DAY SEVENTEEN: EDINBURGH-TO-INVERNESS

We just pulled out of Edinburgh's Waverly train station on a decidedly subpar ScotRail train and I've got three-and-a-half hours to kill, so I figured I'd give writing on a moving vehicle another shot.  This'll be my third attempt, following in the wake of the entry I posted from the train to Aberdeen and the one I tapped out on my iPhone from the back of a tour bus.  Here's to hoping I can keep my string of non-hurling going.  Otherwise, this could be a short entry.

This morning at 9:30 we piled Sandra Bullock, Sr. into an Uber and sent her off to the Edinburgh airport.  From there she'll fly to Dulles, in Washington, D.C. ...

(Hang on.  Gotta put on my headphones.  A little girl across the aisle is playing some video game at max volume.  Okay.  Better.)

...and then, UPGRADED INTO FIRST CLASS, she'll cross the U.S. and land in Seattle.  After that (I think) she'll climb into a small prop plane, the likes of which seldom seen outside the Shetland Islands, and land in Wenatchee, Washington, at which point her husband the Former Boeing Employee will pick her up.  They will drive 45 minutes through gorgeous terrain and then arrive in Lake Chelan almost exactly 24 hours after the Uber picked her up on St. Bernard's Crescent.  Godspeed, Sandra Bullock, Sr.  

We packed almost everything up before leaving.

As for us, we hung around the apartment, mailed way more than 4.4 lbs. (the upper limit for inexpensive postage) of what we’d hoped would be baggage-clearing clothing and souvenirs home, dropped off the garbage (you have to find a nearby dumpster; pro tip for any future guests at 23B St. Bernard’s Crescent: the nearest dumpster is on Leslie Street) and got into an Uber of our own, through the crowds to the train station, where we sat on our bags and ate takeaway from Pret a Manger (ready to eat?).  Then Sandra Bullock continued to sit on our bags while I spent 15 minutes looking for a place to toss our trash.  

At 1300 we went to the big board to see which platform our train would take off from.  At 1320 we were still standing there, still no platform.  Every other train had a platform.  

The problem and solution were both simple.  The train arriving from Inverness was late.  As soon as it arrived — at platform 20 — we’d be ready to go.  I knew this.  Sandra Bullock knew this.  The three older ladies in running shoes standing next to us knew it.  I’’ll bet ScotRail knew it, too.  They just weren’t saying it.

At 1326 (seven minutes before our departure), the sign finally changed.  You guessed it: platform 20.  At this point, everyone in the train station made their move for platform 20.  It was like a flash mob.  

No matter.  We all made it with time to spare, even the lady who got on the train before everyone on the arriving train had gotten off, earning her some choice words from the bearded guy standing next to me.  We stowed our bags, found two seats facing each other (a must if one of your party cannot ride backward no matter how high maintenance he knows that makes him) and settled in. 

And here we are, rocketing through the Scottish countryside on our way to the Highlands, where it's rumored to be 86 degrees F (23 C), unheard of for this, or any, time of year.  It was close to that in Edinburgh, which led to some unusual displays of porcelain-toned skin as the locals did their best to adapt to summer's suddenly summer-like climate.  I, of course, continued to blame Al Gore.

Small aside as I tell Sandra Bullock (Jr., the remaining Sandra Bullock) that we are actually driving over the cool orange bridge we took pictures of on Tuesday.  This is the bridge Charles (?) Eiffel found so inspiring when visiting that he used it as a template for his eponymous tower, somewhere in France I think.  It is over 150 years old and will remain standing five years from now, when the vehicle bridge to its north inevitably topples, due to shoddy engineering, per Francesca during Tuesday’s tour. 

So now we come to you from an actual kingdom -- the Kingdom of Fife, which is nice segue

You don't have to be a star, baby.

to talk a little bit about the dinner we had last night, since it was fit for royalty, or one very appreciative American and her two uncomfortable dining companions.  Martin Wishart is my first and likely last Michelin star dining experience, six tiny little courses of stunningly beautiful food that actually did taste fantastic and somehow left us full.  

Despite my skepticism and unease, It turned out to be a great experience, once I got over being intimidated by our waiter, the woman who kept coming by and changing our silverware, the wine sommelier and every other customer in the restaurant.  Anyone expecting us to recreate a Michelin star dining experience in our home can put away that paradigm right now.  We don't have nearly enough large spoons to do it.  I counted six -- six spoons that came and went from our table last night.  I didn't even use two of them, which was probably a horrific faux pas that thankfully went overlooked by the elegant woman changing them all night.

At the center of it all was Sandra Bullock, beaming and looking ageless and radiant.  "This is the first time we've gone to a Michelin star restaurant," she said as we sat down.  I nodded, removing my blazer (second wearing) and glancing around the room to see if I was, indeed, the only diner wearing jeans (I was). 

