airport.
Ah, Ireland. If only we had met more Irish people. The country is filled with Russian and Eastern European emigres who work in the hospitality industry (wouldn't be my first choice if I was running the career counseling here) and Dublin itself seems to cater to the large number of American tourists who return to the Auld Sod in search of their roots and a pint of Guinness.
Make no mistake, the Easter Rising of 1916 is still a current event in the collective consciousness of the Irish. Walking past the Post Office, the G.P.O., on O'Connell Street and viewing the bullet holes in the columns and facade makes you a believer. During our three days we saw the following:
- Trinity College and the Book of Kells (an illuminated manuscript from the 8th century, penned by Scottish monks at the abbey on the Isle of Iona)
- Dublin Castle
- The Garden of Rememberance (remembering those who died to help create the Irish Republic)
- The Writer's Museum (Jonathon Swift, James Joyce, Brendan Behan, Samuel Beckett, James Kavanagh, William Butler Yeats, etc.)
- The National Gallery
- The Guinness Storehouse (an a "free" pint of Guinness atop the Gravity Bar at tour's end)
- Kilmainham Jail (where the leaders of the 1916 Rising were taken, and 14 of them executed...one of those eerie places where history is palpable)
- Grafton Street
- St. Patrick's Cathedral
We returned Thursday evening at midnight and then we were awake and out the door to meet John at 4:45 a.m. for the sixteen hour plus day to the Isles of Mull and Iona. In Iona we visited the abbey where the Book of Kells had been written, putting a nice finish to that endeavor. We rode four ferries and covered nearly 300 miles by car. We toured Duart Castle on Mull, a rather interesting mix of Disney and modern photography. The castle is the home of the Chief of the Clan Maclean. The crest for clan Maclean includes an emu and a seal (as in the type you'd see at a Sea World show.) This caused us to imagine how those symbols were selected.
"We'd like an eagle on the clan crest."
"Sorry, taken."
"All right. A hawk then!"
"Sorry."
"An osprey?"
"No, but we do have an emu available. If you select that, then we will add a seal at no charge."
"Brilliant!"
We spent the last few days of Jerry's and Debbie's visit wandering around Glasgow, usually in a pub, expanding our knowledge of single malts, ales, and porters. There was an interesting bit of larceny on Saturday afternoon, that will remain unpublished, though it will be a tale oft-told upon our return.
We bid Jerry and Debbie farewell this morning and are regrouping for another week.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
The wee things
Tomorrow marks the end of the fourth week of our Glaswegian adventure. To say we have settled in is an understatement. It's all the little things that make for a semblance of truly living abroad.
We have eased into a routine. I am now a member of the athletic club at University of Glasgow, so I make the walk in the morning to torture myself on one of the elliptical machines. We also make a daily visit to the grocery store. There is a news agent where we buy the paper. I have a library card (more on that later). We're good customers of Oddbins, our wine and whisky connection. We've had our second meal at The Wee Curry Shop. We have expanded our circle of friends from the Lucy and Callum nexus point. We take the time to speak with the merchants and clerks.
Scottish hospitality found us at Callum's birthday barbeque party last Saturday, arriving at 5:00 p.m. and leaving just past midnight. We followed up that celebration by accompanying him and another 10 friends to The Stand, a comedy club for "Sunday Services with Michael Redmond." Redmond, a Glasgow fixture, emcees a Sunday smorgasbard of four comics. The last two comics were brilliant, a Glasgow-born first generation Pakistani and The Boy with Tape on His Mouth.
Since our return from Spain we have visited the Kelvingrove Museum for the third time, wandered through Glasgow's Cathedral, went through the Hunterian on the campus of the University of Glasgow.
Highlights of the week:
We have eased into a routine. I am now a member of the athletic club at University of Glasgow, so I make the walk in the morning to torture myself on one of the elliptical machines. We also make a daily visit to the grocery store. There is a news agent where we buy the paper. I have a library card (more on that later). We're good customers of Oddbins, our wine and whisky connection. We've had our second meal at The Wee Curry Shop. We have expanded our circle of friends from the Lucy and Callum nexus point. We take the time to speak with the merchants and clerks.
Scottish hospitality found us at Callum's birthday barbeque party last Saturday, arriving at 5:00 p.m. and leaving just past midnight. We followed up that celebration by accompanying him and another 10 friends to The Stand, a comedy club for "Sunday Services with Michael Redmond." Redmond, a Glasgow fixture, emcees a Sunday smorgasbard of four comics. The last two comics were brilliant, a Glasgow-born first generation Pakistani and The Boy with Tape on His Mouth.
