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Snapshot of me: June 13, 1998

On my first night on the Greek island of Paros, I decide to treat myself

after weeks of cheap take-away eats. I find an enticing garden restaurant

in the winding alleys of the Old Town, where I sit, open my newspaper, have

calamari risotto and wine, and decide to feel good about myself. It works.

The air is warm, I feel sea-cleaned and relaxed; even the waitress feels

welcome to chat with me. She's Australian and blonde. I consider telling

her that I'm a diplomat's son; I'm feeling that free.



Are those the moments travel is built on, or the moments on which a life

should be?



########



It was time for me to travel the most northerly of my entire odyssey. The

train to Scotland was full, but since I was going the entire route -- from

London to Inverness -- the cast of characters kept changing. There was

Henry, the 3-year-old with the English accent (what is cuter, I ask you)

who talked to his mother on his father's cellular phone. ("Henry, you can't

just nod. You have to say something," said his very kind father.) Henry got

off in Newcastle. There were noisy beer drinkers behind me, who disbarked

in Berwick-on-Tweed. And a student who sat next to me, but missed her stop

(Haymarket, in Edinburgh) when the train inexplicably zoomed past it. She

had to travel 40 miles to the next one (Stirling). It was my pleasure to

sit back and watch things happen to other people. That's what my life is

becoming.



Inverness was dark and rainy. Inverness is always dark and rainy. A serene

river traipses through town, past the tourist hotels and Irish pubs which,

promptly at 11 p.m. nightly, disgorge a crew of drunk hooligans. I was

enjoying an evening stroll along the sloping grassy banks of the River Ness

when some lads emerged from Jimmy Foxes, beating the crap out of each

other. One guy flipped the other headlong into oncoming traffic. Blood

streaming down their foreheads and bellowing heavily accented obscenities,

they parted company when the barman got involved. Offend the police, if you

may, but stay friends with the barman.  It was a very Scottish moment.



How can I describe the Scottish?  They're very lovely people, albeit in

spirit only. I guess gorgeous land can only improve life so much. Rain,

industry, heavy food, and the best whisky in the world contribute to the

Scots' overall depression. It always breaks my heart to see them. Even the

young people, all teased hair and untargeted hope. Everyone looks

brain-damaged and pink. They look like newly hatched larvae, mouths agape

at a new world they don't understand. And they wear too many polyesters and

pastels. It's like they all got stuck in 1982 (sort of like "Brigadoon")

and are perplexed to see the rest of the planet has gone on with it. But

it's all part of the charm. 



The first thing you'll notice about the Scots is YOU CANNOT UNDERSTAND

THEM. Let it never be said that English doesn't have dialects. Time and

again, I'd hear a Scot speaking to someone and think for a moment they were

from Eastern Europe. (Although, interestingly enough, a French guy I met

said he found them easy to understand. The Scottish 'r' is Gallic that

way.)  Here's me trying to order dinner.



Me: "I'd like an order of chips, please."

Chippie: "Arg oon egg lurr."

Me: "...Yes, some chips. Thanks."

Chippie: "Task boon in a thing ales?"

Me: (I smile and gulp.)

Chippie: "Ooch it ligon."

Me: "Um...small?"

Chippie: "Broom soos, fin anger?"

Me: "Oh! Brown sauce,"

Chippie: "Oohkee, tetts oonpand faff tea."

Me: (I hand over a five pound note and hope for change.)

Chippie: "Mookle. Chairs."



At a bar in Fort William, a long-haired drunk with a giant hole in his

pants tried to talk to me. I think that what he had to get off his chest

was really important -- his eyes were full of a dry pain that only the

Scots and the Russians have mastered -- but I couldn't understand a damn

thing. I think he said that he can speak many languages (except English, I

suppose). I tried to nod and grin, contemplating escape, but I think I

missed a question or two. I really comprehended only one sentence he

uttered, and this was it: "You don't understand me."  Not wanted to be

rude, I said, "Of course I understand you!" He shook his head sadly, as if

his Scottishness were the bane of his existence, and went to the barmaid.

