Scotland: Day 3

(Quick note: I took a trip to Scotland in April, 2014. After spending an amazingly long time not writing about it, and forgetting which friends I'd told which stories to, I decided to post my experiences over the next few days. I am not back-dating these entries, but know that they occurred last year and that I am not writing intentionally with the benefit of eight months of hindsight.)

Day 2 ended with much rum and the company of two very nice Scots. But not much sleep.

In spite of my lack of rest, I had a plan. To wit:

Thursday: arrive in Edinburgh. Nap. Go out drinking.
Friday: wander the neighborhood. Nap. Show starts at 7:30.
Saturday: train to Inverness. Show starts around 9:00.
Sunday: wander the neighborhood. Nap. Go out drinking.
Monday: train to Edinburgh. Wander the neighborhood. Nap. Go out drinking.
Tuesday: wander the neighborhood. Nap. Go out drinking.
Wednesday: fly back to Seattle.

It was Saturday at this point.

Inverness is a town about 150 miles north of Edinburgh. It's got a population of a bit over 72,000 and it's near Loch Ness. And it has a bar called Hootananny/Mad Hatters that was going to be featuring Dropkick that night.

I somehow managed to get up, get packed, and check out of the hotel without incident. The train ride (in spite of cramped seating due to some dude who kept bumping knees with me) was amazing. It went through the Cairngorms National Park and I felt like I was really experiencing the highlands. Or at least speeding through them. It was fantastic.

I got to the train station in Inverness and it was a short walk to my hotel room. The hotel wasn't quite as nice as the one I'd been in Edinburgh, but it didn't have funny red strings that confused me, and it was just as walkable to things that I wanted to get to.

Fortunately I had time for a quick nap, and then I met the guys for dinner. I had haggis again (it was served differently than I'd had it the first night, but still delicious).

Most importantly, I got to talk to the guys. They were kind and quirky and I had a great time... I think that I got to talk more about Teenage Fanclub over that meal than I had in the past five years.

After dinner they invited me to hang out for sound check and I accepted delightedly so we moved outside to their cars, where they had their instruments and amps and such. As we began our schlepping (I was happily helping carry their stuff!), a couple waddled towards us on the sidewalk.

(Maybe it wasn't a waddle... perhaps it was a stagger. Or somewhere in between. In any event, they appeared to have had more to drink by 7:00 than they should have.) Our conversation went something like this:

Woman: Are you guys in a band?
Dropkick #1: Yes we are.
Woman: Oh, yeah? What's the band?
Dropkick #1: Dropkick.
Woman: ... hmm. What kind of music do you play?
Me: Alt-country power pop!
Woman: ... ?
Me: Well, they're a little like Teenage Fanclub or Wilco.
Woman: ... ?
Me: Influenced by Big Star, I think.
Woman: ... ?
Me: C'mon. Alex Chilton? Chris Bell?
Dropkick #2: Ed, you are evil.
Woman: ... ?
Dropkick #1: We sound a little like the Beatles.
Woman: Ah. Ok.

I was not helpful... but it was fun.

Sound check was fun. I got to talk to them as they got all set up and then, as people started arriving and the opening act took the stage, we went across the street to a teeny tiny bar and they bought me a nice Scotch.

The show was fantastic. More people than the night before and no one complaining about me being too loud.

After the show the space sort of converted to a dance club and we spent more time hanging out and talking and people watching.

Around 3:30, I walked the two blocks back to my hotel and collapsed in my bed, exhausted but happy.

Scotland: Day 2

(Quick note: I took a trip to Scotland in April, 2014. After spending an amazingly long time not writing about it, and forgetting which friends I'd told which stories to, I decided to post my experiences over the next few days. I am not back-dating these entries, but know that they occurred last year and that I am not writing intentionally with the benefit of eight months of hindsight.)

OK. I was safely in Edinburgh. I had made it through a day and a night without significant dental damage (that was to come later).

And, after about 11 hours of sleep, I was pretty well-rested.

My whole plan, to remind you, for the trip looked like this:

Thursday: arrive in Edinburgh. Nap. Go out drinking.
Friday: wander the neighborhood. Nap. Show starts at 7:30.
Saturday: train to Inverness. Show starts around 9:00.
Sunday: wander the neighborhood. Nap. Go out drinking.
Monday: train to Edinburgh. Wander the neighborhood. Nap. Go out drinking.
Tuesday: wander the neighborhood. Nap. Go out drinking.
Wednesday: fly back to Seattle.

It was Friday.

I rolled out of bed. Showered and groomed and might have watched people who talked funny on the TV for a hot minute. Then I grabbed my camera and started walking.

