Planet Utah

UK Trip, Part 14

Back in London. Last day of my trip. I will miss London once I'm gone. So much history! And so much modernity, too. You've got St. Paul's and the Tower and Parliament just a stone's throw from new condos and night clubs on the banks of the Thames.

Does America have anything like this? Does any place else in the world? The only place I can come up with is Rome -- a city of such historical significance that is also a great modern city as well.

During my trip I began to wonder if religion, mythology, idolatry, and monarchy are just different manifestations of the same phenomenon: a basic human desire to believe in something larger than oneself. By the end of my trip, the idea that any one group--Christians, say, or American Indians--has a monopoly on truth when it comes to the big questions about life became quite ridiculous. And yet, all groups fervently believe that they are right, despite utterly flimsy evidence.

If there is a God, he probably chuckles at this.

UK Trip, Part 13

Now I'm in Edinburgh. It's much more touristy than Glasgow, but it's got much more history, too. This is the only part of my stay where I did not get a room right in the city center. I didn't like that. I didn't like having to take a cab or a bus home at the end of the evening.

One thing I did in Edinburgh was a "literary pub tour," in which a couple of actors, in character, take a bunch of tourists from one pub to the next, talking along the way about the great literary figures who used to reside in the city and haunt its pubs. (The pub tour was where I met the sassy Australian girl who told me that my work "sounded like 'wank'" to her, and who told me that she thought almost all Americans, including me, were loud, malicious, and ignorant. She said all of this with a smile, a giggle, and a sense of humor, though, so I forgave her.)

When you're on the pub tour, you obviously come across groups of people here and there who wonder what you're doing. (Remember, the two guys leading the tour are actors, in character, playing their parts very loudly so that the trailing crowd can hear.) Outside one place, a very old, very drunk Scottish guy in a kilt, a beret, and a grimy plaid jacket said to one of our guides, "What's all this?" Our guide said back, quite sternly, "Nothing you need to know about." Then, just to rub it in, he said, "Like the jacket...did you lose a bet?" Everybody's got a chip on their shoulder...

(London flashback. I just remembered something from London. I had thought that you could walk right up to 10 Downing Street, where the British prime minister lives, and, you know, just look at it. I mean, it's a street address with a door right in the front, so I thought I could walk up to the door and gawk, and maybe even go in. I figured there must be some kind of lobby or reception area where they would tell me that the general public was not allowed any further. NOPE. The street is gated off and guarded by armed soldiers on both ends. Guess I was a little naive.)

One of the major tourist attractions in Edinburgh is the Edinburgh Castle. While I was touring the castle, I noticed a couple getting married in a little side section. The groom and his groomsmen were all wearing the traditional Scottish kilts. Cool, huh? I'll never get to do anything like that. My heritage is a mix of German and Irish. So, I can wear lederhosen on my wedding day, or dress like a leprechaun. Neither one has the charm of a kilt.

One thing to notice about the pub culture -- they drink VERY slowly. Nobody is there to get drunk. They're there to enjoy each other's company. Knowing that, I had entertained a little travel fantasy (if you can call it that) before I left. I imagined that one day I'd wander into a cool old English or Scottish pub and get pulled into a conversation with some cool old English or Scottish coots -- just old-timers having a pint and trading stories.

Well, on my last night in Edinburgh--the last night for pub-hopping on my trip--I made a sad note in my journal that I had never gotten to live the fantasy. As I wrote in one of the earlier posts, the pubs weren't as friendly as I'd hoped they'd be. No one ever invited me to join them, and I didn't have the guts to insert myself into an old guy conversation.

Right after I jotted down my journal note, though, an old Scottish guy waved me over. He asked my name and shook my hand, holding onto it for a long time. I then asked if he minded if I sat with him. He said no. I grabbed my stuff, got a beer, offered him one, and pulled up a chair at his table. Just a few seconds later, a friend of his came in. Another old guy! They were two World War II vets, now in their 80s, trading jokes and stories!