"He doesn't understand me," he told her grimly. "Doesn't he, love?" she

said. "I understand you." So he ordered a shandy.



The Scottish -- and the industrial British in general -- do not have very

nice lives. The British work longer weeks than anyone else in Europe, and

both inflation and cost of living are among the highest. Paychecks, meager

to begin with, don't go far. They feel very alone, and they usually take it

out on each other. There's a real problem with kids killing themselves, for

example. The newspapers are full of hammer murders and the radio talk shows

are more or less forums for female shut-ins to fight the urge to end it

all. One town of 150 feels so isolated that, for one day this week, it will

issue its own passports and money and require customs entry for all

outsiders; it's making a point to the county government about feeling

underrepresented. Then there are the dreaded Begbies -- as in the maniacal

character from "Trainspotting," which takes place in Edinburgh. If you've

seen it, you know how frightening he is; he's scary because he's real.

Begbies are the blokes with chips tottering precariously on their

shoulders. They speak in fractured accents and are always looking for a

fight. They scream it you, in your face, turning red and spitting --

probably recreating primal bouts with child abuse. They come out, dukes up,

when the pubs close. And there are a LOT of them. Masculinity manifests

itself in terrifying ways in Scotland; there are nights, when the moon is

on the wane, that you would be better off spending indoors.



I've seen some horrible stuff in Scotland. I saw a man lift his sobbing,

crippled wife by her hair.  I've seen peaceful graveyard crypts filled with

syringes and used condoms. But I've also seen teenagers sweetly making out

at a bar without opening their lips. I guess the true quality of a country

really does lie in a place where you can't see it. In that way, tourism is

useless.



After Inverness, which didn't have much going on (Macbeth didn't leave his

castle behind for the tourists), I went down to a little town called

Drumnadrochit, on the shores of Loch Ness.  You know that ruined castle

(Urquhart) that overlooks the Loch?  That's the place. That night, I jumped

the fence (savings: 4 pounds) and wandered the ramparts as the sun set.

Right beyond the castle, the loch is about 200 feet deep within 50 feet of

shore; it bottoms out at an amazing 800 feet deep -- and that's only 2/3rds

as deep as the deepest loch in Scotland.  Britain does tourist kitsch like

nowhere else on earth: Even my hostel -- supposedly the refuge of the poor

but well-grounded, was decorated with a cartoon of Nessie wearing a

backpack and giving the thumbs-up sign.  Makes 'em looks stupid, if you ask

me.



While I was in town, I decided it would be a shame to come all this way and

not go ON the loch, so me and some people from the hostel hired a guy with

a boat. On Paros, the water was so clear that boats seemed like they were

flying. But Loch Ness is so black that it shines like espresso. We were the

only boat in sight, and we spent the afternoon fishing (we caught two big

ones; trout I think). It was also incredibly windy, which made the waves on

the loch roll to two or three feet in places; it's easy to see why people

mistake them for Nessie. Sometimes, there's a seal that feeds on the fish

offshore from the castle; people see it and think it, too, is the monster. 



At that latitude, the elements make it very clear how they shaped Scotland,

which, if you look at a map, is thoroughly combed with finger lakes from

southwest to northeast, following the wind. If the whole country were made

of shortbread (and oh, how nice that would be), it would probably snap off

along Loch Ness and float into the North Atlantic. ("Titanic," the sequel?)



Scotland, though, is at its most spectacular in the Highlands. I went to a

place called Fort William, which is a hilly town on a loch near the U.K.'s

tallest peak, Ben Nevis. Wrapping around Ben is the ridiculously heavenly

Glen Nevis, a 7-mile valley cradled between lime green slopes, leafy

forests, and chattering with thousands of contented brooks. They seem to

materialize out of nowhere and dart back into the earth just as

haphazardly. The heather is purple and the grass is so green it seems the

very soil has gone insane. Even the skies are mercurial. They remind me of

victory. Through a vista of growling, layered greyness, they're always a

patch of precious clarity that's managed to plumb the gaps with visible

beams that stretch down to landfall. If the hills tell tales of benevolent

power and nature's cautionary relationship with man, then the skies

certainly roil with tensions of their own; they allow light to touch us

here and there, like grace, before closing up again and giving the gift

somewhere miles away. In the Highlands, twin dramas proceed around you all

the time.



