Edinburgh: An Introduction

Some of you more literary types (for I am sure there are many!) may recognize this title as a bit of a play on Seymour: An Introduction by the catcher himself J.D. Salinger. Furthermore, I am sure that those types are also wondering why I would make an allusion to Salinger when, really, he had nothing to do with Scotland. Well, my loyal, beloved readers, I think I may skirt the issue and not necessarily answer your queries directly, but, I think, with more of an explanation. Not but a few days ago I was reading the aforementioned story and was completely infatuated with the prose and, more importantly, the idea of Seymour, the narrator's brother. The narrator showed an affection hardly seen on the printed page for his subject. In the beginning he felt that perhaps an introduction would be the first step at unveiling the person he loved so dear, that would, in turn, be followed by more intimate portraits entitled like such as (anyone?), Seymour 2 and Seymour 3. Thus an epiphany bestruck (Not a word? Whatevs.) me, in an attempted homage to two of the most lovely things I have experienced in my life, Edinburgh and Salinger, I will name this blog entry as such and put forth my ode to Edinburgh.

The first thing necessary in a story such as this is a intuitive quote, I believe.

"All speech, written or spoken, is a dead language, until it finds a willing and prepared hearer. "

This one is particularly pertinent, I think. If it were not for you, O Glorious Reader!, what would these words be? They would exist, sure, but as Robert Louis said (By the w, the quote can be attributed to RL Stevenson, which I thought was more befitting seeing as the man was from the, Glory Be!, land of Scots), they would only be a lifeless collection of letters. So, as a show of gratitude to the, O let's say, 5 of you, I offer this bouquet of parenthesis: ((((())))).
Now, if you've made it this far (you probably have because, let's face it, the majority, neigh! the whole, of my readership is family(still...)) without letting out a shaking-head-sigh and leaving the website, I will reward you by beginning my tale.

I remember it clearly. There were three of us that night, sitting in a Kitchen, chatting. I believe I may have had my foot upon my knee in a rather relaxed position. I remember mentioning, in a somewhat casual yet cavalier manner, that a bus trip to Edinburgh (say, sometime in November, for it was September back then) and back, if booked far enough in advance, could go for the low-low price of 10 pounds round trip. It was Tuesday Night, I believe. Annicka, one of the two to whom I was talking, nodded her head appreciatively, 'Mm-Hmm,' she said. 'What about next weekend?' 'What, you mean like 10 days from now?!' I asked in a supercilious manner (finally, a chance to use supercilious!), the kind of incredulous and condescending voice one uses to say things like, 'You mean you've never heard of Flaubert?!' or 'Are you saying Pollock is your favorite abstract expressionist? Gaah, how remarkably predictable!' She responded calmly, assumedly unaware of my pretension, 'No, I mean like the day after tomorrow.' I looked at the other man at the table, Henrik, with that famous smirk and eye-roll (Women.) and expected to be greeted with a similar expression, but instead I was surprised to find him slowly nodding. 'Well,' I said, looking back to Annicka now, 'I guess we could take a look at prices.'

I remember it clearly. There were four of us in the room, a small room, a room not necessarily fit for four people to fit comfortably. The fourth now was a girl named Teija, she sat quietly. I was sitting at Annicka's computer, looking at bus prices, looking at hostel prices. It was doable. We looked it over and discussed it. It took about ten minutes until we were all four nodding in unison. We would leave Friday night from London, stay two nights, return Monday morning. It was something like 30 pounds for the bus ticket and 26 pounds for 2 nights in a hostel. We decided to book an eight bedded room after we called four more people to confirm their interest. A one later decided to join our gang after we had booked the rooms and bus tickets bringing our total to a happy nine (you better believe there is going to be a Fellowship of the Ring reference in the near future). After the four of us aforementioned, there were three girls: Regina, Virva, and Maria, and two boys: Scott, and Georgios. We would leave Friday afternoon.

I remember it clearly. It was Friday. Afternoon. We were aboard the train headed to Waterloo. The bus would leave from Victoria Coach station. We were anxious. The tension was precipitously palpable (c'mon!) aboard the train. Perhaps I felt it more than others--portrayed, I think, most clearly by my incessant foot-tapping and my non-stop non-talking--because I'm pretty sure they were counting on me to get them to Victoria Station and I didn't really know where it was. And I didn't really have a map. We deboarded (Not a Word? Whatevs.) the train and to my surprise my apprehension did not Disapparate (Potter fans?), instead I felt more nervous with every step. What's worse, as my oblivion was more than obvious, I assumed someone would step-up and suggest something like, 'Nate, be calm, for I will take the lead of this fellowship (see?). I will show you the way to Morder (or Victoria Coach Station),' but no one stepped forward, and although worried, they seemed almost as oblivious as I! Perhaps not, because as I now recall I remember several instances when I would say something like, 'Okay, I think it is literally right around this corner,' or 'I think I see it right up ahead, is that it?' It usually wasn't. But at about the exact time of when the last threads of our hope string were set to fully unravel, we almost literally stumbled upon it. We looked upon the blue bus as a gift sent down from the heavens--it was our saviour, it would take us to the holy lands (maybe it would even turn some water into wine for us). We set about getting ready to board, anxious at the prospect of exploring Edinburgh for two whole days. Edinburgh Here We Come!

Oh, did I mention it was a nine hour bus ride?

(As I look back on that previous paragraph I realize that the tension felt by the, handsome, strapping, intelligent, incomparable protagonist must not be felt by the reader for the main reason that there was no real time frame mentioned. Well, to be totally truthful I don't really remember how much time we had left upon arrival at the Coach Station. It was close, that's all. If it helps, think of it as we arrived just as the bus was departing, banging incessantly upon the doors of our dreams, screaming for them to recognize us. Take a minute, read through it as such, and let me know if it helps. Or you can just keep reading.)

I remember it clearly. I have never in my life wanted to punt a child so much as I have on this bus ride. It started off innocent enough. The bus was not too full and I was fortunate to be sitting in a window seat next to a heater. A perfect spot, I thought. I will be warm and I get to lay my head against something that is not the back of the chair--which, in it's evil turn, affords you the wholly attractive chance to reach the edge of sleep and then have your head violently fall forward, snapping you out of your one or two winks. My seat mate, Henrik, was attempting to break the world record of head bobs as I put my head against the freezing cold window and moved my pants as far away from the heater as I possibly could as they were seconds away from catching on fire. And then the coughing began. A small child, innocent I presume, began toying with the idea of how long he could continually cough without covering his mouth and then abruptly stop just long enough to feel like you may actually get a chance to close your eyes long enough to slip to sleep and then start coughing again. He was incredibly successful at this. What was worse was it was not just an excuse-me cough or an a-hem like cough, it was as full of phlegm as a thermos full of phlegm (Calvin and Hobbes fans?). It was as if a 75 year old man had not coughed in all his years and then feeling he could not hold it in any longer let out the most prolific cough in the history of coughing (by the w, History of Coughing? Probably an awesome major--all those readers who are still unsure of what to do with their studies take a look). It was like this over and over until finally he was put to sleep (I know what I said). But by this time, light was beginning to enter my tightly shut eyes and I could feel we were nearing our destination. Was I upset? Hardly. And as we began navigating the streets of Edinburgh on the way to the coach station, all thoughts of chucking the child out the window flew from my head. And slowly a smile spread across my face. And slowly we pulled into the coach station. And slowly we descended those steps.

We had made it.