Getting Lost in Scotland

London is a pedestrian’s paradise.  On nearly every street you will find a map with a friendly indicator that, “You are here.”  The map also includes noteworthy sites nearby, and the mapmakers also draw you a mile-radius circle, so you know it will take you roughly fifteen minutes to find what lies within the circumference.  You can only be lost in London for five minutes, maximum. 

The same cannot be said for Edinburgh, especially if the fog obscures your view of, well, pretty much everything farther than a block away.

Briefly, I must rewind to begin at the beginning:

I woke up early in London.  Rising before noon is not my forte, but today it had to be done.  My alarm beeped at 8:00 A.M.  My train to Scotland left King’s Cross at 10:00 A.M.  I wanted to allot myself some time in case I got lost.  At the least, I always anticipate being indecisive in my direction, but today I researched my route while I inhaled my bowl of corn flakes——the usual morning fare of hostels.  Since I was not staying at a five-star hotel, patrons in this hostel are responsible for washing their own dishes after breakfast, but at least the meal was free.  This morning, there was a huge line at the sink.  I sighed as I felt precious seconds slip away, but, then, a godsend:

“I can wash those for you,” said a man, a fellow hostel guest, “It’ll be faster.”

I thanked the man and savored my luck.  With my full pack loaded with over thirty pounds, I hustled to the South Kensington Station, caught the Tube to King’s Cross, followed signs to the train station, and then stood before a great sign that announced which platform I should report to.  I guess the station workers don’t know where the train will be until about fifteen minutes before departure.  I find this very inefficient.  I am also flabbergasted as to how one train could end up on opposite ends of the station.  It’s not as though trains can turn.  Regularity is their norm.  They go back and forth on a rigid track.  But, alas, I’m no trainspotter. 

We left right on schedule and zoomed out of the urbanscape and into the tranquil countryside of Scotland, which is decorated with extremely long fields of wild yellow gorse and speckled with roaming sheep.  A gentle fog hovers over the fields.  As the train cut through the country side, the rolling green hills whizzed by to reveal the frothy waves crash upon the rocky shore——the sea whose wind drags the fog and the rain onto the mainland.  Scotland’s natural beauty is untainted by billboards or fast-food rest-stops.  I’ve never been so far north, and, as expected, it’s very cold here, despite the spring season.  Now I look out of place with my cargo shorts. 

Finally, Edinburgh.  I alight onto the platform, grab a map at the tourism kiosk, and set out to find Castle Rock Hostel.  I’ve been getting in the habit of choosing hostels near extremely vast and noticeable landmarks, particularly ones that poke into the sky and can be seen from very far away.  In London, I stayed near Hyde Park and the Albert Memorial, a giant gold statue housed underneath golden spires.  In Edinburgh, I stayed near the castle on top of the hill in the Old Town.  A hostel may be difficult to find, but a giant park or gigantic castle are not easily missed.  As I’ve said before, you should always plan on getting lost, especially if you aren’t using Google Maps or a GPS. 

But when you travel alone, getting lost is fun.  Although this method may not be the most efficient or the safest, it is the least mentally strenuous way to master the local geography.  Instead of studying maps and concocting plans, I prefer to feel my way through the labyrinth.  To be the mouse who takes wrong turns in the maze——this is adventure.  Granted, you don’t want to turn down the wrong alley and find yourself abducted and forced into prostitution.  Not everyone has a father like Liam Neeson; no, it is better to get lost during the day, preferably, when the weather is favorable and you’ve recently had a good meal.       

As much as I enjoy getting lost, I prefer to shed my heavy backpack before I do so.  My first priority when entering a new city is to find my accommodation.  The night before, I researched directions to the hostel, and I snapped a screen-shot to use as a reference since, while afoot, I’d be without Wi-Fi.  My directions, combined with my map and my moderate skill with cardinal directions, enabled me to discover my new temporary home. 

Instead of using a numerical system, my room was playfully nicknamed the Underwear Room, and my particular bed was labeled “Knickers.”  After settling in, I ambled down the cobbled streets of the Royal Mile until I stumbled upon the Writer’s Museum tucked away beyond an alley.  Admission was free.  The basement focused on the native Scotsman Robert Louis Stevenson, creator of Treasure Island and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. 

The exhibit was more or less a visual autobiography.  Pictures of him in Samoa hung on the wall.  A pair of his boots was displayed in a glass case.  Certain panels described various times in his life.  Stevenson was born in Scotland, and, despite loving his home, he traveled often——throughout Europe, on American trains, and on boats around exotic islands.  I found his insight on travel to be very illuminating.  He believed that pottering about in foreign lands stimulates the imagination; exotic locales pluck you out of oppressive habits.