One day I was cycling through the Glen when an oncoming car pretended not

to see me. Visualizing my doom afoot, I braked and turned simultaneously

and flipped, feet over head, onto the sidewalk -- making chuck of my palms.

And yet the driver kept on going. I felt like I'd be transported to a

science fiction novel where it's machines versus man. Tourists ruin

everywhere!  The next car was packed with white-faced sightseers who had to

mortify me further by asking if I was all right. I guess they'd witnessed

my tumble, which was truly more spectacular than the Highlands themselves. 

"Thank you, thank you," I muttered sheepishly. By the way I was scuffing

gravel out of my skin, you'd have thought I was applauding myself. 

But I nursed my wounds in the cold clear water of the mountain streams,

next to a mighty waterfall, surrounded by dithering sheep. 



That was the moment I realized I have finally reached the point where I

don't think of places in terms of home anymore. I picture one big Earth,

and I'm getting to know its moments. Each area has its own personality, its

own special local arguments, like collected members of an extended family.

Inch by inch, it changes a little, so even Loch Ness to Cairo seem related

when you know the transitions.



##########



Edinburgh!



I LOVE Edinburgh!  (Pronounced "Edinburrah".) It's my favorite city in

Europe!  So I decided to spend two weeks (British: a fortnight) there.



Why?  Edinburgh is the only city I can think of that would erect a 61-meter

tall monument to a writer.  It's a gargantuan, twistedly ornate spire, all

for Sir Walter Scott.  You gotta feel welcome in a place like that -- even

if Irvine Welsh is the new Edinburgh voice.  (Anyway, Welsh lives in

Amsterdam now, so he shouldn't count.)  Edinburgh gets my writing juices

going, as it did Robert Louis Stevenson and Robbie Burns, too.



Everyone I've ever known who's gone there has come back raving about it.

And they should! In beauty alone, it's unmatched. The center of town is

dominated by an extinct volcano, atop which is planted a proud castle, a

millennium old.  Wherever you go in town, the castle peers down at you from

its mossy crags, babysitting you. At night, when it's lit up and its flame

torches are flying like flags, the whole city seems to meld past with

present. From the castle, the cobblestoned Royal Mile wanders down the

volcanic ridge to the Queen's Scottish residence, and in between are

stacked rows of gabled grey buildings, one after another, with not a strip

of chrome or Golden Arches to compete. Everywhere you look, cloistered

stairwells are cascading off the mountain like waterfalls, leading you

under and around buildings like some sketch by Escher. The rest of the

city, which huddles around the castle like obedient and well-cared for

subjects, has as much obstinate charm. Beneath the cliffs there's a

tranquil park, which until 1760 was a lake; next to it is Waverley train

station and its river of frosted ceiling glass. Across it lies New Town,

designed 200 years ago to be a stately expression of well-apportioned

Georgian opulence: rows of wide avenues balanced with tree-lined parks. To

the east is the majestic King Arthur's Seat, a grassy 800-foot peak that

looms over the parts of town the Castle can't reach. The feel of Edinburgh

recalls something out of Jekyll and Hyde, which is set here. Grey stones,

blackening mortar, and sheets of tall windows that reflect the mild gloom

of grey, grey skies. Even the church steeples seem pastworldly; many of the

spires culminate in a bloom of concrete ornament and buttresses so that the

skyline of Edinburgh mirrors in granite a field of thistles, the national

flower.



I can't say enough about it.  But I've said enough.