As it turned out, though, the guy who waved me over was too drunk to be any fun. He asked me my name six or seven times, and slurred so badly that I could not understand most of what he said. I did figure out, though, that his name was George, and that he had been at the pub on and off for six hours. (He lived near enough to walk home for food now and again.)

His friend was stone-cold sober, but his burr was thicker than extra-chunky peanut butter. Though I could pick up words here and there, I had no sense AT ALL of his meaning. He might as well have been speaking Polish.

So, that was how the travel fantasy played out. Big disappointment. Serves me right for not having a regular travel fantasy, like running into Elizabeth Hurley at a London pub and finding her desperately lonely.

Next day I flew back to London from Edinburgh. There was an Indian guy in the men's room with long, thick, black hair on his ears. I'm talking hair an inch or two long, black as coal, growing out of his ears -- not the inside of the ear, where you stick a Q-tip, but the outer rim of the ear, all the way from the top down to the lobe. I immediately imagined this guy deciding at some point: a) "I'll never meet anyone, so screw it"; or b) "My wife will never leave me, so screw it."

UK Trip, Part 12

This will be a brief one -- I just wanted to be sure I didn't forget it.

I have a proposal: all UK children between the ages of four and ten should be frozen in time, never being permitted to grow older. This would be solely for the enjoyment of tourists. The kids are THAT cute.

Let me give you one example from my trip, and another example from someone else's. When I got to Edinburgh, I did a hike up a hill (Arthur's Seat) that oversees the entire town and surrounding countryside. It's about 45 minutes to the top -- a short hike on a pretty steep trail. As I was coming back down, I saw an English family making their way up: mom, dad, and two girls. The younger girl looked to be about five. Just as I passed she turned to her father and said, "Daddy, can I have a carry now?"

Come on -- how cute is that?

When I relayed that story to a friend, he told me that he had been walking along the streets of London once, behind a mother and young son making their way to his school. He was working on a lollipop, but somehow it popped out of his mouth and hit the sidewalk. He stopped to look down at the ruined sweet, full of regret. His mother didn't notice, however, and kept walking. To get her attention, he called after her: "Mommy, I've dropped my lolly!"

So, it's settled. If I ever get married, I'm sending my kids to primary school in Great Britain.

UK Trip, Part 11

I've been home two weeks, and I'm still writing about my trip. I'm not even close to being finished! By the time I'm done, I'll be ready to leave on my next adventure.

Just to remind you where we were, I'm now driving around northern Scotland, ready to take a sharp turn southward and head for Edinburgh. I noticed a few other things driving around the countryside, making stops here and there. First of all, they have a thing like ESPN there, but it's dominated by coverage of soccer, cricket, and rugby. Their version of ESPN has the same smart-alecky attitude that ours does -- "hey, we're totally into this stuff too, but let's not forget, it's just sports." It's funny, though, to see the jokes and poses applied to sports about which you know ZERO.

What else? A lot of bars prohibit the wearing of "football colors." Apparently that leads to altercations. They also might want to think about prohibiting men. I've heard that their presence in a bar ups the probability of a fight pretty dramatically.

I know this may sound crazy, but the whole time I was in the UK, I only wanted to take one picture. I ended up blowing the shot, but here is what I wanted to photograph: a Highland cow. I was totally enchanted by Highland cows. By the way, referring to a Scottish girl as a Highland cow will get your skull smashed in with a flail, Braveheart-style.

One last thing -- pretty much anywhere you go in Scotland, if you're hungry for "crisps" (i.e., potato chips), you can get them in a flavor called Prawn Cocktail. I abstained, thank you very much. (Also steered clear of the Creamy Haggis flavor, and the Whiskey 'n Porridge.)

