DAY TEN: Edinburgh

Yes, it's true; our flight did leave Sumburgh Airport on time and did arrive at Edinburgh as planned, much to what I can only assume was the amazement of both Ronald and his much more professional alternative, plus Jon from Lerwick Brewing and pretty much everyone else we came in contact with during our last day in Shetland.  To all of them I say this: have a little more faith in Logan Air.  Scotland's national airline may be soft on whining blonde children but as far as we can tell it's as reliable as U.S. mail. Was.  Once.  When people still mailed things.

We were in Lerwick for almost three days, long enough to lose all contact with the actual 21st-century urban world, or so it seemed upon landing in Edinburgh.  So many people!  So many cars!  One mom who lost all patience with her child and snapped at baggage claim, shouting "SHUT UP" at the hapless tot while a (propeller) plan load of weary travelers stared on, aghast! 

One odd trait Shetland's ghost town of an airport had in common with airports all over Scotland (so far) is spotless, blindingly modern restroom facilities.  I was shocked upon arrival and before departing and was reminded again today when I slipped into the gents' at our Edinburgh lunch spot, an otherwise unremarkable pub located a safe distance from the tourist mob lurking at or near the Royal Mile.  Poor Mark Renton.  Wracked with gastrointestinal distress, desperate for a relief, he somehow found the (worst) toilet (in all of Scotland).  I'm here to tell you Mark must've had to look all over to find that rancid landing spot.  Everywhere I've been --  AND I'VE BEEN TO SHETLAND -- has been stunning.

Three days in Lerwick, two days in Aberdeen, one in Durham, four in London -- all in hotels; all presenting the challenge of managing our massive Patagonia bags, rotating our clothes without having them all burst forth and onto the hotel floor, repacking... it's been very delicate and to be perfectly honest, if you look closely at S. Bullock's photos you might notice repeat performances of some shirts, occasionally on consecutive days, and you'll have to give us a break.  Fortunately, you can't see our socks.  

Imagine, then, how it felt for us to arrive at our Edinburgh digs.  Two bedrooms (with queen-sized beds), 1.5 baths, a dining room, an actual kitchen, closets, drawers... and a washer/dryer.  Imagine the joy we felt, finally unpacking our gigantic bags, reunited with clothes we'd forgotten we'd packed (or purchased).  Hello, new Ben Sherman shirt!  Good to see you, other pair of Levis!  Forgotten you were along for the ride, blue blazer!  We unpacked in awed silence, tossing dirty clothes into the corner and then we -- Sandra Bullock, actually, I was too intimidated by our European washer/dryer rig -- started a load of laundry.  Before we'd even set foot outside our meeting hall-sized apartment.  It's always a bit strange to land in an AirBnB that's larger than your actual house.  This one isn't, thanks to our downstairs remodel, but as of 2017 it would've been close.  

We are here for the next week, joined this morning by a dignified Lake Chelan-based woman: Sandra Bullock's mom.  Tired and well-traveled yet unsinkable by brand, S. Bullock Sr. dropped off her stuff, changed into her colorful "quilting shoes" and joined us on a trek around a city that looks to me like nothing so much as a nicer version of Boston, MA with only slightly harder-to-understand accents.  Up and down hills we went, in search of the

Good luck with that siege.

mythical Edinburgh Castle, which I'd assumed was sitting in one corner of Princes Street Gardens (or was a legendary San Francisco bar that I've somehow never visited), because that's how it looked on the map.  Call me surprised, then, when it finally appeared, looming halfway into the heavens atop a giant cliff -- which was, indeed, at one corner of the Prince Street Gardens, albeit about 100 feet above them.  Good luck to whomever tried to lay siege to that place with their lances and their horses.

We stared and stared, both at the castle and at the mobs of tourists also in its thrall.  At this point, Sandra Bullock (Jr.  Her mom was not hungry after several airline meals.) was edging toward hangry, so we hit pause and went to the nearest non-tourist pub, (the one with the stunning bathrooms).

Our original plan was to tackle Old Town and the Royal Mile, "do a drive-by," as noted OG Sandra Bullock put it, but lunch and a cider, plus 26 hours without sleep, had sapped Bullock, Sr. of all adventurous energy.  Charged with getting us home before she completely hit "empty," I successfully navigated the park (despite the castle's ominous looming; I'm serious.  If I'm out marauding and I come upon that, I pull a Brave Sir Robin and run away), a pair of subpar churches (really, completed in 1894?  I'm supposed to drop coins in the box for that?) and the streets of New Town Edinburgh to deliver home by exhausted mother-in-law and then return for a nice stroll up and down nearby Raeburn Place, commercial center of Stockbridge, our new neighborhood.  

"It's nice, sometimes, to have a down day," mused S. Bullock as we went in and out of shops, buying her a new book to replace the oversized Tana French book she completed in Shetland (you're welcome, Lerwick Hotel), a couple of bottles of wine, fruit, the ever-elusive wash cloth (our AirBnB has none) and some cheese from the friendly cheese-monger at I.J. Mellis, but not a painting of Donald Trump from the cheeky guy at the gallery who was dressed really cool, didn't know where his dog had gone, and had a way bigger appetite for talking about Brexit and Trump than I'll ever have.  How about those Golden State Warriors, dude?

Order has been restored.  Sandra Bullock and Sandra Bullock Sr. are in the other room, eating cheese and drinking the wine we bought from the guy who seemed intimidating at first but ended up being friendly, like all Scots.  Later we'll go to dinner.  Tomorrow, we'll begin our exploration of Edinburgh in earnest.

How about some numbers?

6 -- thrift shops on Braeburn Place, which is weird because when you google Stockbridge it's described as "a place for upscale young professionals."

453.592 -- grams in a pound.  Wish I'd known that before we went to the cheesemonger.  I sounded like an idiot.

1 -- thrift shop cashier who thinks coins will soon be worthless, "If Boris Johnson has his way."

12-17 -- the cost, in pounds of an Uber ride from the Edinburgh airport to our AirBnB.  Uber!

(unknown) -- the cost of our taxi ride to the airport in Lerwick.  I just signed the thing.  We were pretty stressed out, I've got to admit.

2 -- number of times we've almost been stuck in a place so far on this trip.  The culprits:  miners and fog. 

0 -- number of times we've actually ended up stuck.

0.00003  -- the distance, in inches, that the window in our bedroom opens.

67 -- approximate temperature (F), of our AirBnB.  And it's staying that way.  No heat.  Sorry, Sandra Bullock Sr.   And Jr.

Lets end here.  I appreciate the handful of you that are still treading along for taking the time to circumvent the evil Mark Zuckerberg's attempts to silence me.  Four million sites that'll curl your eyelashes with the bile and hate, and he chooses to censor me.  

Interesting.  Fight the power, baby.