August is the time to be here; it's festival time. Get this. There's the

main Festival -- world-class art, music, theatre, opera, dance. Then

there's also a book festival, a film festival, a jazz festival, a military

tattoo with folk dancers, drum corps, and hundreds of bagpipers at once --

even a Bavarian beer festival (which is handy if you want to sit through

that Tattoo). But the mother of this festival festival is the Fringe

festival: over 16,000 performances in three weeks. The city is an orgy of

entertainment; I'm batter-dipped in art!  Everything becomes a venue --

churches, pubs, courtyards, schools. Every empty room is filled with either

tourists or art. Every day, when the papers come out, the whole town rushes

to see what the hot shows are. Among the stuff -- both wheat and chaff --

that I've seen are comics (my fave was called The League Against Tedium),

plays (such as a documentary piece on rave culture), musicals (I saw a new

piece by Alan Ayckbourn), movies (a Buster Keaton classic and Sundance

favorite "Pi"), and more comedy (The Bert Fershners).  I've seen at least

three things a day for two weeks. My favorite was called "Gargantua," which

was staged in an abandoned part of the library, deep under the streets,

appropriately named The Underbelly. Each scene was in a different room. It

was about food. My routine: rise late, get a Murphy's in the pub's beer

garden, go to shows, get more beer, read, retire.  Meanwhile, the Royal

Mile is clogged with dumb-ass tourists and desperate artists passing out

fliers. With all this product, people become crazy to get seen. They cruise

the streets like crazed beggars. Some dress up: pirates, demons, men in

tube tops. Others think of clever ways to give you their leaflets. ("Will

you throw this away for me?" "My leaflet has a quality sheen.") Some play

dead. One Irish guy got arrested for saying the world "penis" over and over

from the top of a lamppost. (He was a minister's son.)  Almost everyone is

in their 20s, almost everyone is creative, and almost everyone is

good-looking. No one looks like Miss Jean Brodie. Woo-hoo!



[[Let's get interactive!  The Fringe's website is http://www.edfringe.com,

the Tattoo is at http://www.expressmedia.co.uk/edintattoo/ and a link for

all the festivals can be found at http://www.go-edinburgh.co.uk.  Wheee!

Learn about your world!]]



I'm increasingly unscrupulous about where I sleep. I climbed to the top of

the crag just east of town, laid down, and snoozed.  I did the same at

Petra, and on the decks of countless ferries. I think I'll have some

tee-shirts made up: NAP THE WORLD '98.



Lotta bagpipes. Oh, boy!  "Scotland the Brave" again!  Lotta tourists

taking pictures of it.  Gee, I hope he plays "Amazing Grace."  How to annoy

a bagpiper: Request "Superfreak."



It's a kilty sort of place.



I just love wandering the streets, up and down the steps.  I love stumbling

across undiscovered pubs, and stumbling out again a little while later.  I

love the rich green trees and the way lichen clings to the buildings and

the cliffs. I love the cool nights and the short bursts of surprisingly

strong Scottish sunlight.  I love hanging out with all these artists!



Except for the Australians.  In fact, you're several times more likely to

be served by an Ozzie than a Scot.  Why?  Since Australia is so far away,

when they travel, they go for years.  What makes that possible, of course,

is Australia is considered a Commonwealth nation, so they're allowed to

work in Britain. (Drat that pesky Revolutionary War!)  The ones who don't

like London (and that's a lot of them) go elsewhere, many to Edinburgh.

They put down their bags and stay for years. And they work in the easiest

jobs to get: restaurants, hotels, hostels, shops.  So wherever you go,

there are Ozzies.  It gets really annoying, to be honest.  Even the

newspapers were complaining about it.  (If you could have a decent

conversation with most Australians, I suppose we'd feel differently.  Oo!

I didn't say that!!!)



But health care is free.  I asked to be checked out for TB (Egypt and

Morocco, you know) and was told that if I made an appointment, it'd would

cost me nada.  X-ray, drugs, inspection...nada.  Why can't America, the

richest nation in the world, do that for its own people?  Because we're too

busy going over the heads of other governments to blitz minor leaders of

breakaway Islamic sects, that's why. (Yes, there's trouble in the wind,

folks.  Relax: I won't be in any more Muslim countries on this trip.

