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Road Diary LONDON -- MAY 30, SUNDAY: The British have a big issue with electrical sockets. I don't know about you, but socket concern is very low on my priority list in America. I'll bet, until returning to England, I hadn't spent 13 seconds thinking about sockets all year. But this morning, I stand at the kitchen counter, half asleep, waiting for the coffee water to boil, and it doesn't boil and it doesn't boil, and I finally realize, "Oh, the socket isn't on." The cleaning lady clicks off every socket, everyday -- a common practice throughout the British Isles. The last time we rented an apartment in Edinburgh, we were told, "Please remember to switch off your sockets when they're not in use." Maybe I don't understand the potential dangers of unswitched outlets -- a naive American who risks his life and the lives of his loved ones by forgetting to do this deed. But it's just too late in life to add sockets to an already long list of concerns. The water finally boils and while waiting for it to drip through the filter, I begin to wonder about Brits visiting the US, where we don't have switches on our outlets. Maybe being unable to secure this segment of their reality makes them nervous. When my mind leaps to the subject of "socket phobias," I realize it's time to think about other things. This is our last day in London. We get up late, and start packing. Tara and I will conduct another five-hour Past-Life Workshop at the Body Mind Spirit Festival from 5 to 10 PM. By the time we get back to the apartment, we'll be ready to fall into bed. Tomorrow morning, we depart for Edinburgh. Upon looking in the bathroom mirror, I realize my forehead is sunburned. Sunburned in London? Impossible, but true. Everyday we walk miles, and the weather has been warmer and sunnier than we've ever experienced. But sunburned? Tara says she's hungry for a Lamb McSpicy Meal being featured at a McDonald's down the street. I don't say anything, but look over at the children. A shocked look flashes across their faces. I put my finger to my lips so they don't blow it. "Really, McDonald's?" I say. "Lamburgers with yogurt and coriander sauce! Doesn't that sound good?" she says. "Not particularly, but they have other things, and you could probably talk us into taking you." The kids are both making thumbs up signs behind her back. You see, Tara doesn't do McDonald's. Not a consideration. Never, ever. But in addition to lamb, they're also featuring other East Indian sandwiches, including a McChicken Korma Meal with mango sauce on naan bread, and Vegetable Samosas with yogurt mint and mango chutney. Tara and I do East Indian McDonald's. Yum. The children order familiar sandwiches. Our last Body Mind Spirit workshop goes smoothly. Tara has written a new "Indian Medicine Woman" healing meditation, which she performs tonight for the first time. The participant's love the experience, but are disappointed they can't purchase a professionally-recorded tape or CD. When the workshop is over, a few people remain to discuss their experiences in the "Back-to-the-Cause, Karmic-Cleansing Regression." Tara counsels.
MAY 31, MONDAY: Memorial Day at home, the third day of a three-day Bank Holiday here. For no particular reason, the Brits take frequent bank holidays. In America, we invent reasons for our holidays. Evidently we have to justify an extra day of rest and play. Probably a combination of the Christian work ethic and Jewish guilt. We get up at 6:30 AM. I walk to Cromwell Road, hail a Black Cab and direct the driver back to the apartment to pick up my family. This is the easiest way to get a cab in London. No matter what cab company we've ever called, we're told it will take up to an hour. On the streets, it takes three minutes. Somehow, with the kindly driver's help, we manage to fit our luggage and ourselves into the cab. I'm embarrassed to admit that I've added another bag to carry my new books and transformer. But I'm still mobile. It will take two more volumes to put me at the mercy of others. At King's Cross Station, we board the 8 AM "fast" train to Edinburgh, with two minutes to spare. BritRail is one of our favorite ways to travel. The trains are on time to the minute, comfortable, with huge clean windows through which you can watch the world flash past at 100 miles per hour. Plus, coffee, tea and sandwiches are always available in the food car or from a cart lady who roams the aisles. The only thing they don't tell you about in the train brochures is "tunnels." Going through a long tunnel at high speed sucks your inner ears out of your head. Nothing serious, mind you. I don't know why we don't remember this until it occurs. But upon entering the first tunnel, we all clamp our hands over our ears and look at each other with bewildered expressions. A hundred miles out of London, while filling in the dates on our rail passes, I suddenly realize I'VE SCREWED UP! It is May 31. We're not scheduled to go to Edinburgh until June 1. I don't believe it! Maybe I'm so anxious to get to Scotland, I subconsciously plotted this without telling myself. But I have to confess, because we're not to take possession of the apartment until tomorrow. "Tara, guess what ..." As we approach the Scottish border, in keeping with our past arrivals, the sun breaks through the overcast sky. Silly as this sounds, this country goes out of its way to welcome us. Tara tells me later she cried as we entered Scotland, but she hid it because I'd write about it. Me, write about it? Never! For me, just getting close to the border generates intense anticipation -- a kid on Christmas Eve. Upon crossing into Scotland, a transition takes place within me -- a fierce sense of pride and identification with the land, the people and their heritage -- our lineage. I'm no longer a tourist ... I've returned to my second home. In Waverly