Glasgow, Scotland

We have a myth, a throw-another-log-on-the-campfire, Pecos-Bill-knows-Bigfoot tall tale that at some point flying long distances was fun. That there used to be 20-something stewardesses in mini-skirts and go-go boots. That once upon a time not every airline was in bankruptcy court. That toe nail clippers were once not considered weapons capable of hijacking planes. That by studying fossil beds, they claim an airplane seat was once designed to hold a human adult for hours at a time without causing nerve damage. And that people once carried carry-on luggage rather than banging you in the shins with enormous roller bags they can't lift by themselves into overhead storage bins.

Don't you kiddies believe it. Flying long distances has always wrung the life out of you. I can't remember a long flight I wouldn't have let myself be branded with a hot poker in the shape of a Hooters logo in exchange for just teleporting myself to the goal line. I kept repeating to myself, "going to Scotland for fabulous photo workshop", "National Geographic photographers". I distracted myself by fantasizing about taking the prefect shot the way little leaguers must fantasize about hitting a grand slam to win the world series in the bottom of the 11th in game 7.

Horrible flights. Turbulence. Large man next to me who kept trying to raise the arm rest so he could ooze further into my space, me being quite determined to keep that arm rest in the down and locked position. A restless 10 year behind me, kicking me in the back. Broken reading lights, so they kept the cabin lights on the entire trip, making it impossible to sleep. Jet lag comes in 3 pieces, your head, your muscles, and your stomach. In this case, all 3 pieces came flying off of me and took ground transportation, because none of them arrived with me in Glasgow.

Time in-country before someone called me "love", 15 minutes. A lovely Scottish man stopped me and said, "love, your shoes are untied." And I said, "ah, yes. I was just going to get up there where there's seats, so I can sit down and tie them." And he said, "well, love, that's how I lost my front teeth when I was ten, tripped over my shoe laces and went right down. broke them off."

My plan had been to drop my bag at my hotel and take the 45 minute train ride to Edinburgh. See the castle, the ruined abbey, miracle mile, maybe arthur's seat. The only problem was that after I purchased my ticket and went to the boarding area, it turned out that the every-15-minute-train to Edinburgh wasn't. There apparently was a problem with cows on the line. Let no one say that I am not a rural type girl and understand such things, well, they'll chase the cows off the line and we'll all move on. We'll fix this. An hour and 15 minutes later, they still have no time for the next train to Edinburgh. Even if we've got hamburger involved here or the farmer's favorite milker isn't coming back to the barn, it shouldn't take this long. But standing there in the train station with my heavy pack with my computer and all my electronics I didn't dare leave in a public room in the hotel wasn't fixing the problem. So, I went to get lunch. This was such a mistake. Stomach still not in the same time zone and all. It was all I could do to stagger back to the hotel and face plant myself on the bed at 2 in the afternoon, whimpering.

I did manage to take a hot shower and wander out to see the afternoon sunlight for a few hours before going back to bed at 7. But it was not the productive day I'd hoped for.

One of the two lions in George Square, Glasgow.

What I love about this statue in front of the Museum of Modern Art was the hat (which was still there when I passed through on the way out a week later) and the bird on his shoulder.

Thomas in George Square who insisted I take his picture.

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