The weather was glorious. The streets were gorgeous. It was hilly and there were castles and castle-like things and a badass cemetery.

This was all wonderful, but I was particular excited about the show at Sneaky Pete's that night. I knew it was a small venue, and I knew that I would finally get to see Dropkick in person after years of having their music on repeat.

I walked the two or three blocks from the hotel to the bar and in spite of my best directional-awareness-challenged efforts, I managed to make it. I opened the door and stepped in.

The dude taking the money at the door? The lead singer. Even as one who's not a fan of celebrity, I recognized him and went to hand him the entry fee... I said hello and he must have recognized my accent or something because he asked if I was Ed. For once in my life, I admitted who I was and he gave me a big smile, wouldn't take my money, and called the other guys over as I entered the bar itself.

The bass player bought me a drink. The drummer shook my hand. It was so cool. Surreal. Super-fun.

They eventually went on after the opening act and it was fantastic. They sounded crisp and just as I'd hoped they would.

Somehow, I managed to start talking to a woman during the show (I don't know how or why... it just happens sometimes) and the band was playing to a less-than-full room that was about 30 feet wide or so, and ... I guess I was talking to the woman (who was from Canada and had come out to the bar randomly, rather than with great purpose as I had) too loudly because another chick from the other side of the bar (while the band was playing, mind you) came over and told me to stop talking so loudly.

I was speechless.

Me being speechless is uncommon. I'm often quiet, but that's usually because I choose not to say what I'm thinking. And even when I don't have something to say it's usually more from insouciance than an inability to craft sentences.

But this time? I was speechless.

I had gotten up really early two days previously. I had come thousands of miles. I had planned a whole trip to see the band. I was enjoying their music as they played about fifteen feet in front of me.

And some woman is telling me to be quiet?

I guess if I had to utter something, in retrospect, it would have been to fuck off.

Instead I think my jaw dropped and I looked at the Canadian chick in confusion. We shrugged and laughed and I got another drink and tried to be more quiet.

The show was good. It ended. And the guys from the band were apologizing that they couldn't go out with me after because they had two shows the next day and a fair bit of traveling. Those apologies struck me as a bit ridiculous--who was I? I was just some guy from Seattle... they were a band that I adored!--but it was very kind and meant a lot to me that they did it. We agreed to hook up before their show the next night in Inverness and I asked them which bar I should go to and I bid them a temporary adieu.

I took their advice and wandered over to the next bar/club/thingamabobber.

The first person I saw in the place? The woman who'd chastised me for being too loud. "Hey," I thought, "here's a chance for me to show her that I came all this way to see a band that I love..." so I approached her and the conversation went along these lines:

Me: Hey! You were at the Dropkick show, right?
Cunt: Yes I was.
Me: You told me to be quiet during the set, remember?
Cunt: Yes.
Me: Yeah, so I came all the way from Seattle to see them. I might be their biggest fan in the US. Maybe in the world.
Cunt: I guess you should have been quiet then, huh?

She was two for two with regards to rendering me speechless. If she would have been at all attractive, I might have fallen in love right then and there.

The rest of the bar was less vexing, but it still had a few oddities. These included:

• Opening a bar tab was almost impossible. It was very odd, but they had to get the manager to help me. They took my credit card, and then every time I ordered something they'd have to call the manager over and do something or other with it. It was very very strange. Then, to top it off, there was no line to give a tip on the final tab. And I had precious little cash to give them. I'm sure they hated my ugly American ass.
• There was an internal fogginess that made the most confusing bathroom entrance that I've ever seen. I am glad that I had not had too much booze or I might have ended up giving up looking and just peed on the floor. Probably not, but that would have made a much more interesting story.

The walk back to the hotel was an interesting one. I started back and somehow got integrated into a group of people. And this group included a cute redhead.

How is a drunk me supposed to resist a cute redhead in Scotland? Answer: he's not. Or I'm not. Whatever.

The group was sort of like a snowball rolling downhill when there's no snow on the ground... it got smaller and smaller as we walked, and all of the people who left were dudes, so it was the best kind of attrition.

At some point there were five of us walking: the cute redhead, her buddy, and a couple that were also not from Scotland.

Thanks to my sharp planning, I had a fair bit of rum in my hotel room, so we all wandered back to my room to drink. I don't remember exactly what we talked about, but it was revealed that the foreign couple was from Finland. Or Denmark. Or somewhere. As I noted, I don't remember exactly.

We drank. The Finns/Danes/whatever left. After more conversation and rum we all fell asleep (pretty much) and my second day in Scotland was a tremendous success.

Obviously I could keep drinking as much as I wanted in a foreign country with no negative consequences. I would never get my comeuppance. Guaranteed.