Driving etiquette on Scottish highways is pretty minimal. You rarely find a "two-way carriage," i.e., two lanes of traffic going one direction and two lanes going the other. That means that sooner or later you're going to have to pass in the oncoming traffic lane. The typical pattern among Scottish drivers, though, is for one slow driver (usually an 18-wheeler, but often just a slow tourist like me, or an old guy) to create a bottleneck, with 15 or 20 cars backed up behind him/her. If you happen to get stuck in that chain of cars, you're just STUCK -- unless you want to try to pass the entire bottled-up group at once (which, of course, is basically like standing up in a Scottish rugby pub and yelling "Long live England!", i.e., it's an E-ticket to a violent death). Nobody leaves any space to pass one or two cars at a time. So, you're completely at the will of the lead slow-poke.

Periodically, the highways have "lay-bys", which are little pull-off areas where the slow-pokes can get off the road and let everyone pass. But they're totally optional. If the slow-poke doesn't use the lay-by, again, you're just stuck. I was often stuck for an hour at a time. (The satellite navigator lady kept asking, "What's the frickin' hold-up? We should have been there a half hour ago." My response: "Shut up, Goose.")

Next stop, Edinburgh...

UK Trip, Part 10

In the UK they have these weird little credit card consoles that they bring to your table when you're ready to pay. That is, instead of taking your card and running it through the flux capacitor behind the bar, they bring over this little wireless device about the size of a six-inch Subway Club and run your card through it right at your table. Your total comes up on a little screen on the device, you indicate how much you want to tip, and you give the device back to your server. The machine then spits out your receipt, you sign, and you're finished.

The thing I don't like about this is that your server instantly, and in your presence, gets to see how much you tipped. Not a big deal if you're going to tip well -- but if the service was bad and/or the food was bad and you tip poorly, the server looks at you like, "America spends billions of dollars slaughtering innocents in foreign countries, and you can't even come up with 15 percent?" (even though it's not your fault).

I guess if I were more of a man I wouldn't have a problem with this. Still, if I'm only going to tip, say, 10 percent, I prefer to leave my puny tip and make a beeline for the door before the waitress knows what hit her. (Note to PC police: I only dine at places with waitresses, hence my non-gender-neutral usage.)

I stayed overnight at a place called Oban, Scotland. I was looking through a tourism brochure there, and a couple of things caught my eye. First, there was a restaurant called "Shower of Herring." Wasn't that one of the Biblical plagues -- a deluge of herring over the length and breadth of Egypt? Maybe I'm getting that wrong.

Second, there was an advertisement for Oban Sea Adventure Wildlife Cruises, where you were promised glimpses of, "sea eagles, whales, seals, dolphins, otters, basking sharks, and deer." Deer? In the water? Yes! This, apparently, is not uncommon in Scotland. It's actually one theory as to what people have really been seeing in Loch Ness.

UK Trip, Part 9

After I arrived safely in Glasgow, I toured the city for the day. In contrast to London, which was warm and sunny, Glasgow and the rest of Scotland were cold, windy, and wet. I had packed a wool hat, gloves, and a poncho...and felt pretty stupid for doing so while in London. But in Scotland, they were a God-send.

I only spent one evening in Glasgow, and went out with a Scottish "friend" from the Internet. (That is, he's a guy I "met" online on a website we both contribute to.) It was great going out with a real Glaswegian to some genuinely Scottish places (as opposed to touristy ones). He told me that my main objective in visiting Glasgow was to avoid being head-butted by young street hooligans. I told him that with his accent, he would absolutely KILL with the girls in America. That was most of what we talked about, actually -- girls. Later on, at my insistence, we went to a nightclub. (Glasgow is famous for its night life, so if you're in Glasgow, you gotta hit a club.) It was a Sunday night, though, so I wasn't expecting much, and I wasn't disappointed. The place had four or five people in it. Two of them were girls, however, dancing together, dressed in black. My Scottish friend and I chatted them up for a bit, and I ended up kind of getting isolated with one. Her name was Karen Lewis. That was about the last thing she told me that I was able to understand. Most of our conversation consisted of her shouting something over the music and me shouting back, "What?!" It was the combination of the loud noise and her thick Scottish burr that basically made her unintelligible. But it was fun to meet her anyway.

