Day Seven: Aberdeen to Lerwick

Coming to you from Lerwick, in the Shetland Islands, where there are no trees, high school students sail in from remote islands and stay in a hostel from Monday through Friday while attending classes and if you look toward the North Sea, peer into the fog and channel the one-time Governor of Alaska long enough, you can see Norway.  I wanted remote; I got it.

Or maybe not.  Maybe those cruise ships hovering off the coast will disgorge thousands of matching windbreaker-wearing tourists, here to learn fiddle from local legend Kevin Henderson this week at the Folk Frenzy.  

Doesn't seem likely.  The lobby of the Lerwick Hotel was deserted.  

Last night, as promised, we took it easy in Aberdeen, enjoying some truly great Turkish food at Nargile (recommendation: Nargile) and then turning in early.  The good vibes continued this morning as we wandered around, burning off hours until our 3 PM flight to Lerwick.  As we walked, I thought, "I sure like this better than London," thus setting myself up once again for a chorus of "What? Why?" when I make this public.

But I am not alone.  Sandra Bullock, too, eventually copped to a minor league limit on city appreciation, shortly before our taxi arrived to take us to the airport.  It's not an easy thing, admitting you prefer the Spokane of Scotland over one of the world's destination cities, but we like Spokane, too.

I'd imagine our cab driver would like Spokane.  He surely prefers Aberdeen to London.  In fact, he can't stand London.  Or England.  Why?  Don't get him started.  In fact, you don't have to even start him.  You have no control over whether he starts or not.  Maybe don't mention that you've come from London, but how are we supposed to know?  "Where are you coming from?"  "London."  And off he went.

Here's the problem, filtered through my naive American eyes.  London, and Parliament, are where the taxes come from, and the taxes always seem to be aimed straight at Scotland.  New property tax idea?  Try it out for a couple of years in Scotland before bringing it home to Mother England.  Gas tax?  Scotland, even though the refined petrol actually comes through Scotland, then to England, then back up to Scotland.  

And by the way, whether Andy Murray wins or loses, he's from Scotland.  It's not "Andy Murray of the U.K." when he wins and "Andy Murray of Scotland" when he loses, alright?

I am your mouthpiece, griping driver.  Who, by the way, I might call "the friendliest driver in the world," except that he's probably not even the friendliest driver in Scotland.  He started going before we were even seated and didn't stop until we dragged ourselves away at the airport.  "Nobody has time to talk to you in London," he said.  "Up here, we're very friendly."  It's true, and we appreciate that.  We also appreciate that he taught us how to properly say "Edinburgh."  That'll come in handy next week.

The thaw began in Durham ("They're like Scots who don't live in Scotland."  -- our driver) and heated way up in Aberdeen, home for a weekend of the Dundee Crew, the friendly cab driver and all sorts of pleasant service industry employees.  And the creepy staring guy, but it's best to leave that in the past.

By the time the gripes, the Venn Diagram overlap with Sandra Bullock concerning Outlander and the close call with a bunch of kids who couldn't decide if they were crossing the street or not so just stood in the middle  ("These kids.  They're stupid.  I can say that because I've got six sons.  They're all stupid.") ended, we were at the Aberdeen airport, a smallish international with a quirk:  they don't announce your gate until 10 minutes before boarding.  So we got a beer ("I guess Sober Sunday is over," -- S. Bullock.  "It's Monday," -- me), milled around and then joined a small mob of people at our "gate," which was actually a hallway, eagerly anticipating the big reveal:  what kind of plane goes to Lerwick (population 7,500)?

Wait a minute...that's not a jet engine!

So help me the two Dramamine I took two hours before boarding, but I've now been on a prop plane.  Yup, three seats across, two prop engines and one sweating Jew; that's how you can measure our flight.

You can also measure it in decibels, produced by the four adorable Jeremy and Jemima-looking little kids seated in the next two rows with their disinterested mother and grandmother.  The adorable part was fortunate, because their voices (I put my noise-canceling headphones on after the 29th "I want iPad") could peel paint.  Poor Sandra Bullock.  No headphones.  Just her oversized Tana French book and a series of withering looks.  Teddy's fascination with the seat back tray table was a nice touch, by the way.

Weird thing is, that was one of the smoothest flights I've ever had. And hour of in-air bliss, as if literally floating on clouds (except for Teddy and his siblings).  

At 4 PM we landed in a place unlike any other I've ever seen.  Which I said out loud, drawing a blithe "reminds me of Finland" from Sandra Bullock, World Traveler.  No trees, just tundra.  Very little civilization, until you reach actual Lerwick, after a half-hour of twisting roads, ancient-looking rock piles and many, many sheep.  Sheep everywhere.  Sheep to supply wool for all the Shetland sweaters of the world.  Oddly enough, no ponies.

Our view doesn't screw around.

Ronald our driver gave us a little bonus -- a trip through town, pointing out everything we'd need to know:  the tourist office, the hospital, the locals bar, the two Chinese restaurants, the arts center and the museum, and suggested we walk on a path that follows the coast on our way into town.  I think every one of the people from the cruise ship is walking it right now. 100 cruise ships this year in Lerwick harbor, up from last year's 84.  100 cruise ships!  They don't provide nearly the economic boost you'd expect, though, per Ronald.  We accrued quite a bit of taxi driver wisdom today.

Hoping that the cruisers re-board for the evening before we head out today, much like they did every night during our honeymoon in Juneau and Skagway, Alaska, the last time I dragged Sandra Bullock along to a remote location when she might have been craving Hawaii.  To her everlasting and great credit, I have received no indication that she would've preferred to be in Hawaii then or now.  Other times, yes, but not these.

Driving here, dodging sheep and wondering about who lives in these homes out in the middle of nowhere, I decided to add Greenland to my imaginary bucket list.  That seems like my kind of scene.  Please don't tell my wife.  She wants to go on an African safari.

Today's numbers:

4 -- children sitting behind us, whose paint-peeling voices combined to total 369 decibels

1,444,296 -- sheep

58 -- degrees right now in Lerwick.  Everyone in town is wearing shorts.

10:14 PM -- predicted time of the sunset tonight.  The latitude of Lerwick, you may already know, is almost identical to that of Anchorage, Alaska

8 -- the number of Outlander books Sandra Bullock has read.  I think that's all of them.  Plus the TV show.

0 -- air conditioning units in our room at the Lerwick Hotel.

Tomorrow we're gone all day on a "Shetland Minibus Tour" that I booked without really knowing what you see during a "Shetland Minibus Tour."  Sandra Bullock was skeptical, but after Ronald drove us around town, admitted that "it's probably good we're going on a tour."  Otherwise, I concurred, we'd be walking around trying to figure out what to do.  Instead, I will return to you tomorrow evening (morning for you) with tales of ancient fortresses, Kings of Norway who offer up entire island chains as dowries for their daughters, what vegetarians eat in fish and chips restaurants and sheep.  Lots of sheep.