Station, I call our apartment agency. "Can we move in a day early?" I ask, then explain that our London apartment burned down and the entire city is overbooked. The agent laughs and says "Sure." Our cab driver is an elderly Scotsman, wearing a plaid cap, and he speaks with a thick brogue. I apologize for our excessive luggage and he doesn't care. He acts like an old friend and has us laughing at his stories before we're out of the station. He loves old Hollywood movies. He has written a musical play and hopes to visit Hollywood. We stop at the rental agency to pick up keys, then on to the apartment. I try to tip him and he won't accept the money. After unpacking, we walk a few blocks to a ScotMid grocery store, purchase what we can carry in staples, plus two local newspapers and a big container of Scottish ice cream. The Scots make the best ice cream in the world. When the container won't fit in the freezer, we're all forced to eat huge bowls, before putting away the rest of the groceries. I answer the doorbell to find a man holding a clipboard. "Oh, I'm so sorry," he says. "I was told no one would be here." He is holding a set of apartment keys. "We arrived a day early." "I'm from the Scottish Tourist Board and I'm here to evaluate the apartment and give it a current rating." Being from LA, I want to see proof that he is who he says he is. Once inside, he looks around, checks things on his clipboard, feels the firmness of the couch and looks at the view of the park from our living room window. Tara asks him some questions. Being from the tourist bureau, he easily answers. So I ask some questions about children's activities. He answers. This is great. More questions. He looks at his watch. But we have more questions. Tara says later that being personally welcomed by the Scottish Tourist Board, a few moments after our arrival, must be a lovely omen for our stay. The kids run off to play in the park. Tara and I hike almost to the Firth of Forth Harbor. I buy fish and chips from a street shop. The vendor tosses a handful of fries onto a big square of brown paper, splashes them with salt and vinegar, flips a big piece of white fish on top of the fries and wraps them together into a brown-and-butcher-paper cone. I'm in heaven! I love this country, and its food and its people. But I can't claim to love Scottish television. Tonight as I write this, Tara is reading the newspaper and watching, "Butler Tips" -- a show teaching you how to polish silver by rubbing it with a fresh lemon. This is prime-time BBC programming. My wife informs me that just because she knows these things, she's not going to iron my morning newspaper. I protest, "When in Rome do as ..." "Sorry."
JUNE 1, TUESDAY: Up at 7:30 AM. The apartment is freezing, so I throw on my last clean T-shirt before heading to the kitchen to make coffee. The owner has provided a restaurant-style plunger pot, which assures our "Hot Java Lava" with rocket-fuel levels of caffeine will be perfect. Tara thinks we must only do the Lava once in awhile, because she says, "I've never wanted to be this awake!" We'll be living in Edinburgh for two months -- all June and July. This realization hasn't hit me yet. The apartment is tiny, but how much space do you need when you've packed your life into a suitcase, backpack and book bag? We have two separate bedrooms, a good size living/dining room and separate kitchen, which includes a washer/dryer as one machine. When I place Tara's cup of coffee on the beside table, she opens her eyes. We spend the next hour huddled in bed, looking through the yellow pages. I don't know if all Scottish showers are the same, but based upon our experiences in this land, they are. And they're weird. First you pull a string which hangs from the ceiling to activate the system. A red light goes on in the ceiling. Next, you dial the desired temperature on a light-up box mounted above the tub. Finally, another switch turns on the water at about ten-percent of the pressure we're used to. "Showers will be an adventure for the next two months," I say to the family. Tara presents a breakfast for royalty: eggs, current pudding, toast and cheese, with tea. Morning is for adult work and children's homework. The afternoon is to absorb the city on foot. We've done all the tourist things on previous trips -- most more than once. This trip, we want to "live" Edinburgh. The area known as Stockbridge is a two-mile hike. Here, we pick up some needed stuff: a door stop, frying pan, office and drawing supplies. After a few more miles, Tara is ready for a break, so she and Cheyenne duck into a cyber cafe, while Hunter and I plod on, investigating cell-phone rentals and places he might like to spend his birthday. After several more miles, my son tells me that he has a side ache. I leave him in a huge Virgin Records store and hike another couple miles back to Tara. She has waited an hour to get on a computer and is just clicking her mouse for the first time. "I rented an hour," she says. "I can't leave Hunter that long." So I hike back to Virgin Records, and inform him that we have to hike back to pick up the girls. "All the way back there?" he says. "I've walked over ten *!*!