Inconceivable! : A Weekend in Scotland

My trip to Scotland began without a voice.

The night before, I went out with my Australian friends to celebrate "Australian Day," otherwise known as Let's Drink and Scream Along to ACDC Day. Such activity made it possible to sleep during the five hour train ride to Edinburgh. I even had the luxury of occupying two seats, because no one in my study abroad program wanted to sit by me.

I took this as a compliment, because I couldn't stand anyone in my study abroad program. All but four of the thirty are girls, and the ones I'd attempted to talk to aspire to be like stars on Paris Hilton Reality TV Shows. They were not so much interested in anything I have to say, but more preoccupied with their own petty opinions about clubs and eyebrow threading. Of the four boys, three of them were in relationships with girls from the study abroad program, and one was just as bad as any Lindsey Lohan wannabe.

Harsh? The truth hurts.


I tried not to waste too much time trying to be their friend. Luckily, the trip was completely unstructured, so I wasn't forced to sit through endless guided tours with them. We were dropped off at the hostel and left to roam about Edinburgh with the only restraint being Sunday morning check out. I immediately jumped on a bus tour to get the lay out of the city, where an audio tour game me my first whiff of a Scottish accent...and I fell in love. I put "find Treasure Island and Kidnapped books on tape in Scottish accents" on my to-do list. Right under "Find Scottish Boy to Marry."

The real adventure started the next morning, when I woke up and decided to climb "Arthur's Seat," the volcano around which Edinburgh is built. The trail was steep and the ground was stiff, with occasional ice and ravens lurking to trip me up. I stopped many times along the way to "look at the view," which, although stunning, was really an excuse to catch my breath. Every break was worth it, because each five feet up the path brought me nearly five feet higher from the ground, and gave me a completely different view of the city below. I was shocked to realize we were so near the sea--I hadn't bothered to look at a map of Scotland before we came. Such ill preparation is the secret to many pleasant surprises on trips.

Another result of bad planning is not-so-pleasant surprises. Like realizing you're not on the right path to get to Arthur's Seat. This realization occurred right around the point where the trail stopped ascending and started drifting back towards sea level. Even though I was disappointed at this update, I did get the chance to have the most stunning view of Edinburgh in the sunrise, which topped any other view I've experienced thus far on my trip to Europe.

Rather than scale the volcano immediately after this misadventure, I went to Edinburgh castle, to redeem my pre-paid ticket for a full-audio tour. I had never been to a castle before, and expected something from either Disney's The Sword and the Stone or any other King Arthur adaptation. From what I could tell, the only thing separating a castle from Fort Moultrie is the presence of royalty. There were cannons, walls, gates, miscellaneous fortifications, and museums outlying the many battles fought on the premises. I spent most of my time listening to the Scottish accents in the audio tour, and wandering around the POW cells, imagining myself as an American Revolutionary soldier forced to live in a dank Scottish prison for a few years. I stopped at the Queen Anne's Cafe, located within the castle. While eating my minestrone soup in a quaint tea room, I listened to several accounts of Mary Queen of Scots, but was disappointed to hear no reference to her as "Bloody Mary," except vague anecdotes to the fact that she was "held prisoner by her sister, Elizabeth." This sort of biased history is not uncommon, but I strongly believe the audio tour was made slightly more boring by of the omission.

In fact, I believe that Edinburgh has lost a lot of it's flare in recent years, despite it's many great attributes. For instance, on the inner wall of the castle is the "One O'Clock Gun," which used to fire a cannonball every day at 1pm. Now they only do it on special national holidays, like the queen's birthday. Such a disappointment.

I made it back to Arthur's Seat, where I once again began a treacherous climb. By this time the frozen ground had thawed, leaving a long muddy path before me. It was also much steeper and more crowded than my first attempt, making it more embarrassing for me when I stopped every ten steps or so to rest. I couldn't help but quote the entire Princess Bride movie in my head, because everywhere I looked, I saw location sets from the film. At certain points, this recitation inspired me ( "We'll never survive!--Nonsense, you're only saying that because no one ever has") and after an hour and a half of reckless climbing and mud-slipping, I reached the summit.

At the top of the volcano, I had a brief moment of panic when I wondered if I had once again gone up the wrong trail. I've been to one volcano before, and that one had a giant crater filled with water and covered in volcanic rock. This large hill (mountain) had no signs of ever spewing lava. However, I was soon reassured by other climbers that this was indeed the correct destination. I spent a long while wandering the top of the mass of earth, soaking in my accomplishment and the beauty that is Scotland (when you're lucky enough to not have fog). I listened to a group of french teenagers as they sat on wind blown grass and drank a bottle of wine (it sounds like a stereotype, but it's true), and inwardly squee-d when a young boy broke away from his father and cried "FOR NARNIA!" while charging down the other side of the slope. It was quite the victorious moment, made more epic by the collective feelings of invincibility shared by strangers at the top of the world.

I knew I couldn't stay up there for long, because sunset in the UK comes extremely early. Even though I'd thoroughly enjoyed my independent day, I didn't want to wander the streets of a strange city by myself. On my way back to the hostel, I ran into a big group of people from my study abroad program who were going to participate in a Ghost Tour. I tagged along, but once the tour guide demanded seven pounds for the experience, all but three of us stayed (Let me stress again that this is actually a good thing). The tour guide, who looked exactly like Jessica Stevenson in a trench coat, was a talented and crass story-teller who reveled in making her audience squirm. I learned about the various tortures performed before and after witch hunts, the religious prisoners who were made to lie on the ground 24/7 in the freezing Lowland winters, and that J.K. Rowling wrote the Harry Potter books at a cafe right across the street from the graveyard. I left the Ghost Tour feeling my 7 pounds had been well spent, and went back to the hostel for a short rest before dinner.

At the hostel, I talked to one of the girls in my room, someone who I had always lumped with the rest of the study abroad program. As it turns out, she was completely normal, and we exchanged complaints about the superficiality of the group. Our conversation ended with an invitation to join her and a few friends from outside the study abroad program for dinner. I had a very pleasant meal with some real people (for a change), resulting in an agreement between me and the sane-girl to get together back in London. Since she wanted to go clubbing with the study abroad group however, I went back to the hostel solo once again.

Having seen and heard advertisements for a live band at the bar within our hostel, I headed down to check it out. The music was terrible, but I met a couple of Belgian students who were very friendly. We traded Belgian and American stereotypes and quickly decided it was too obnoxious to stay in the bar. The girls invited me up to their room, where I was treated to a lot of tips about traveling as a young adult in Europe. After a few hours of the sort of spill-your-guts talk that occurs when meeting new exciting people, we parted ways. But not without an invitation to visit them in Brussels and facebook contact information.

While sitting on the train back to London the next morning, I contemplated the fact that I had spent the weekend almost entirely on my own. In the end, I decided that although having good friends to travel with is preferable, spending some solo time can really add to an experience abroad. There are no awkward moments where you find yourself asking companions, "Are you done with this yet (because I'm bored and want to move on)?" and you have the chance to indulge and be selfish without feeling like your depriving someone of time or money or favors. Besides, the people I did spend time with were worthwhile company, and I wouldn't exchange it for any amount of time surrounded by people I can't stand, just to feel secure in a new place.

Another strange development: on the train I found myself missing London, as if it had replaced a certain aspect of homesickness. Even though it's nothing close to the familiar and loving surroundings of my Midwest home, I feel like I'm finally settling in to my temporary city of residence.

Until next time...