Since our return from Spain we have visited the Kelvingrove Museum for the third time, wandered through Glasgow's Cathedral, went through the Hunterian on the campus of the University of Glasgow.
Highlights of the week:
- We were met by a kilted docent at the Cathedral who offered a tour. John Geddes, a retired professor of music, who taught for a year at University of Oregon along with lectures at Berkeley, Stanford, and other US universities, led us through the Cathedral. Surprised that we didn't want to blitz through, we spent abaout 90-minutes with him. We saw battle glags from the Indian campaign, the Napoleonic wars, the purported burial place of St. Mungo, an explanation of the four symbols of Glasgow, and much more.
- At Jelly Hill my Univeristy of Glasgow identification card caused quite a stir. Callum: "Jim is planning on staying longer than he let on!"
- John Rae when he happened to see my library card, "How did you get that? I pay bloody taxes to get one of those!"
- We were among the first customers of a new butcher shop that opened on Byres Road, and found the best Italian sausage I've had since my days in Chicago.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Return from France, Two Myths Destroyed
As Andrew dropped us in the wee hours of the morning at our flat, we had a sense of actually coming home. The flat looked gigantic in comparison to our room at Hotel Agora St. Germain, where you couldn't swing a chat.
Let me debunk a couple of French myths before chronicling the week.
The first, the food. Granted, we didn't eat at Argent or any three star Michelin restaurants, but the ravings about French food seemed to us to be a bit overdone. Our best meal was at The French Open, followed closely by a wonderful meal at La Maree Verte. Granted, grabbing a baguette and a hunk of cheese was a fine alternative to lunch. And we nearly died drinking hot chocolate at Ladurre and Les Deux Magots (think drinking a liquid candy bar and you get the right idea), ditto the macaroons at the forner locale.
The second myth is the rude Parisian, or the rude French in general. Didn't see it. Not once. The only man who didn't speak any English to us couldn't speak English. Now, we did go to France armed with a few rudiments. Bon jour, bon soir, sil vous plait, pardon, merci, and a few useful phrases. We managed to order most of our meals in French. The efforts were appreciated, and rewarded with hospitality and warmth. The Parisians are a bit more formal. Monsieur, Madame strongly recommended. But everyone, from our waiters to the hotel staff, to people we met casually were all quite nice.
Here is an overview of the week:
Thanks to our friends from Vinci Park, we had wonderful seventh row seats at Court Suzanne Lenglen and admission to Club Des Loges, a clubhouse that featured a full bar, several restaurants, and its own gift shop. Because of the weather we spent too little time in the former and far too much time in the latter. It was, as our friends here in Glasgow are found of saying, "pissing down rain." Oban and Sancerre for yours truly and Lynn did a lot to assuage the disappointment of seeing barely five sets of tennis. We saw Andy Roddick beat a determined Blas Kavcic in four sets, and then Marion Bartoli and Olivia Sanchez begin their match, soon to be suspended due to darkness.
One of our most memorable moments at the Open was lunch at Club Des Loges. Our waiter was simply spectatcular. After my halting explanation of allergies, in French "Je suis allergique aux oeufs et aux noix" he went out of his way to find subsititutes for the fixed menu. Of the items on the fixed menu, I could eat exactly none of them. "Do you trust me?" he asked. I did, and he delivered. He was assisted by two 15-year old boys who understood much more English than they admitted to, often laughing at the conversation we were having with our new best friend.
Our only sniff of any anti-American sentiment came from patrons at one of the restaurants. A German couple and a Canadian couple went on about America a bit. While I held my tongue, I did not refrain from what I hoped was a withering glance. Their comments were stereotypical and demonstrated their shallow grasp of our immensely complex country. The chiding soon stopped and they moved on to other subjects. (While at the Open, in the rain, I wore a baseball cap from one of my reunions, the cap has 75 USNA and an American flag on it. Wore it proudly. Received not a single comment or rude stare.)
While I am not suggesting that Parisians or the French absolutely love America, it is rather apparent that they do love Americans, and they adore the American dollar. The language we heard most other than French as we walked the streets, ate breakfast at our hotel, sat in restaurants or cafes, was English. And American English. The tourist is even more valued now, driving a moribund economy. We come and we spend.
The list of single malts sampled has expanded to seven.
The quest continues.