Tiny, interesting food showed up immediately, as did our first misstep.  Sandra Bullock, Sr., the only person at the table with the sense to choose the tiny little spoon for her gazpacho in a light green macaron pre-appetizer, bowed instead to our peer pressure and used the giant (incorrect) one.  Was that a hint of a frown on the intimidating flatware-swapper when she arrived to take our little plates, forks and spoons?  Maybe.

We did eventually loosen up, helped along by our wine pairings, courtesy of the young Spanish sommelier whose maple syrup thick accent made necessary the tablewide pow-wows we’d have after each round.  “What did he say?”  “I think he said this is from Austria.”  “Austria?  I thought he said Australia.”

Americans.  Such boors.  

He came iwith no pre-set agenda, our young sommelier.  Instead, he made up pairings on the spot, even bringing “some bubbles” for Sandra Bullock, Jr. to pair with her scallops. By emid-meal we were relaxed enough to ask if we could take a picture of the Chardonnay bottle .  Personally, I was loose enough to regale the headwaiter with some helpful tips on finding a good Mexican restaurant. (“It shouldn’t be fancy.  Simple.  Maybe even gritty.”)

The evening closed with a lemon dessert that I now know (thanks to my helpful Facebook friends) looked like a very small hunk of string cheese placed carefully on top of a graham cracker, surrounded by snails.  I can assure you that is not what it was.  Or at least that’s what they told me.  By then I had four separate glasses of dessert wine in front of me, so  really couldn’t be considered a reliable narrator anymore.  Also, next time you see me post a picture of food it’ll be nachos. 

Dinner ended at 11:36.  “Man, we had a lot of wine,” Sandra Bullock, satisfied and glowing even brighter in my sauterne and muscat haze.  

“We sure did!” stage-whispered Sr.

We took an Uber home and went quickly to sleep so I could dream that Sandra Bullock was telling me I should take care of my knees, now that they’re carrying so much weight.  

Now we’re on a train, stinging a bit from the harsh realization that two boxes full of stuff that cost 130 pounds to mail made our gargantuan Patagonia bags no smaller and no lighter.  When we bought them they left out the part where they defy physics and remain massive and heavy no matter how many clothes you ship home.  I guess I can understand why they’d want to keep that a secret.

Here’s some end-of-the-week-in-Edinburgh numbers:

3 — number of cans of Tennant left behind in the refrigerator when we checked out of our AirBnB.  Here’s to hoping the next guests enjoy finding Scotland’s favorite lager waiting for them upon arrival.  Also left behind:  1 bottle of body wash, 1 bottle of mouthwash, 2 partially full boxes of “man-sized” tissues.

2 — young women walking around Edinburgh wearing bras.  One had hers paired with shorts, one with a flowing skirt.  Both times Sandra Bullock said, “That’s a bad look.”

4 — dessert wines after dinner.  I can’t tell you if they were all authorized of if the young Spanish sommelier was so charmed by my wife that he just kept pouring.  If it was the second, it wouldn’t be the first time.

0 — visible trash cans in the Edinburgh Waverly train station.  Technically, there was one in the Pret a Manger, but it was locked.  And yet three times I saw guys pushing small dumpsters through the station.

1 — adult male dining at Martin Wishart last night in jeans.  And I wasn’t the only American.  There were others.  A few in sportcoats. All in real pants.  Even the Scottish guys with short-sleeved shirts.

0 — stumbling incidents attributed to Sandra Bullock, Sr.’s quilting shoes, which she defiantly re-donned yesterday because her running shoes hurt her toe.

11 — number of times, in rapid succession, the kid sitting behind me just kicked my seat.

As of today we have four weeks to go on this adventure.  During that time we’ll go to the Scottish Highlands then take a counterclockwise lap through Ireland (with a more-than-slightly terrified me at the wheel) and return to England for a week that’ll culminate with — finally — a trip to Stonehenge, where you can guarantee I’ll make some crack about being there with seven million of our closest friends.  And druids.  Probably druids.  The essence of druids.  

WARNING: I'll tell you right now that we may not have a post tomorrow.  The Isle of Skye trip is an overnighter and I'm not sure how much tolerance Sandra Bullock will have for me taking an hour out of it to type.  You may get a combo DAYS 18-19 post on Saturday.  Or maybe even a DAYS 18-20 on Sunday from Ireland.  

Right now we’ve got two more hours of train ride ahead.  Sandra Bullock is reading her latest potboiler and pausing every now and then, looking out the window and maybe remembering last night’s souffle.  Scotland is rolling past outside the window, so I think I’ll wrap this up and queue up my Pogues playlist for the first of what will probably be several hundred listens over the next few weeks.