#! miles," I say, "maybe twelve, maybe fifteen." "There are a lot of cabs, Dad." Over dinner at "Victoria and Albert's," our favorite bar/restaurant, Hunter tells us that when he has his own children, he'll vacation at Magic Mountain amusement park for two weeks at a time. "You won't make your kids walk all over a foreign country?" I ask. "Never," he says. Back in the apartment, the big show on BBC1 is "Changing Rooms Stripped Bare" -- about a team of designers and decorators who will redo a room in your house in two days. To my taste, the rooms are garish, bizarre, ridiculous. The show captures the flat owners initial response to their new rooms. In every case, they HATE the result. So why did the BBC commission this program in the first place? I'm becoming addicted to Brit TV programming, if only to see how bad it can be. Four of the five channels are the same in England, Ireland and Scotland. Tara continues to argue in defense of the BBC. But she has always spelled theater, theatre, so maybe it's in her blood. At 8:15 PM, Tara puts a load of washing into the machine. Thankfully, we know the routine and have no expectations. At 11:30, when we go to bed, the machine is still chugging away on the first load. At this point, I'm going to insert our first Scottish washing-machine experience, described in my book, With Your Spirit Guide's Help. The following excerpt took place in late December, 1995, during the coldest Scottish winter in a century: Before leaving the city for a two-day trip north, we need to wash clothes. The miniature washer/dryer sits beneath a counter in the apartment kitchen. Tara intends to set some of the clothes over a drying rack in front of the radiator. The machine begins to chug through its washing cycle which seems to take forever. One hour, two hours. We go out, explore half of Edinburgh, and return to find it still chugging. Tara is becoming upset at the machine. I sit on the couch, sip single-malt Scotch, and read the newspaper. On TV, sheepdogs herd sheep. I learn it's easier to watch such events after a shot of Scotch. Tara yells for me to come into the kitchen. The machine has finally stopped sloshing and spinning. "It won't open," she says. When I try to open the door, the result is deep, internal clicking noises. "Maybe it'll open later." "I'll freeze in Inverness without my long silk underwear." We both stand looking at the machine. There is a pause, a click, and the drum begins to spin. "It's drying them for you," I say. "I don't want it to dry them. It will wear them out," she says, exasperated. I punch buttons, turn knobs. No response. The machine whirls on. When we go to bed, it's still spinning. In the morning, the door opens and my wife retrieves her long underwear, which she carefully examines. "Did it survive it's long journey?" I ask. "We need to find a laundromat," she says. To be continued ... |
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Road Diary JUNE 2, WEDNESDAY: This is Hunter's 13th birthday so the day is his. Before leaving Malibu, he had a party and received his gifts. But family tradition dictates that he can decide what he wants to do and where he wants to eat. At breakfast I pull a card from my pocket and hand it to him. "We could do this." My son's face lights up as he reads the ad: "Laser Quest hurls you onto a derelict starship of some distant future, pitting you against opponents who have only one thing in mind ... YOUR ANNIHILATION! The players stalk each other through an arena over five thousand square feet, in tunnels lit by pulsating lights, along corridors that glow eerily, up ramps onto towers and catwalks shrouded in smoke. Laserfire peppers the darkness all around." "YES!" Hunter says. "Thank you, Dad." We're soon on our way into the heart of Edinburgh on a cold and rainy day. There are no cabs in sight, so we jump on a double-decker bus and scurry right up to the top deck, front windows. We're slow learners. But how berserk can the driver go in heavy traffic? At Laser Quest, I volunteer to go with our children and 13 teenage boys into battle. Tara will have no part of it. My primary concern is for Cheyenne. She is the only girl in the game, is two feet shorter than most of the players, and has to wear the same heavy vest the rest of us are assigned. The 20-minute game is computerized, so afterwards you learn who you've shot and who shot you. The goal is to fire a laser beam into a circular area on the chest and back of your opponents -- everyone else in the game. Once I see the dark, smoky maze, I'm determined to keep Cheyenne near me. Then, all hell breaks loose. While I'm being peppered with laser beams, my daughter gives me the slip. Although I'm more concerned about finding her than shooting teenagers, I don't see her again until the game is over. She later tells me that she saw me several times, shot me and then disappeared back into the maze. In the end, out of 16 players, I come in 16 with a score of -66. At the bottom of my printout, it says, "What happened, didn't you have your guide dog with you today?" After a birthday lunch at Pizza Hut, the children talk Tara in playing Laser Quest with them. I volunteer to hold all the coats, purses and backpacks across the street in a cyber cafe. When Tara and the kids join me an hour later, my wife has a dazed look in her eyes. "It's like stepping into a video game," she says. Her score is far better than mine. Back in the apartment, I relax in the bedroom, listening to music and reading Notes from the North by Emma Wood, published in Edinburgh, November, 1998. The book is Emma's story: an English woman, disgusted with the conservative politics of her own country, moves to the open spaces of the Scottish Highlands where she feels a kinship with grassroots Scottish anti-authoritarianism. The back cover says, "... a pragmatic, positive and forward-looking contribution to cultural and political debate within Scotland, essential reading for anyone who is thinking of moving to Scotland and for Scots who want to move into the 21st century free of unnecessary baggage from the past." Emerging from the bedroom an hour later, I find the children happily playing Sim City 3000 on the laptop. They've created a city of 63,000 people and are trying to keep it balanced and growing. In the living room, Tara has put down her book on English history and is staring at the TV. On screen, a surgeon is removing a man's penis and building the most sensitive area into a clitoris. "Oh, come on?" "Transsexual surgery in Bangkok," Tara says as casually as if it were garden planting in Glasgow.