The next day I drove to the outskirts of the Scottish highlands, passing (and stopping at) Loch Ness along the way. It's a very touristy place, of course, but I really respected the guy who ran one of the two major exhibitions in  town. You pay 15 bucks to get in, and you walk through a number of rooms that present all of the evidence for and against the existence of the Loch Ness monster. By the time you're done, it's clear what conclusion they want you to reach -- there is no Loch Ness monster.

Surprising, huh? You'd think that a place whose existence depends on there being, or at least having been, a Loch Ness monster would hedge its bet a little. But no. They're very clear on there not being a monster. They were kind enough, however, not to say: "Sucker! We still got your 15 bucks!"

(Sidebar: did you know that Donny Osmond is now hosting a game show on British TV? He is. It's weird to hear him say, "Okay now, for 3,000 pounds,  what was the name of Winston Churchill's wife?")

As I've noted before, the Scottish burr rules. Guys, every girl in Scotland becomes your dream girl once you hear her talk. It's too cute. Particularly cute is their version of "uh..." and "um..." These are fillers that appear in every language, just in different forms. In Scotland, the "uh..." becomes a drawn-out version of the letter "a." So imagine just saying the letter "a," but drawing it out for a second or two.

Do it now. I'll wait. (Hums Jeopardy theme...)

That's how "uh..." sounds in Scotland.

As for "um...", say the word "aim," but draw it out for a second or two. Now you've got your Scottish "um..."

In Oban, Scotland, I did a distillery tour at 10:00 in the morning. Not a good choice, particularly with a mild hangover.

Here's a weird thing about the UK. If you're out at a club, or bar, or restaurant, whatever floor you happen to be on right now, the bathrooms will NOT be on that floor. They're either going to be one floor up or one floor down.

Here's how to lose weight on your vacation -- only eat one meal a day. That's what I did. I got up, bought a Diet Coke, toured like a madman all day, broke for a late lunch/early dinner at 5:00 or so, ate like Henry VIII, and then didn't eat anything else. Came back about five pounds lighter, despite my massive beer intake (and some absinthe in London, too; it's banned in the U.S., which is why I had to have it).

All over the UK, instead of "great" they say "brilliant," as in, "I had a brilliant time in London." I really like that. I never did quite figure out "cheers," though. Is it "thank you," "you're welcome," "there's a spider on your pants," or what? Anybody know the answer?

Another weird one: "salad cream," as in, "What kind of salad cream would you like?" My answer: "You know the very phrase 'salad cream' has sort of put me off of the whole idea of salad. I'll just have a large hunk of boiled meat and some mushy peas, please."

"Salad cream," of course, is simply what we call "salad dressing."

UK Trip, Part 8

Harrowing. That's the word I would use to describe my driving experience in Scotland. I flew from London to Edinburgh and "hired" (that's how the Brits say "rented") a car to drive to Glasgow, and then up into the highlands. So, imagine driving an unfamiliar car, driving on the wrong side of the car, on the wrong side of the road, in a strange land, in the rain. Scary. I'm not kidding. I was lucky to make it through the first hour alive. I couldn't see out of the fogged-up windows, I drove the wrong way into roundabouts, I ran red lights because I saw other people doing it. Even after three days, I never got over the fear of a head-on collision. It just feels WRONG to be on the left side of the road. To add to the discomfort, the roads in the Scottish highlands have no shoulder, and they are open to cyclists. Periodically, then, a group of cyclists, your car, and an eighteen-wheeler are all packed onto the same narrow strip of road. If you're lucky, you've got six inches of clearance on both sides.

