Edinburgh

I visited the Edinburgh Castle, the town’s most popular tourist site.  I had been forewarned by two French men that the castle was mediocre.  My hostel sat in the castle’s shadow; I saw this beaming edifice every day from all over the city.  There was no way I was leaving Edinburgh without going inside.  

I should’ve listened to the French men, but I couldn’t justify not visiting the castle.  The castle was divided into several exhibits.  One in particular focused on Scotland’s role in major wars throughout history.   Panels that detailed the Scots’ war efforts were informative but somewhat dull.  Facts and lists of statistics can only hold a visitor’s interest for so long.  Museums need captivating writers, or else tourists will merely look at the pictures and learn very little, except maybe that the queen wore pretty dresses.  

Despite being mildly disappointed, I explored the entire castle to eke out every last pence-worth of this £16 experience.  I consider my efforts a mild success, although I rarely envisioned myself in a medieval castle except when I visited the former prisoner’s barracks.  The musty room was furnished with ragged hammocks.  Clothes lines dangled under the weight of damp uniforms.  A soundtrack on repeat played out a dialogue between an English-speaking prisoner and a Frenchman who groaned from some malady.  I was briefly transported to the glory days when the castle was used for deterring unwanted visitors rather than inviting them in for a look around.  For the rest of my trip I felt I was in a tourist zoo, replete with field-trip-going students and the occasional screaming toddler.  

The highlights of the castle were the Crown Jewels of Scotland and the Stone of Destiny.  A gold crown, scepter, and sword were the centerpiece of many a royal coronation, and now they are on display at the Edinburgh Castle.  They are guarded by two thin, unarmed employees who entertained themselves by chatting about a French guy they could not comprehend.  Even if you managed to get past the first level of security, this was, after all, a heavily fortified castle.

Despite being an unremarkably-looking rock, the Stone of Destiny has a tumultuous past.  With a history spanning over 700 years, its origins are foggy and even mystical, but it was certainly used as a symbol during Scottish coronations until King John Balliol used it for this purpose one final time in Scotland during his enthronement in 1292.  Four years later, King Edward I of England fancied himself this symbolic slab, so he took it back home and stored it under the throne in Westminster Abbey.  For the next seven centuries, the British housed the Stone of Destiny and last used the stone for the inauguration of Queen Elizabeth II in 1953.

England’s thievery enraged the Scots.  The British Empire had long developed a penchant for taking things that don’t belong to them.  They absorbed Scotland into her kingdom, but this little piece of hardened land was one chunk too many.  Although it was only a rock, this act of thievery symbolized England’s lack of respect for Scotland.  So in 1950, four Scottish students hatched a plan to pilfer the Stone from Westminster Abbey and return it to its rightful home.  

A few days before Christmas, the four students drove from Glasgow to London.  The next day Gavin Vernon and Alan Stuart studied the watchmen’s shifts.  During the night, the two men along with Ian Hamilton snuck into the Poet’s Corner.  They reached King Edward’s tomb and his old throne.  The stone was nestled under the seat.  When the students attempted to remove the heavy stone, it fell to the floor and smashed into two fragments. They bundled the larger chunk inside a coat and dragged it outside and down the stairs. Hamilton carried the smaller piece and loaded it into the trunk of Kay Matheson’s car.  Matheson drove off, and Hamilton lugged the heaviest half into another getaway car.  The rear of the car sagged under the load of the Stone of Destiny.  

After a close encounter with a policeman near the Abbey, the students feared the authorities were alerted, so they ditched the biggest slab in a field.  For the first time in four hundred years, the border between England and Scotland was closed.  Two weeks later, the students reconvened with the two pieces of the stone, and they hired a stonemason to reattach them.  

In April the following year, the Stone of Destiny was discovered intact at Arbroath Abbey, where it is believed the Chancellor of Scotland composed the nation’s declaration of independence in 1320.  In 1952, one year before the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, the Stone of Destiny was returned to Westminster Abbey.  

All of the students confessed, but none of them were imprisoned for their actions.  Due to the publicity of the event, I’m sure England was worried that if penalties were enacted, then the nation’s relationship with Scotland would become even more strained.  The heist ignited the nationalist movement in post-war Scotland and rekindled the nation’s desire for independence from the United Kingdom.  Finally in 1996, the Stone of Destiny was welcomed home after being gone for seven hundred years.  After the homecoming parade down the Royal Mile, now the Stone resides in the Edinburgh Castle.      

After touring the castle, I had visited all of Edinburgh’s major haunts.  The weather was beautiful, but rain seemed a possibility.  I went back to the National Museum of Scotland to continue reading about life in the 1800s while I waited for the ominous clouds to pass.  

