a zombie. But in the end, the idea of eating yet another
packet of shortbread cookies drove me out the door. The little bed and
breakfast I was staying in was located in what the Edinburghers called the Old
Town, just up the hill from the train station on Princes Street.
That was, apparently, to distinguish it from
the New Town, which was the part of the city below the castle. The New Town was
first built before America was a country, and once I knew that, it pretty much
gave me a sense of the way Scots view the passage of time.
From the guide on my bedside table, it
looked like all the cheapest places to eat were to be found in the New Town,
just down the hill. It was a decent walk from my place, and after six hours of
climbing stone steps and slithering along icy cobblestones, my legs and feet
were just about done in. I had no idea if a bus could even take me in the right
direction, and cab fare would have been five pounds at least.
I learned this because I asked the lady who
took my audio guide back at the castle gate.
So, as I slid out of my little bed and
breakfast place onto the Royal Mile, I steeled myself to pay the cab fare. But
it was nearly seven-thirty, and night comes early to the gray Scottish
lowlands. There was not a taxi to be seen in the dark. A block or two down, the
road intersected with another that appeared to wind down toward Princes Street,
and I headed that way on my very sore feet.
On the winding road however, my luck turned
and I spotted a small pub, from which emanated the sounds of joy and frivolity.
Surely they would have a phone I could call a cab from?
In I went.
It turned out the price of a beer was less
than half the cost of a taxi ride to the New Town.
I learned this, because I asked the lady
taking beer orders behind the bar.
As I sank down on what appeared to be the
only open seat in the place, my feet screamed in relief. Or they would have, if
they’d had little mouths. Which they did not, I’m grateful to say, because how
weird would THAT have been?
The server who had so generously told me the
relative price of beer and taxi cabs reappeared seconds later with a golden
glass of ambrosia in her hand.
My table was a tall one and had a dangerous
tilt to it, which may have explained why it was unoccupied. I leaned back against
a wall in the corner and slipped off one of my boots. By the time I’d taken the
first few sips, I’d forgotten that I didn’t generally like beer, and had been
transported into the strange euphoria of exhaustion, hunger and the ecstasy
that came of being able to rub one’s sore foot in secret under a table in a
Scottish pub.
I decided to sit there for a bit and just
soak in the atmosphere, listening to Edinburghers enjoy their end-of-workday
cheer; and when my feet had sufficiently recovered, I’d walk down the hill to
find someplace to eat.
The plan was somewhat thwarted, though, when
I knocked my entire beer into my lap.
In truth, it wasn’t totally my fault. I’d
been watching the ruddy nape of a neck at the table beside me and idly
wondering if Jamie would drink beer in a place like this—if he lived in
the present day, of course.
Whoever the guy with the ruddy neck, was, I
could only see the back of his head. It was a nice head. Well-shaped, and
covered in a thick thatch of dark blonde hair, lighter at the tips and gelled a
bit northward, from the looks of things. His shoulders were square under the
cover of a heavy cable-knit sweater, and he was enjoying the company of a sweet
young thing, very blonde and blue-eyed. His hand lay proprietorially on her arm
as they talked.
A dark-haired girl beside the blonde who was
quite clearly the worse for the wine she’d been drinking suddenly shrieked with
laughter. “Ye slay me, Laoghaire,” she cried, practically snorting wine out of
her nose. “Ye fookin’ slay me!”
Okay, okay, so I know she wasn’t really saying “Laoghaire”. Lawrie vs Leery, right?
But, still, it’s pretty
packet of shortbread cookies drove me out the door. The little bed and
breakfast I was staying in was located in what the Edinburghers called the Old
Town, just up the hill from the train station on Princes Street.
That was, apparently, to distinguish it from
the New Town, which was the part of the city below the castle. The New Town was
first built before America was a country, and once I knew that, it pretty much
gave me a sense of the way Scots view the passage of time.
From the guide on my bedside table, it
looked like all the cheapest places to eat were to be found in the New Town,
just down the hill. It was a decent walk from my place, and after six hours of
climbing stone steps and slithering along icy cobblestones, my legs and feet
were just about done in. I had no idea if a bus could even take me in the right
direction, and cab fare would have been five pounds at least.
I learned this because I asked the lady who
took my audio guide back at the castle gate.
So, as I slid out of my little bed and
breakfast place onto the Royal Mile, I steeled myself to pay the cab fare. But
it was nearly seven-thirty, and night comes early to the gray Scottish
lowlands. There was not a taxi to be seen in the dark. A block or two down, the
road intersected with another that appeared to wind down toward Princes Street,
and I headed that way on my very sore feet.
On the winding road however, my luck turned
and I spotted a small pub, from which emanated the sounds of joy and frivolity.
Surely they would have a phone I could call a cab from?
In I went.
It turned out the price of a beer was less
than half the cost of a taxi ride to the New Town.
I learned this, because I asked the lady
taking beer orders behind the bar.
As I sank down on what appeared to be the
only open seat in the place, my feet screamed in relief. Or they would have, if
they’d had little mouths. Which they did not, I’m grateful to say, because how
weird would THAT have been?
The server who had so generously told me the
relative price of beer and taxi cabs reappeared seconds later with a golden
glass of ambrosia in her hand.
My table was a tall one and had a dangerous
tilt to it, which may have explained why it was unoccupied. I leaned back against
a wall in the corner and slipped off one of my boots. By the time I’d taken the
first few sips, I’d forgotten that I didn’t generally like beer, and had been
transported into the strange euphoria of exhaustion, hunger and the ecstasy
that came of being able to rub one’s sore foot in secret under a table in a
Scottish pub.
I decided to sit there for a bit and just
soak in the atmosphere, listening to Edinburghers enjoy their end-of-workday
cheer; and when my feet had sufficiently recovered, I’d walk down the hill to
find someplace to eat.
The plan was somewhat thwarted, though, when
I knocked my entire beer into my lap.
In truth, it wasn’t totally my fault. I’d
been watching the ruddy nape of a neck at the table beside me and idly
wondering if Jamie would drink beer in a place like this—if he lived in
the present day, of course.
Whoever the guy with the ruddy neck, was, I
could only see the back of his head. It was a nice head. Well-shaped, and
covered in a thick thatch of dark blonde hair, lighter at the tips and gelled a
bit northward, from the looks of things. His shoulders were square under the
cover of a heavy cable-knit sweater, and he was enjoying the company of a sweet
young thing, very blonde and blue-eyed. His hand lay proprietorially on her arm
as they talked.
A dark-haired girl beside the blonde who was
quite clearly the worse for the wine she’d been drinking suddenly shrieked with
laughter. “Ye slay me, Laoghaire,” she cried, practically snorting wine out of
her nose. “Ye fookin’ slay me!”
Okay, okay, so I know she wasn’t really saying “Laoghaire”. Lawrie vs Leery, right?
But, still, it’s pretty