The one smart thing I did was to "hire" a talking navigation device. The navigator lady turned out to be a fickle mistress, though. There were times when she clearly didn't know where we were but was too embarrassed to admit it. There were times when I needed instructions--"what do I do at this intersection?"--but she was silent. (Every time this happened, I would say, "Talk to me, Goose!" Amazingly, I never failed to laugh at this.) There were times when you could hear the frustration in her voice after I missed yet another turn: "Recalculating...again." All in all, though, I was glad she was with me. I wouldn't have wanted to try to navigate Scotland on my own.

UK Trip, Part 7

This is going to be a short one. In my writing about my trip, I'm actually getting ready to leave London and head to Scotland. (Don't worry, though -- I come back to London again before the trip is finished.) Before I go, though, I need to share with you the most amazing story I heard in London. It's about a guy named Michael Fagan who broke into Buckingham Palace in 1982 and ended up having a nice chat with the queen at the foot of her bed. Below is the Wikipedia version. It makes you wonder -- where was Hollywood with the movie?

Michael Fagan was the intruder who broke into Buckingham Palace and entered Queen Elizabeth II's bedchamber in the early hours of July 9, 1982. The unemployed Irish father of four children managed to evade electronic alarms, palace and police guards.

This actually had been his second successful attempt to break into Buckingham Palace. Upon his first attempt, he scaled a drainpipe, briefly startling a housemaid. She called security, but they decided not to act.

He entered through an unlocked window on the roof and spent the next half hour wandering around. He tripped several alarms, but they were faulty. He viewed the royal portraits and rested on the throne for awhile. He entered the Post Room, where he drank half a bottle of Californian white wine before becoming tired and left.

On the second attempt, an alarm sensor actually had gone off upon detecting him. A worker in the Palace thought it had happened by accident, so he silenced the alarm, Fagan having gone unnoticed.

On his way to see the Queen, he had broken a glass ashtray, lacerating his hand.

The Queen woke when he disturbed a curtain after which he sat on the edge of her bed talking to her for about ten minutes; the Queen was only able to raise the alarm when he asked for a cigarette. She calmly called for a footman who allegedly held the intruder until police arrived. The incident happened as the armed police officer outside the royal bedroom came off duty before his replacement arrived. He had been out walking the Queen's dogs.

The incident caused shock to all, as one unarmed man could manage not only to enter the Palace but even went as far as to see the Queen herself while she was asleep. However, the Queen's calm nature had become better noted. She was calm even upon seeing in her room a strange man with a bloodied hand, and remained calm while conversing with Fagan for about ten minutes.

Since it was then a civil wrong rather than a criminal offence, Michael Fagan was not charged for trespassing in the Queen's bedroom.

He was however charged with theft (of the half bottle of wine, value £3), but the charges were dropped when he was committed for psychiatric evaluation.

UK Trip, Part 6

"There is no six." Those four words sum up my maddening trip to the British Museum, where I managed to see the entire three-million item collection in a record time of 12 minutes. Okay, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but I was trying to make decent time through the museum, as I had another stop that day. Accordingly, I rented the "50 highlights" audio tour, which directs you to 50 of the coolest things in the museum's collection. Sure, you're going to miss a few billion other items, slightly less cool but still very cool, but those are the trade-offs you have to make when you're traveling.

The first stop was the Rosetta Stone -- something to behold. It was in remarkable condition. I will always have a special place in my heart for the Rosetta Stone, because it demonstrated that Joseph Smith's "translation" of the Book of Abraham was a fraud.

Time for Stop #2. This is where the trouble begins. I can't find Stop #2. It's in the same room as Stop 1, according to my map, it's very near the Rosetta Stone, and it's even got a #2 label on it. But I can't find it. Eventually, I give up and ask for help. I am directed to Stop #2. Why couldn't I find it? Because the room is huge, the map is lousy, and the #2 label on the case is about the size of a postage stamp.

It takes me several minutes to find each of Stops 3, 4, and 5 -- even though I've got a map, even though they are labeled, and even though they are in the same room. They are not arranged sequentially, however. Stop 3 might be down a corridor to your left, while Stop 4 is 50 feet behind you, and Stop 5 is in a little alcove right next to Stop 3. No rhyme or reason. I eventually do find these three stops, however.