I learned about the blossoming wealth of Edinburgh and Glasgow during the Industrial Age that brought prosperity but also tuberculosis and other rampantly spreading diseases.  Edinburgh used to be somewhat of a cesspool.  Residents would chuck their waste out the window and shout, “Gardez l’eau!” which is French for, “Look out for the water!” but really means, “I’m throwing shit out my window!”  Since the Scottish can barely pronounce English let alone French, the word “l’eau” came out as loo.  So that’s why Britain and her colonies have a funny synonym for the bathroom.  

The museum was very pleasant once more, and I was sad to leave it.  I wanted to seize the day and maximize my experience because this was my last day in Scotland. When I left London, I was eager to escape the metropolis, but I was reluctant to leave Edinburgh.  During my brief visit, I have really forged a connection with this city.  As I strolled through a park lined with trees wearing pink leaves, I thought, “I could live here,” and I truly believe that.  

Maybe I am getting ahead of myself.  I have a tendency to fall head over heels for women I barely know.  I must become enamored with cities in a similar fashion.

Although rain is frequently forecasted and the annoying sounds of bagpipe music are inescapable, Edinburgh has an atmosphere of other-worldliness and intellect.  The birthplace of famous writers such as Robert Louis Stevenson, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Sir Walter Scott, the city’s literary history is embodied in the gothic rocket ship on Princes Street. 

A statue of David Hume stands on the Royal Mile.  Students rub his golden toe for good luck on upcoming exams. 

His lingering presence reminds visitors that great thinkers sprang from this soil, and now their ghosts haunt the graveyards that inspire great writers of today like J.K. Rowling, who perused the cemeteries in search for memorable character names.  A man named Thomas Riddle died in 1806 and was buried in Edinburgh.  Now strangers visit his grave because a fictional character in a popular fantasy series bears his name.  

The marriage of the past and the present——markedly represented by the clear distinction of Old Town and New Town——is what makes Edinburgh such a unique place to visit.  The New Town has its Georgian architecture, the attached apartment buildings that curve along  the cobble-stone streets.  

There are modern, less-appealing buildings on the main drag.  Despite the concentration of commercialized chains, Edinburgh is not overwhelmed with recognizable capitalistic enterprises.  Even the New Town has clung onto many remnants of the past.  

Across the bridge, the Old Town has retained its medieval layout.  The fortress is perched atop Castle Rock, the site of an extinct volcano.  The Royal Mile slopes downward to the Holyrood Palace.  Along the way, narrow alleys called closes verge sideways from the main artery and lead down the hill.  

The closes open up into a concentration of pubs in the Grassmarket, or into Greyfriar’s Kirkyard, where Bobby the Skye Terrier guarded the grave of his owner John Gray for fourteen years.  Due to his diligent service, Bobby was buried just outside the graveyard, and a statue was erected in his honor.  

Every building and every graveyard seems to have an intriguing story behind it.  This quality is especially a bonus since much of Edinburgh’s backyard looks like Hogwarts.    

A few days earlier I met an American woman working in a fudge shop on the Royal Mile.  As she spoke with the customers before me, I was surprised by her accent, so I asked what brought her to Scotland.  She said she stumbled upon the university here and spoke with an advisor who was able to enroll her for a master’s program.  She fell in love with the campus, which she hadn’t planned on visiting.  Her immediate adoration quelled my anxiety.  Apparently, Edinburgh has a hypnotic effect on many of those who visit.  

          

The Highlands

Britain may have its neat urban gardens, but Scotland has a much bigger and better backyard.

Edinburgh is a very hilly city.  Over 300 million years ago, rifts in the Earth’s crust formed a volcano in southern Scotland, and the Ice Ages carved hills into the landscape as the glaciers melted.  Now, there is a jagged peak called Arthur’s Seat that leans toward Edinburgh and offers great views of the city as well as the sea toward the east.  A rocky trail meanders around the extinct volcano like grooves in a self-serve ice cream.  Beds of yellow flowers hug the embankments.  You can climb all the way to the top mostly by walking up a steady incline.  Once you reach the pinnacle, you can clamber up the crevices and then perch atop a rock to share the view with the birds.    

Once you venture north of Edinburgh, you can soon find yourself out in the remote wilderness among bigger mountains.  Way back when Scotland was near Canada, the landmass headed toward England, which had detached itself from Europe.  They gravitated toward each other.  When they collided, tectonic plates smashed together, and the Highlands were born.  The Highlands is a sparsely populated area that used to be considered a lawless hideaway.  The Jacobite Rising of 1745 motivated the British to more tightly control the wilderness of the Highlands.  Nowadays, not many people live there, but many come to visit to take in the views.     