JUNE 3, THURSDAY: As we fall into the rhythm of Edinburgh living, we all seem to be coping with our simplified lifestyle. By comparison to Malibu, it is SIMPLIFIED! Although we'll probably rent a car to travel places ScotRail won't take us, the city bus and taxi system is more than adequate for the time being. Besides, with everything so close, we walk to many of the places we want to go, which amounts to several miles a day. The apartment phone was not adequate. To make a local call the greedy little collection box eats coins at the rate of about $75 dollars an hour. So, thanks to DX Communications, we now have our own cell phone, with our own Scottish phone number. Makes one feel more like a resident. While the children work on homework, Tara and I walk several blocks to the "big" ScotMid grocery store. Most of the things we'd purchase at home are available here -- in many cases, the same brands. The delicatessen section has subdued lighting and gourmet offerings. Classy. There are differences. A whole aisle is filled with puddings. Scots are big on pudding. "Something new to get addicted to," Tara says. By addiction, I assume she is thinking of the chocolate-covered digestive biscuits, ice cream and butter. I'd pay triple to get them in the US. Myself, I'm already addicted to Irwin's "Cottage Wheaten Bread: Baked in Northern Ireland from wheaten flour and fresh buttermilk." And tea. I'm addicted to tea. Tara is addicted to tea. No matter where you are, every afternoon you stop for tea. I think it's illegal not to. "Two white teas, please." I'm determined to learn to say it like a Scot. But every time, the woman behind the counter says, "Oh, you're from America? Are ye enjoyin' yer holiday?" The Scots want us to like their country. Of course, when they come to America, I want them to like our country, so I can easily relate. But on several occasions I've observed English visitors receive a very different response. Rather than wanting the English to like Scotland, they want them to go home. At Tandy's in downtown Edinburgh, I purchase a phone plug that will adapt an American plug to a British plug -- just in case I ever find a phone line to get out on the Web with my laptop. While at home we pay $19.95 to $22.95 a month for our Internet providers, in Britain, companies such as Virgin and Waterstone's Books offer free access, if you're willing to go through their offerings to get to the Web. Temperatures in the mornings have been ranging around 45 to 55 degrees -- much colder than we anticipated. Tara and I both purchase a sweater at the woolen mills. Everything made of wool is a great bargain in Scotland. My work routine is to write and do research late in the evenings and in the morning while the children do homework. This way, I keep up with my responsibilities, while leaving most afternoons free to explore. Evening TV isn't a temptation for reasons I've already shared. But in keeping with my ongoing expose of the Brit networks, let me share the big offerings this evening: BBC1 is featuring a show about "a baby rabbit undergoing an emergency operation to save its leg." On BBC2 we can learn about the atmospheric conditions throughout the universe. Scottish 3 features a documentary on mothers and babies in the hospital. Channel 4 offers soap operas or a documentary on psychos. The big show tonight is on Channel 5: "Mr. Gay UK -- the final of the British male beauty contest." Back to my laptop.