Note: Our visit to The Louvre was greatly enhanced by The Teaching Company's course Museum Matserpieces: The Louvre, taught by Professor Richard Brettell, University of Texas at Dalls.
Let me debunk a couple of French myths before chronicling the week.
The first, the food. Granted, we didn't eat at Argent or any three star Michelin restaurants, but the ravings about French food seemed to us to be a bit overdone. Our best meal was at The French Open, followed closely by a wonderful meal at La Maree Verte. Granted, grabbing a baguette and a hunk of cheese was a fine alternative to lunch. And we nearly died drinking hot chocolate at Ladurre and Les Deux Magots (think drinking a liquid candy bar and you get the right idea), ditto the macaroons at the forner locale.
The second myth is the rude Parisian, or the rude French in general. Didn't see it. Not once. The only man who didn't speak any English to us couldn't speak English. Now, we did go to France armed with a few rudiments. Bon jour, bon soir, sil vous plait, pardon, merci, and a few useful phrases. We managed to order most of our meals in French. The efforts were appreciated, and rewarded with hospitality and warmth. The Parisians are a bit more formal. Monsieur, Madame strongly recommended. But everyone, from our waiters to the hotel staff, to people we met casually were all quite nice.
Here is an overview of the week:
- Luxembourg Garden
- The Church of St. Sulpice (ah, The Da Vinci Code)
- The Pantheon (Victor Hugo, Alexander Dumas, Emile Zola, Andre Malraux all buried there)
- The Louvre (yes, Mona Lisa is smaller than you'd expect, yet no less magnificent)
- Pompidou Center (rather violent feminist temporary exhibition tempered by the icons of modern art, Picasso, Gris, Calder, Chagall, et. al.)
- A Seine river cruise (skip it, skip it, skip it)
- Musee d'Orsay (bridges the Renaissance and Old Masters of the Louvre and the modern art of Pompidou with an stunning collection of Impressionists, Gauguin, van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Cezanne)
- The Arc de Triomphe (disappointing, and not only because the grave of France's unknown soldier does not have a permanent honor guard)
- The Champs d'Elysees (soon to be festooned with the cyclists of Le Tour)
- Musee Rodin
- Versailles (the palace, the gardens, the Triannon area)
- Montmartre (including Le Bateau Lavoir, the Laundry Boat, where Picasso and a hoard of other artists lived)
- Notre Dame
Thanks to our friends from Vinci Park, we had wonderful seventh row seats at Court Suzanne Lenglen and admission to Club Des Loges, a clubhouse that featured a full bar, several restaurants, and its own gift shop. Because of the weather we spent too little time in the former and far too much time in the latter. It was, as our friends here in Glasgow are found of saying, "pissing down rain." Oban and Sancerre for yours truly and Lynn did a lot to assuage the disappointment of seeing barely five sets of tennis. We saw Andy Roddick beat a determined Blas Kavcic in four sets, and then Marion Bartoli and Olivia Sanchez begin their match, soon to be suspended due to darkness.
One of our most memorable moments at the Open was lunch at Club Des Loges. Our waiter was simply spectatcular. After my halting explanation of allergies, in French "Je suis allergique aux oeufs et aux noix" he went out of his way to find subsititutes for the fixed menu. Of the items on the fixed menu, I could eat exactly none of them. "Do you trust me?" he asked. I did, and he delivered. He was assisted by two 15-year old boys who understood much more English than they admitted to, often laughing at the conversation we were having with our new best friend.
Our only sniff of any anti-American sentiment came from patrons at one of the restaurants. A German couple and a Canadian couple went on about America a bit. While I held my tongue, I did not refrain from what I hoped was a withering glance. Their comments were stereotypical and demonstrated their shallow grasp of our immensely complex country. The chiding soon stopped and they moved on to other subjects. (While at the Open, in the rain, I wore a baseball cap from one of my reunions, the cap has 75 USNA and an American flag on it. Wore it proudly. Received not a single comment or rude stare.)
While I am not suggesting that Parisians or the French absolutely love America, it is rather apparent that they do love Americans, and they adore the American dollar. The language we heard most other than French as we walked the streets, ate breakfast at our hotel, sat in restaurants or cafes, was English. And American English. The tourist is even more valued now, driving a moribund economy. We come and we spend.
The list of single malts sampled has expanded to seven.
The quest continues.
Note: Our visit to The Louvre was greatly enhanced by The Teaching Company's course Museum Matserpieces: The Louvre, taught by Professor Richard Brettell, University of Texas at Dalls.
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