Still, I feel safer in South Africa than in New York City, where the

fundamentalists are just itching to strike.) America is disgusting in its

callousness -- both to other countries and to the health of its own people.



I've been reading a lot lately. "A Dry White Season," "Microserfs." I've

discovered Graham Greene.  Yay!!  "The End of the Affair" and now, "Travels

with My Aunt."  Is it true he was a horndog? 



Scottish cuisine: warped.  What can you say about a country that features a

whisky distillery on the back of its 10-pound note? (Insert joke here.) How

about this: Deep Fried Mars bars?  Yep!  Take a Mars bar, roll it in

batter, and fry it.  Ta-da! You have the world's most redundant desert. And

the reason, perhaps, the Scots are so preoccupied with death.  They also

deep fry pizza. And malted milk balls.  This is to say nothing of haggis,

served at fairs, chip shops and tourist hutches. Haggis comes in a heavy

packet-like casing.  No one likes to tell you what it is (even if you could

understand them). Quiz!  Is it:



a) a kind of animal liver with fruit

b) a little creature that has two short left legs, so it can run around

hills fast

c) sheep guts cooked in its intestines



The answer is more unpleasant than its taste. To me, it's like Grade-Z beef

stewed with oatmeal and way too much pepper. Like most bizarre menu items,

its flavor is the sum of its spices.



I cooked a lot for myself at the hostel.



#########

Hostel classics:



SCORCHED-EARTH STIR-FRY



Ingredients: Vegetables (sprouts, mushrooms, carrots, etc.), cubed chicken

breast, oil, minced fresh garlic



Step 1: Underheat skillet (not wok)

Step 2: Add too much oil, wait until it smokes

Step 3: Immediately scorch garlic

Step 4: Add chicken (unwieldy chunks, not strips)

Step 5: Add vegetables too early, cook too long for chicken's sake

Step 6: Panicky, add more oil

Step 7: Add Chinese-restaurant-style packet of soy sauce, stir.



Serve with toast.



#########



Last month, my friend Anthony and I went to a restaurant in London -- one

of his regular hangouts -- and our Australian waiter, Leigh (who CAN

converse), told me he was going to be in Edinburgh. Well, I told you

Edinburgh had a magic quality to it: I ran into him, twice. Taking the hint

of the gods, we went for drinks with his friend Mandy at my favorite

Edinburgh pub, the Green Tree.  Mandy and I got to talking about our trips.

Turns out SHE was on Paros as well, and around the same time.  "How about

that!" I said.  Slowly, though, it came out that not only were we there at

the same time, but she had worked at the same garden restaurant I went to.

And not only did she work there, but...



You guessed it.  The waitress I chatted with was Mandy.  Now here she was,

two months later -- and she remembered ME.  I never remember waitresses,

and she never remembers customers.  But we remembered each other.  Needless

to say, we required several more beers, and immediately.



What's going on in this world?  Did we both anticipate in some small way

that fact we'd meet again?  And how amazing that we'd meet through a friend

of a friend!  And even that middle friend I'd only run into by accident!

What kinds of connections do we miss, every day, just by failing to notice

them?  The connection to what makes us real is so very tenuous.



##########



Well, the European chapter of my trip is coming to a close.  I go to Cape

Town on the 31st.  Although I'm ready for something exotic and different --

in a sense, my Real Trip will begin now -- It's going to be very hard.

I'll miss my friends. 



BULLETINS:



I need to update my mailing list before I leave London next week!  So if

you no longer want to receive my Dispatches from the Front, e-mail me and I will fight the urge to be bitter.



My AOL cohorts should check their Buddy Lists nightly at around 7 or 8 p.m.

New York time.  I'll be frequently online in London then.  We can chat!

I'm listed as bastablejc.



I'll send one more Dispatch before South Africa.



Tartan suite,

Jason



Right now I'm in: Edinburgh, Scotland

Day: 111