JUNE 4, FRIDAY: The heating system in our apartment is a great puzzle I've been trying to master all week. Each electric wall heater has three dials, one button, two socket switches and no instructions. Once I got the units heating, I couldn't turn them down, much less off. Last night I tried a new way to turn them off and it worked. But this morning the apartment is *!^%*# freezing. Making coffee, I watch people in the park walking huddled over in winter coats. In Scotland, you turn off your heater upon going out. Upon returning, you shiver until the rooms warm up. At least, this is what we were told on our first visit. In this land, you pay your apartment rent ahead of time and at the end of your stay, pay for the power used, which is frightfully expensive. Frightfully? I've never used that word in my life. Tara's right. Scottish words are in the air. We've absorbed them and they're beginning to slip out. If true, we'll soon be calling a grumpy person a "torn-faced numpty," and saying "ye," and "lovely." Worse, we'll call the trunk of car a "boot." Maybe we'll leave out key words. Here, if you're going to visit a friend in the hospital, you say "I'm going to visit a friend in hospital." You leave out the. I don't know why this is, but I don't want to start doing it. Back home, people will look at me funny. "The" is an important word and I'm not about to give it up without a struggle. The major stories in the Edinburgh newspaper are about 1) an American televangelist who set up a business deal with the Bank of Scotland, but couldn't resist saying hateful things about Scotland being a "tolerant" nation. In this context, he meant that homosexuals are accepted, when they should be burned at the stake. As a result, the bank's stock is sinking, individuals, companies and institutions are closing their accounts, and newspaper editorials are demanding the bank dump the preacher. 2) America is trying to force GM (genetically modified) foods on the UK, and prime minister Tony Blair is supporting this goal. Prince Charles is against it, and a war of words is resulting. 3) There is a major trade war brewing between the US and UK over importing US hormone-saturated beef. The UK doesn't want it, but the US is determined to force it down Brit throats. What an embarrassment. At this rate, who could blame the Scots for treating Americans like they treat the English? 4) This story is strictly Brit. An art terrorist group called "Hell" is loose in the land. Instead of shop-lifting, they are shop-putting -- a matter of slipping cheap items onto the racks in expensive stores to dramatize shopper gullibility. The group spokesman says, "The masses need to wake-up from their fashionable homogeny." A "Hell" franchise is probably available in America. The dining room table is the center of activity in our Edinburgh apartment. It is my work station and I operate from a stack of file folders and a little plastic box filled with things like a miniature stapler, white out and scissors. The children do their homework here, and of course we eat here. Only Tara hasn't made any claims to the table, except to make the rest of us feel guilty when it's time to eat and there's no place for the food. Tonight the Rolling Stones and Sheryl Crow are appearing in Edinburgh at Murryfield Stadium, which seats 68,000 people. We're tempted to go, for there are 17,000 unsold tickets, but it's predicted to rain and the temperature will be about 42 degrees. None of us are Stones fans, but they're an institution, and in LA you'd have to mortgage your house to get tickets. Instead, we take the kids a few blocks down the street to a city-supported indoor swimming pool to end all swimming pools. Eight lifeguards watch over the swimmers who have numerous choices of pools and a large spa. The kids play under waterfalls, shoot through water tunnels, and get knocked over by huge waves generated by a machine. Tara and I have afternoon tea in the cafe overlooking the pools, write and read for nearly three hours. To illustrate how far north we are, it's light here until 10 PM and daylight returns at 5 AM. We end the day sitting on a park bench, watching a sixth-grade soccer match. Parents cheer their children. Siblings play on the sidelines, and a two-year old toddles into the midst of the game. Whenever one of the kids makes a mistake, a father yells, "Unlucky." For a moment, I wonder if any British visitors are enjoying a little-league baseball game in a park in Malibu, California. I hope so.
JUNE 5, SATURDAY: I feel like an ogre -- the cruel parent who forces children to slave night and day. "DO YOUR HOMEWORK!" I'm sick of listening to myself. More upsetting, is the fact that I'm as overwhelmed by Cheyenne's math as she is. The greatest-common-denominator fractions stuff was okay, but the problems have taken a bad turn. Never in my adult life have I been called upon to use this kind of math. This is a good thing, considering how difficult I find it. The afternoon is reserved for a matinee performance at the Royal Lyceum Theatre Company. The Scottish play is Britannia Rules and a quote from "The Stage" magazine says, "You would have to be a right torn-faced numpty not to fall in love with Britannia Rules." The play: During the early days of World War II, three children from the tenements of Clydebank, are evacuated and foisted upon the household of a lonely little girl who lives in the country. During intermission we have the traditional ice cream always offered at theater performances. Hunter tells me he can't understand the thick Scottish brogue, which is exaggerated because the children are supposed to be from the slums. I admit to also missing some of the dialogue, but it's easy to catch enough to follow along. The second half of the play begins with the four children now in their twenties on Coronation Day, June 1953. Cheyenne is fascinated. I peek at her expressions and can tell she is identifying with the two female performers. When the house lights go up, Tara and I share with each other how much we enjoyed this experience in this elegant little theater.
