As promised, I am here to document my no good, terrible, very bad day in Scotland. 'Twas a wee bit o' Hell, that one.
My first clue should have been having to wake up at 5 AM to catch a plane at an airport that was an hour away.
Did I mention that there were 2,000 round abouts between point A and point B? How about that I am especially prone to motion sickness?
Needless to say, being in the front seat with the air on full blast drinking small sips of cool water couldn't have saved me from the impending dizziness.
After riding a transport bus (my first of what would be MANY unhappy methods of public transportation for the day) from the parking lot to the hangar, we spent the usual exorbitant amount of time wading through security and the likes.
Gem was strip searched. My one consolation.
(I shouldn't have laughed... Karma sucks.)
Knowing that I was fresh out of my new best friend, Dramamine, I planned on purchasing some at the airport. After searching through the nearest convenience booth, the closet thing I could find was Travella. The 'all-natural' solution to motion sickness.
Ya know, I've decided to avoid 'all-natural' products.
Considering people die from 'natural' causes.
Regardless, the stuff was worthless because, for the first time in my life, I felt like I was going to put that little white barf bag stowed in the seat in front of me to good use.
An hour later, I was in Scotland.
And wished I was dead.
I spent the next 45 minutes in and out of the nearest restroom. My stomach never did decide to rid it's contents but, boy howdy, it sure toyed with the idea.
By this time, it was mid-morning and time was a wastin'. So we hopped in the nearest 'people carrier' (what we would call a van) and made our way up the windy roads of Edinburgh to the castle.
You read that right. Windy roads.
I sat, staring forward blankly, with a Dr. Pepper (Dad thought it would 'help settle my stomach') in hand listening to the larger-than-life taxi driver chatter on about anything and everything in a heavy Scottish accent.
He kept glancing at me warily, no doubt wondering why I looked like death and hoping that I wouldn't ornament his dashboard with sick.
It was a close call. I'm not gonna lie.
Lucky me. The main entrance to the castle was barricaded in preparation for a weekend celebration. This equated in having to use my legs to trek up the steep cobblestone the remainder of the way. Which I did not appreciate.
Just past the main portcullis entrance of the almost 600 year old fortification was a public 'toilet' which we decided to utilize before exploring the many grand structures.
To make a long story short, my day became oh-so-much better upon realizing that not only would I be making good friends with mister nausea, but I would also be graced with T.O.M.'s weekly presence (for which I was not prepared).
Trudging back outside, I asked if anyone had 20 pence to spare.
"What for??", my mom practically yelled.
This interrogation was exactly NOT what I needed.
My nerves were shot.
"To buy a TAMPON." I snapped, "Shall I announce it to the world??!" I've never seen pocket change appear so quickly.
But oh. I've neglected to mention is the lovely weather Scotland afforded me. Namely, penetrating rain and overcast chilliness. To combat the elements I naturally wore fabric ballet flats and a light jacket.
Perfect.
Being the gentleman that he is, my older brother offered me his fleece lined hoodie which made matters considerably warmer, if nothing else. But nothing could have saved my feet from soggily sloshing with each step.
And so, there I was. Sick. Tired. Ornery. Wet. PMSing. Drugged.
and surviving on a few bites of birdseed bagel I had stomached hours earlier.
Once we had finished our tour and listened to the 1-o'clock gun, we started down the royal mile, stopping at shops here and there to look at the plethora of kilts, umbrellas and Celtic jewelry. Things were starting to look up because aside from being hit by a bus, that was really the only way left to go.
We ate dinner at a yummy little Italian place and then made our way back down to the airport. Even our stoic taxi driver couldn't have upset new perspective.
Hooray! I was almost home. I had Dramamine and hope.
Wait. What? The boarding passes are incorrect?
The flight home isn't from Edinburgh to Stansted? From Stansted to Edinburgh? But we're in Edinburgh. How does that even work?
Is there another flight?
We have to wait two hours?
It's to another airport?
Is this the lowest circle of Hell?
Okay. Whatever. Just get us home at all costs.
The cherry on top of this blessed day was being groped by airport security after setting off the metal detector wearing the EXACT same clothing, electronics removed, that I had earlier. Gem was smart enough not to laugh, though she deserved the revenge.
Thus, I spent the next six hours on a plane, then a tram, then the subway, then a transfer, then a bus, having a breakdown, then another bus, then a train, then a transport, then a car.
I stepped over the threshold at 4 AM.
It had been nearly 24 hours since I had left that fateful morning.
I had almost pulled my first all-nighter.
And I had almost died in the process.
Yet my life had been spared leaving only one thing certain:
You were NOT good to me Scotland.
No you weren't.
2 comments:
Too bad you didn't have Ellie with you that day. I'm sure she would have made it all better!
Pwaha. I'm sorry. :) Made for a funny story though!
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