Scotland: Day 2 Prelude

Scotland? Why Scotland?

I hadn't, truth be told, been planning a trip to Scotland for years and years. Other than Australia, I'd never left North America, and I wanted to go somewhere with interesting history and a fair number of English speakers (since my Spanish is so rusty and I prefer to be mocked in my own language).

The thing is, there are a fair number of countries that fit the bill. But why Scotland? And why in April of 2014?

Because of music.

I have a whole deal about my relationship with music that involves my parents, lack of cable television, and lots of other stuff, but that's potentially even more boring than my normal entries so I'll say this: my favorite two bands in the world are from Scotland.

I've been a Teenage Fanclub fan for over 20 years and I've seen them a few times when they've come to the US. The band never got HUGE, but they did (and are doing) pretty well for themselves.

I've been a Dropkick fan for about five years. For whatever reason, they have never achieved the (relatively) lofty heights of Teenage Fanclub. They tour Scotland and Spain occasionally, but haven't made it to the USA.

A few years ago I purchased one of their CDs online, and I got a personal email back from one of the members. I asked when they were coming to Seattle and he said if I bought them tickets and gave them a place to crash they'd be happy to.

In early March I was sitting on my couch, watching my dog run around and taking a break from watching porn when I saw that Dropkick was going to be doing a mini-tour in Scotland to support their latest album.

In spite of the fact that it was only about a month out, I started to formulate a plan to head to Scotland and see them. I recalled that I had an email address of a band member and sent him a missive, asking a few questions. He generously (and promptly!) replied, recommended which venues I should check out, and some of the sights I should see.

Buoyed by this response, I started to make my plans. Scotland it would be.

Scotland: Night 1

(Quick note: I took a trip to Scotland in April, 2014. After spending an amazingly long time not writing about it, and forgetting which friends I'd told which stories to, I decided to post my experiences over the next few days. I am not back-dating these entries, but know that they occurred last year and that I am not writing intentionally with the benefit of eight months of hindsight.)

(Previously: I planned, I flew to Scotland, I pooped, I napped.)

I woke up after a three hour nap and felt pretty good. I had managed to evade Interpol, the weather was gorgeous, and I'd only needed to ask four people to repeat themselves so far. Things were going well.

I showered and headed out for food. Specifically, for haggis.


Haggis is, according to Wikipedia, "a savoury pudding containing sheep's pluck (heart, liver and lungs); minced with onion, oatmeal, suet, spices, and salt, mixed with stock, and traditionally encased in the animal's stomach and simmered for approximately three hours".

Even understanding that a lot of modern haggis uses sausage casings, rather than sheep stomach, it's still not very appetizing on paper. If you know that "suet" is fat, it gets even a little less appetizing.

But I was in Scotland and I needed to try it.

I settled into a restaurant and ordered haggis, tatties and neeps. "Tatties" are mashed potatoes and "neeps" are mashed turnips. I added a hard cider and some whiskey gravy and... it was good. I liked it a lot.

The table next to me was occupied by a pair of young women who had North American accents and at some point (as I was finishing off my hard cider, probably) I talked to them a bit. They had their noses buried in their smart phones, but I learned that they were Canadian and they told me about a club they'd been to on Tuesday, and that it had been really busy. I tucked that away and it would come into play about five nights later.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I finished my food. I started chewing gum (one of six packs that I brought on my trip) and walked to the Three Sisters Pub, which my cab driver had recommended.

It was a short walk, and I was greeted by one of the most glorious phrases in all the English language: "Karaoke tonight". OK, it actually "Karaoke Thursdays", but given it was Thursday, it was effectively "Karaoke tonight". And I was pleased.

I opened a tab (which, as it would later turn out, was a bigger deal than it seemed). I drank. I sang a few songs. And I watched and met some people.

The first batch of people I noticed was a group of three guys. They looked like the kind of guys I would imagine if someone were to start a story with the phrase, "Three Scottish guys walk into a bar, looking for a fight..."

As someone who is quite cognizant both of his inability to fight and his penchant for doing things that piss some guys off (including, but not limited to, dressing differently and using "penchant" correctly in a sentence), I intuitively knew to stay out of the way of these fellows.

I hugged the wall. I didn't get into their line of sight (other than, I suppose, when I was singing).

But I did observe them.

After ordering beer, they staggered over to a spot on the fringe of the crowd and they had their heads on a collective swivel--looking for trouble.

Eventually, they found targets. Some guys were playing billiards with some women friends, and our ne'er-do-wells were hovering just out of range of the pool cue reach and kept edging closer and closer. There was one hothead in the pool-playing group that was on the verge of doing something about the space invasion but common sense blessedly prevailed and pool play ceased. The bullies retreated to another part of the bar and I saw them no more.