JUNE 6, SUNDAY: I haven't mentioned bagpipes. Anyone who has read much of my writing over the past four years knows I'm over the top on the subject of Scotland. Okay. But who can be over the top on bagpipes? Tara and me. Whenever you go into the heart of Edinburgh, you hear pipers. Some of the local office workers are sick of it and have talked the police into giving bagpipers tickets for public disturbance. Thankfully, it doesn't seem to have stopped them. Yesterday evening, after the play, we decided to walk in the spitty rain, around Edinburgh Castle and down to the Royal Mile. At West Parliament Square several marching bands of young men were gathering. We watched a few minutes and were ready to move on, when an adult piping band arrived. The moment they started playing my eyes got misty. Tara's eyes got misty. Ridiculous! Once again, the children looked at us like we were crazy. "Has to be a past-life thing," Tara said. Well, I hope there is some rational explanation for the way this plaintive, wailing music soothes my soul. And then there's my behavior. Play the pipes and I'll follow ... down the street ... around the city ... into battle? (Maybe not into battle if they learn of my Laser Quest score.) I would hate to find out senility and bagpipes are somehow associated. If you rationally compare bagpipes to Beethoven, I doubt you can call bagpipes soothing. A friend of mine claims they sound like a cow standing on it's own tit, or a cat with it's balls stuck in a fence, or ... He doesn't like bagpipes. Today is a homework day at the apartment, so we're flat-bound (a Brit term). I did run up the street to buy two different Sunday newspapers. In Los Angeles, a city of millions, we have one Sunday paper choice, the Los Angeles Times. Don't get me wrong, this is my favorite paper and I miss it a lot. But here in Edinburgh, a city of 400,000, I counted eight different Sunday papers. While reading the extended weather forecast, I discover a new language quirk. In addition to leaving out the word "the," Scots sometimes convert plural to singular as in weather reports: TUESDAY A little warmer and mostly dry with broken cloud and some sunshine. WEDNESDAY Dry and bright with patchy cloud. It's only one letter. You'd think they could add an s, but it's not to be. Good, Lord, if I pick this up I might say, "Fish and chip, please." Or, "A hamburger and French fry, please." "Just one?" the counter woman will ask. Another puzzling local practice is the tendency to emphasize rather than minimize undesirable product features. A perfect example is a huge sign on the sides of buses advertising a half & half milk product, which they call "Half Fat." "Thank you for that reminder. I'll have mine black, please." To be continued ... |
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Road Diary JUNE 7, MONDAY: Seagulls rummaging through trash bins in the car park beneath our bedroom window, remind us that we're only a few blocks from the sea. Even in the heart of downtown Edinburgh, flocks of seagulls wheel and dive above Princes Street and come to rest upon the heads of the statues lining the park side of the street. As a result, all the historic achievers have white heads. At home in Malibu, every southwest facing window of our home looks out on the ever-changing Pacific Ocean. On the pretense of missing the sea, today, we set off to make sure the Atlantic is still there. In the port community of Leith, Tara is distracted by a computer center offering Web access. She wants to communicate with her e-mail pals. The children and I exit to the cafe next door. This typical little coffee/tea and sandwich shop offers all the expected British fare, plus Mexican nachos. "Do you think we dare?" I ask Hunter and Cheyenne. Ordering Mexican food anywhere but Mexico or the American Southwest is usually unwise. The last time I made such a mistake was in Omaha, Nebraska at a combination Chinese/Mexican restaurant where the tacos had a distinctively sweet and sour taste. "Yes!" The children want nachos. "Do you have filtered coffee?" I ask. American-style coffee must be qualified as "filtered." "Oh my, yes," says the waitress. "One white filtered coffee, please, and the huge portion of vegetarian nachos. Is it really huge?" All the other patrons in the cafe have overheard and are now looking at us. "Oh my, yes." The woman returns with the children's drinks and eventually the truly huge bowl of nachos. The chips have been topped with ample splatters of sour cream, guacamole, salsa and jalapenos. Hunter and I are surprised to find the Scots even know about jalapenos. But no coffee. "We're havin' to make the coffee," says the waitress, in a sad, apologetic voice. I get the feeling I'm the only customer in weeks who has tendered such a strange request. They weren't really prepared, but they're doing the best they can. I smile, nod and dive into the nachos. "Mom's not going to believe what she missed," says Cheyenne. "Well, they're too messy to take to her, so we'd better eat 'em up," I say. The reading newspapers are on a rack beside our table, so I pick up a copy of the Scottish Sun -- at 15 pence, the cheapest of the local tabloids. The headline says, "PATSY'S LUMP (And just look at her belly too)." Beneath the headline is a full-color photo of pregnant British actress Patsy Kensit and her husband Liam Gallagher at the beach. The lump they are referring to is her husband's belly, which doesn't look all that excessive to me. Opening the paper, on page three is a huge full color photo of "Maria, 26 from Guildford." She is beautiful, naked -- a tabloid version of a slick centerfold. Hunter, sitting beside me, notices and for a moment stops eating his nachos. My coffee arrives, typically accompanied by a little chocolate biscuit which the children eye longingly. I wonder how this tradition got started. Obviously, somewhere along the line, a Scot with great culinary bloodlines said, "Coffee must be served with a chocolate biscuit," and the other five million people in this