Stevenson writes:  “I travel not to go anywhere, but to go.  I travel for travel’s sake.  The great affair is to move, to feel the needs and hitches of life more nearly, to come down off this feather-bed of civilization, and find the globe granite underfoot and strewn with cutting flints.”

At home, when you are hungry or so bored that you become hungry, you open the fridge and find food.  If there is none and you are a man, you will continue to stare at the empty refrigerator and expect to find inspiration.  Once you realize this is hopeless, you go to the store you always go to in order to replenish your groceries.  When you need to sleep, your bed is there for you, just where it was last night and the night before.  This life of ease is a beautiful and wonderful thing.  I dearly miss my pantry stocked with cereal.  I miss my stove and my grocery store whose layout I’ve memorized.

When you are on the road, you must always be searching for your next meal and your next place to sleep.  When you travel, you abandon the safety and comforts of your shell.  You roam.  You become nomadic.  You are no longer bound to anything.  You are free from obligations, from habits.

When life becomes sedentary, we no longer have to think very hard about what to have for dinner.  We don’t have to scout out a convenient place to sleep.  We can drive the same routes to work without even knowing the street names.  As our surroundings become more familiar, we are more likely to complain about them.  Gravity feels heavier when you live under a cloud of negativity.  If you are roaming to nowhere in particular and you don’t care for your current location, you simply pack up camp and go somewhere else. 

Filled with a sense of adventure and a curiosity to read more Robert Louis Stevenson novels, I exited the Writer’s Museum and proceeded to get lost.  I descended the hill and sauntered through a garden.  A slight rain drizzled.  I stumbled upon a cemetery with ancient headstones.  Those buried in the grounds of Cuthburt’s Church died in the early 1800s. 

I was alone in the graveyard.  My hood was up to keep my head dry, but it cut off my peripheral vision.  Supposedly, Scotland is a bit haunted, and I was roaming through the resting places of the dead.  There was a dense layer of fog.  Eerie is a word that entered my mind. 

My eye was attracted by something in the distance.  I made a few turns.  Neglected my map.  Inspected the sidewalk under my feet.  Avoided non-descript downtown streets.  I drifted until I spotted St. Mary’s Cathedral.  I was getting hungry, and the rain was falling harder.  Whenever I’m lost, I head for a big building or a major landmark to easily orient myself on a map.  Then I use my compass to get my bearings.  And off I go, hopefully a little wiser the second time around. 

I headed south, then west toward the castle.  I began to recognize storefronts.  Then I found my confidence, neglected the map, and proceeded down the wrong street.  This becomes a process, but you don’t realize it’s a process until you’ve finished back at the beginning.  The process is called “walking in circles.”  I repeated this but in opposite directions so that my trajectory resembled a Venn diagram.

My jeans were soaked.  I stepped in a puddle.  I was worried my Kindle and my notebook were soggy inside my backpack.  Impatience set in, then frustration.  Then hunger.  Then cold.  

I started running.  Now I didn’t recognize anything.  That’s the first time I’ve seen these meadows, I thought.  I headed for higher ground.  I gazed down below.  I had no idea where I was.  The sun was setting.  I had no choice but to break my resolve and let go of my pride:  I asked for directions.

“The center of town is that way,” a young woman advised me.

I ran in that direction, then asked a man smoking under an awning:  “Where’s the castle?”

“The what?”

“The castle.”

“You can see it right there.  Go up here.  Turn left.  Then you can go up the hill.”

I was sopping wet.  The temperature was in the forties.  The wind was blowing, and the sun was sinking below the hills.  I sprinted, while keeping myself oriented toward the castle.  I latched onto it and finally resurfaced to a place I recognized.  A cow mascot jutted out from a restaurant terrace.  I remembered this.  Last time I headed left.  I turned the corner at the right and found the street I was searching for two hours ago.  I missed it by a few feet, twice. 

Finally, I found the hostel.

When you wander around by yourself, you can really grow to understand your faults.  I try to do everything on my own, even if it means I will fail.  I don’t like asking for help.  I view it as lazy or shameful, as though I am not smart enough to figure things out on my own.  But often I find myself in foreign territory surrounded by those who know more about navigating their city than I do.  They’re professionals; I’m an amateur.  There will always be skills I will never master.  I can’t expect to be even mediocre at everything.  

All empires fail.  Natives resist their colonizers.  Hitler never conquered Russia.  All for the same reason:  you can’t dominate every map.  In some places you will always be foreign, but you can always find your way home once you’ve strayed too far, especially if you ask for directions.