As sort of thrilling it was to see some of the native fauna in its natural pub habitat, I was more interested in talking to women (that tends to be true in almost every circumstance... unless I need my car fixed or I want help with arithmetic).

(Note: I don't own a car. And I never need help with arithmetic.)

There was a group of women who were there and I got to talk to them a bit.

We drank. I lightly complimented. We discussed the upcoming Scottish independence vote. I was reminded that women could legally be in bars at the age of 18. (Actually, I think that 16 year-olds can be drinking some alcohol if they're eating food... although I didn't experience that first-hand. Or at least I hope not.)

I walked them back to their hotel. I had a rather subdued mini-makeout with one of the cute ones on the sidewalk outside. I wandered back to my hotel for sleep. Blessed sleep.I walked them back to their hotel. I had a rather subdued mini-makeout with one of the cute ones on the sidewalk outside. I wandered back to my hotel for sleep. Blessed sleep.

Scotland: Days 0 and 1

(Quick note: I took a trip to Scotland in April, 2014. After spending an amazingly long time not writing about it, and forgetting which friends I'd told which stories to, I decided to post my experiences over the next few days. I am not back-dating these entries, but know that they occurred last year and that I am not writing intentionally with the benefit of eight months of hindsight.)

I arrived at the Seattle airport at about 8:00 AM on Wednesday. I'm rarely anywhere other than just waking up at 8:00 AM on a Wednesday, but I had the pre-travel excitement that fueled punctuality and proper packing.

It was Seattle-to-Chicago-to-Dublin-to-Edinburgh, and I ended up landing in Edinburgh at about 2:00 Thursday afternoon. Fortunately I was able to sleep on the flights, and I think I caught a few winks during one of the innumerable (note: that's hyperbole; I had two) layovers.

Before I started my trip, my itinerary looked something like this:

• Thursday: arrive in Edinburgh. Nap. Go out drinking. 
• Friday: wander the neighborhood. Nap. Show starts at 7:30. 
• Saturday: train to Inverness. Show starts around 9:00. 
• Sunday: wander the neighborhood. Nap. Go out drinking. 
• Monday: train to Edinburgh. Wander the neighborhood. Nap. Go out drinking. 
• Tuesday: wander the neighborhood. Nap. Go out drinking. 
• Wednesday: fly back to Seattle.

I wasn't sure that I was going to REALLY have six nights of "go out drinking", and the two nights where I was considering taking off were Thursday and Sunday nights... I thought I'd be tired from travel on Thursday night and I thought Inverness on a Sunday night might be kind of slow.

I won't give away anything about Sunday night (it will have a blog entry of its own, though, so that might give you a clue if I just stayed in my hotel room or not), but on Thursday? I was in a cab, headed to my hotel, and there was NO chance that I was going to just go to sleep and rest up.

Instead, I asked my driver if he knew the neighborhood I was staying in and, if so, if there was a bar where there might be people hanging out on a Thursday night. He mentioned the Three Sisters Pub and he pointed out where the show would be on Friday relative to my hotel... it was, as I'd planned, all within easy walking distance.

Things were progressing nicely.

I checked into the hotel... it was a cool location that had what may or may not have been intentionally kitschy decor. I was granted an "accessible" room, which meant that it was slightly larger and it would have been ideal if I wheeled a chick home from a bar one night.

When I got into my room, I was... distracted. I really had to use the facilities (I wasn't going to do it in airports, so I'd been holding it for a while!) and I did my business, and the toilet would. Not. Flush.

I jiggled the handle. I held it down. I pushed it down quickly and then released it. I knew I was tired, but I also had never had as much trouble as I was having getting a stupid toilet to flush.

So I'm standing there, with the lid down but knowing that there was an unfinished issue to be resolved, when I pulled on a string with a bright red handle hanging from the ceiling.

I don't think that I thought it would make the toilet flush magically, but I ... I don't know. It just seemed like something to try.

Predictably, nothing happened with the toilet but it DID occur to me that the string I pulled probably had something to do with the room's accessibility. I tried to flush the toilet again as I thought of the embarrassment of having someone rush into the room, thinking I was a toppled wheelchair user, only to find me repeatedly and unfruitfully trying to flush the toilet.

Instead, fortunately, the front office called and asked if I was OK. I said I was fine, that I was confused by the string, and asked how to turn it off. They explained the reset button location, and I thanked them, went over and reset the system, and then (almost without thinking) walked back to the toilet and flushed it.

And it worked.

I had overcome a significant obstacle. I felt invincible. It was time for a short nap before a shower and my first drink at a Scottish bar.