wonderful country said, "But of course." While the children fight over the last scraps of soggy tortilla chips, I read a major report on gay animals. An American biologist has been conducting research and claims there are as many gay animals as there are gay humans. This news will surely change the way fundamentalists view homosexuality. The next big news is that 38 percent of the British people think there "is too much nookie on the box" (sex on TV). This is a six percent increase over last year. At the same time, other papers have been reporting a survey claiming that 46 percent of British vacationers have sex with strangers while abroad. After two hours, we drag Tara out of the computer center and head for the docks, where we find the Atlantic Ocean exactly where it should be. Actually it's the Firth of Fourth. In Scotland, firth means a large inlet of the sea. The Royal "Britannia" yacht once owned by King Edward VII is tied up at the docks. For a £20 family ticket ($34.60) we can board the boat and see how royalty once lived. I read in the local paper that 220,000 visitors were expected to visit the yacht this year, but that number has already been exceeded. "Ye're too late. The last boarding is at 4:15," we're told. So rather than talking about Britannia, I'm going to explain why so many people jay-walk in Edinburgh. Many of the local streets do not allow you to cross at the corner, but about 10 yards from the corner. An elaborate fencing system assures that you don't make any mistakes. The city also doesn't want any mistakes about which way you look prior to beginning this adventure. Huge white letters on the street say, LOOK LEFT or LOOK RIGHT with arrows to assure you know which is which. When you stop to think about it, this tells you a lot of problems have resulted from failing to look in the right direction. Obviously, LOOK signs are also intended as a warning to those who take street crossing casually. Now, while looking the proper direction, you press a little yellow box that tells you WAIT. You're not waiting for a green light, but for a little green walking man to illuminate. His appearance is accompanied by loud beeping. Everyone then screams, "GREEN MAN, GREEN MAN" and we all dash across the street. When I say everyone, I mean Hunter, Cheyenne and myself. Tara is far too dignified to scream, "GREEN MAN." I must also admit that no one else on the streets of Edinburgh seems to exhibit this level of anxiety over crossing a street. The beeping is to assure that you're not daydreaming, because you only get about three and a half seconds of green man. When green man starts flashing to warn you that it's too late to cross, the cars are already burning rubber through the intersection. This can't be legal, but it is what is. Getting back to crossing the street: You're not allowed to go all the way across the street -- only to a little cement island in the middle. To make you feel secure, there are three-foot-high, illuminated plastic cones at each end of these islands, but I've seen a lot of them flattened. To me, the cones are reminders of what could happen to us as cars and trucks shoot past on both sides, honking, screeching, and whipping things out of our hands as they spew carbon monoxide into our lungs. All the while, we wait for green man to guide us to the far side of the street. This crossing ordeal can easily take six or seven minutes, and explains why so many people in Edinburgh jay-walk. Now on to an important turn of events. Tara has caught socket phobia. We take turns fixing meals. This morning I put the oatmeal on the stove and begin cutting up bananas and fresh tart Spanish plums to add to the cereal. And I wait and wait for the boiling and it never happens. "Stove's broke," I yell to Tara. "Press the red switch on the side wall," she says. This, I learn, is a first cousin to a socket switch. "Why would you switch off an electric stove on the wall?" I ask. "I don't know. The Scots do it." "Have you ever switched off our electric stove at home?" "No, we don't have a switch." She shrugs and goes back to what she was doing. Back in the kitchen, I notice that she has also switched off the toaster and the water-boiling pot. A few days ago she was making fun of such practices. When the oatmeal is ready to serve, I find myself reaching to shut off the red wall switch. "No, never!"
JUNE 8, TUESDAY: Because I continue to bring it up, I should probably explain Princes Street -- the primary shopping street in Edinburgh, with a great variety of stores on one side and beautiful gardens on the other. The street is nearly a mile long and provides a dividing line between Old and New Towns. On the Old Town, garden side, high atop a jut of volcanic rock, Edinburgh Castle dominates the skyline. This morning we walk into the city and do research in a Waterstone's bookstore on the eastern end of Princes Street. After completing my work, I find a Scottish dictionary. A few days ago I wrote about Scottish words being in the air and some of them coming out of our mouths without the benefit of censorship by our brains. Well it's getting worse by the day. Tara has started saying "Aahh," a lot. "Torn-faced numpty" has become part of our regular vocabulary. In Scotland, torn-faced means grumpy and numpty means stupid. Then there's the word "queer" -- another word not to bandy about. (Good, God, I've never typed the word bandy in my life. Maybe it's entity attachment!) In Scotland, the word queer also means "considerable." As in, There's a queer difference between the temperature and the fact that it's summer in Scotland. I've also taken to calling the mailman a "postie." "Crack" means gossip, as in, Come on over and give me your crack. (Must not make this mistake with female friends back home.) "Wee" is impossible not to pick up. It can mean little or young or a short period of time. Watch where ye're gaun, ye wee daftie! The afternoon is reserved for visiting the Museum of Scotland. Without going over-the-top on this museum, let me just