Stop 6 is a different story altogether. I simply CANNOT find it. After 10 minutes I break down and ask a guide for assistance. She looks at my map, looks out at the giant room, looks back at my map and says, "There is no six. We've had six removed."

Ah, well, that makes perfect sense.

Trouble is, she was wrong! Six is just upstairs, in another room, reflected on a different page of my map. (Later I would find that Stop 14 was the one that had been removed.)

This is how it was all day long. Spend 10 minutes looking for Stop 8. Ah, there it is -- see the little postage-stamp-sized label? Okay, now let's move on to Stop 9. It's three floors up, obscured from the front by a giant Buddha. Walk behind him and look four feet due south of his butt. Fine, done. Now for Stop 10 -- it's in the basement, right next to Stop 46. Naturally.

I'm not exaggerating (okay, maybe just a little). I did about 20 audio tours on my trip, and this was by far the worst. Most of them walk you in a logical, sequential pattern from one stop to the next. You look at Stop 1, you walk 30 feet and come to Stop 2. Stop 2 has a giant sign that says "This is Stop 2." Walk another 30 feet, and you're at Stop 3. There's no doubt it's Stop 3. Etc. In the British Museum they seem to have had themselves a good British giggle: "Let's just distribute the stops at random around the museum, and then put teeny-weeny labels on them to anger the Americans! Tee-hee!"

Well, it worked on me.

Footnote. You want to know my biggest disappointment? The Elgin marbles were not actually marbles.

UK Trip, Part 5

As you've probably heard, the English are unfailingly polite. They don't like conflict, embarrassment, tension, or trouble. Sometimes, this manifests itself in frustrating ways. When I flew from London to Edinburgh, for example, I was supposed to take a 45-minute train ride to Stansted airport to catch my flight. Well, when I got to the train station, I was directed to hop aboard a bus instead. Apparently there was some track maintenance going on at the designated station. The bus, therefore, was going to take us to the next station down the line, where we'd pick up our train. The driver explained it to us once we were on board: "We've just got to make our way to the next station. It's only about ten minutes away."

Forty minutes later, we were there. And that was forty minutes in ZERO traffic, too. The station was clearly forty minutes away, not ten. So why not just say forty?  As I said, the English don't like conflict, embarrassment, tension, or trouble. (They're quite different from the Scottish this way. In Glasgow, I was warned not to make extended eye contact with young men on the street, lest I get a swift head-butt to the nose. In a bar in Edinburgh, a drunk old Scotsman threatened to punch me in the "fookin" mouth when I asked if he knew any Scottish songs. (He had been singing "California, here I come...") My bus driver in Edinburgh, too, had little patience for anything or anyone -- "Move to the back, wouldja?" And the B&B clerk at the place I stayed in Glasgow threatened to call the police on me several times within a ten-minute span. Long story, which I may or may not share later...)

One other funny story before I sign off for the evening. The British Library holds some of the great literary treasures of Western Civilization: originals of the Magna Carta, one of the earliest complete Bibles, Shakespeare's first folio, a number of Leonardo da Vinci's notebooks, etc. Naturally, I signed up for a tour. When I arrived at the library on tour day, they told me that I was the only one who had bought a ticket. I said, "You're kidding me." They said, "No, do you still want to go?" I said, "Yes, of course." I couldn't believe my good fortune. My own private tour!

Well, the tour guide came and found me, and within minutes I knew I'd made a terrible mistake. The library doesn't actually offer guided tours of its holdings. Instead, it offers guided tours of the library itself, as in, "This is where you apply for a user card," "This is the bar code dispenser that we use to attach labels to all of our buckets," "This is where the security guys eat their lunch." Etc.

Magna Carta? Yawn. Tell me more about the Dewey decimal system!