quote the Independent newspaper on the subject: "The finest museum this century." Hunter and Cheyenne were crabbits in the British Museum in London. Today we hear, "Not another museum. Please don't make us go." "You're both Celts -- your history is on display here." They don't care, but they have no choice. Yet once inside, Tara and I are delighted to see them entranced by the amazing displays. When we get to Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Jacobites and the 1745 rising, I read every word, examine every painting, engraving, weapon, written document, and piece of tartan. (The past-life explanation for this behavior can be found in the first chapter of With Your Spirit Guide's Help, which can be read at our story site.) My hand-writing-expert wife describes Prince Charlie's personality from the samples of his writing. Her interpretation corresponds with all I've read and learned through past-life regression. Tuesdays, the museum remains open until 8 PM. We don't leave until they show us to the door. Next time, we'll go early in the morning and stay all day. Outside, it's raining just enough to put up umbrellas. We stop to rub the nose on the statue of Greyfriars Bobby -- the heroic little dog that wouldn't leave his master's grave. The Seattle Coffee Company offers shelter from the rain, hot tea ... and Tara's favorite treat -- Stroopwafels -- thin little Dutch waffles filled with maple/carmel syrup. We learned of their existence from street vendors in Amsterdam last year. The taste is unique. Tara has talked about them and searched for them ever since. "It must be your day," I say. "Bourgeois indulgence," she says, happily biting into the treat. We're only eating two meals and walking many miles each day, so despite an occassional Dutch Waffle, we should be slimming down and increasing our endurance. Today is an eight-to-ten mile day. Back in the apartment, Hunter shows me the blisters on his feet. We do have to find him better walking shoes. Another sexual survey is reported on TV. The Scots have 12 percent more sex each year than their English neighbors. "The Celts are a bit wilder in that department," says a man on the box. I can live with that.
JUNE 9, WEDNESDAY: One must read while sipping morning coffee. True at home. True here. Honor Fraser's column in Spectrum magazine is about her recent trip to California, where she says, "... I managed to get sunburn." It wasn't enough to leave out the word "the" and turn plural to singular, now we're dropping ed. The word is sunburned, Honor. This may be the most dangerous exclusion of all. She also says, "Apparently there are parents lunatic enough to take their children to Los Angeles for a short holiday. It is a hopeless place for children." I am once again reminded of viewpoint. My heaven may be your hell. Los Angeles is probably the best place on earth to take children for a holiday. There are as many theme parks as there are people, plus constant sunshine, beaches, museums, and children don't have to wait until they're old enough to vote to go to the movies. My wife and I are in love with Scotland, but we have friends -- world travelers -- who think we're daft. Viewpoint! They love Italy or France, and I think they're daft. But my wife also loves Italy and France, so she too is a bit ... As you may have noticed, I've picked up another commonly used word. And just in case you were wondering, a "daftie" is a mentally deficient person. "Daffin" is foolish behavior. For breakfast, I fix mutton pies, served with slices of Irish cheese, toast with current jelly, apple juice in sparkling water ... and tea. Cheyenne insists she's a vegetarian and refuses the pies. Tara seems to have mastered the washing machine, although drying clothes completely just isn't in the cards. We live amidst damp clothes draped over the chairs, couch and coffee table. At least our limited wardrobe is no longer a problem. However, coat hangers are a problem. I have seven things to hang up, but only three coat hangers. This means each hanger must do triple duty or I leave four things on the floor. Two of my hangers are collapsing under the weight and I'm about to experience a coat hangers crisis. Upon checking Tara's side of the closet, I find she has nine hangers. Obviously there's a little coat hangers greed going on here. But she too is triple hanging. As I tell seminar participants, you either solve your problems or you get to have excuses why you didn't. So it's time for a trip to Pound Stretcher. Outside, it's 75 degrees and the park is filled with children flying kites. The mile walk to the store is a delight. Eight hangers for 99 pence. Fair enough. I take another eight for Tara who had no interest in accompanying me to Pound Stretcher. Everything in this store is incredibly cheap. For another 99 pence I get a plastic thing that hangs from the ceiling and allows you to clip 13 damp pieces of attire out to dry. Now I'm getting excited. Twenty packages of shrimp-flavored potato chips cost pennies. Obviously, this wasn't a popular flavor. I leave the store with two huge bags of treasures. Living out of one suitcase in a tiny apartment, I'm learning that little things take on additional value. Three rubber bands held the coat hangers together. "Never know when we'll need rubber bands." I put them in a safe place. This may be how phobias begin. One little thing leads to another and pretty soon you're missing an oar. You start out collecting rubber bands and the next thing you know, you're buying a stalk of celery just to get the rubber band. Or you start switching off sockets and after while you're sitting in the living room watching TV and you start thinking, "I wonder if the sockets in the kitchen are switched." Then during a commercial, you jump up to check. You don't inform anyone else. You just act like you're going out to the kitchen for a glass of water, and you take a quick look. "Whew, all off." It won't happen to me. To be continued ... |
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