On a clear day, which is rarity, you can see the birch and spruce trees reflected on the placid lochs.  Upon seeing the Highlands for the first time, the scenery was breath-taking.  It’s very easy to grow sentimental over nature and to employ melodramatic adjectives to the views, like:  stunning, mesmerizing, awe-inspiring.  However, exploring the Highlands is no trivial matter.  One does not see the lovely mountains, the serene lochs, and the assortment of greenish hues and think, “These are just big rocks...I’ve seen enough.”  No, this coincidental continental drift has created a phenomenon to be cherished.

I saw a retired couple lounging in fold-up chairs next to their RV.  They were savoring the view.  If that is where I’ll be in my old age, I’ll consider my retirement a great success because, despite the cold, unpredictable weather, this beats moving to Florida.  You can hike anywhere you want in Scotland because of their “Free to Roam” law, which states that you can’t technically trespass on private property.  There are rules, however.  You must camp fifty meters away from someone’s house, and you must pick up after your dog.  Only one mountain requires professional gear to summit.  You can simply walk up the rest of Scotland’s two hundred odd peaks.   

In addition to the greenery, you can find sheep grazing on hill sides.  Highland cattle feed there as well.  This breed sports the same hairstyle as emo teenagers.  Their long, brown bangs dangle over their eyes.  Apparently, their beef is delicious. 

In some areas, the roads have two lanes——or dual carriageways as the Scots say——but often a driver finds himself sharing a narrow road with traffic that flows in opposite directions.  These conditions are not ideal for eighteen-wheelers driving through a windy countryside.  

The Highlands may not offer the best highways, but it is undoubtedly a hiker’s paradise.  There is abundant freshwater bursting from streams that unload into the lochs.  There is even a walking trail you can follow all the way from England.  If you’re a Harry Potter fan, your scenery will resemble Hagrid’s grounds.  His hut used to be out in the mountains, but somebody removed the half-giant’s abode due to safety hazards.  

The only downside to this speck on the globe is that the temperature fluctuates drastically even within a single day.  The higher you climb, the colder it gets, obviously.  On the ground, the temperature could be in the seventy degrees Fahrenheit, but up on the peaks it’s cold enough for snow.  Also, the winds by the lochs can be bitter, but the shelter of the forest is often humid.  If you ever go to Scotland, don’t waste your time at Loch Ness.  You will find outrageous prices, but no monsters.  Forget Nessie and visit the Highlands.             

The Loch Ness Monster

Why do people search for monsters?  Moreover, why do tourists pay £13 to discover nothing but water at Loch Ness?  The word “loch” is Gaelic for “lake.”  Essentially, Loch Ness is just a body of fresh water with a history of mystery.  Situated in Scotland’s Highlands, the lake and its surroundings are picturesque, but, intrinsically, there is nothing special about the lake aside from its natural beauty.  Yet thousands flock to the shore of Loch Ness to search for that elusive water horse.

I ordered fish and chips to-go at a rinky-dink shop with overpriced options.  A stubborn man in front of me complained to the cashier that the last time he ate at this restaurant his pizza toppings were incorrect.  His only validation was his word.  Why he didn’t correct the error on the appropriate day was beyond me.  The cashier assuaged the man’s mild frustration, and the manager succumbed to the customer’s demand of a free portion of chips.  By the time the disgruntled customer left, I was convinced that cheap bastard was the monster of Loch Ness.  

Despite the cold wind that blew in from the loch, I decided to have a one-man picnic near the shore.  A nearby restaurant had tons of empty tables, but I was deterred by the sign indicating the tables were for paying customers only.  I hunkered down on a soft mound of grass and leaned against a fence post.  As I chomped away at my crispy potatoes, I scrutinized the loch for signs of the unordinary.  

The water was choppy.  A thin cloud of fog limited my view.  A cruise ship packed with sight-seers, cameras at the ready, set sail toward the haze.  I stared at the water and didn’t know what I wanted to believe.

The cynic in me mocked those tourists who wasted their money on a cheesy boat ride.  They were bound to be freezing and ultimately disappointed.  But I also envied their child-like giddiness over an old legend that has an extremely minimal chance of actually proving to be true.  Embarking on a monster hunt requires a strange type of faith.  First of all, you embrace the irrationality.  You know you live among men and women, not monsters.  Yet part of you must be convinced that there’s the slightest possibility that mythical creatures do exist.  You hope to join the ranks of the alleged witnesses.  In a similar way, people hope to win the lottery.  The chances are slim, but you believe in your chance, no matter how small.  

This kind of faith is not like having faith in God because the social ramifications differ greatly.  Christians, for example, are part of a massive group.  Whole communities share the same religion.  Having a small amount of faith in Nessie may be world-wide, but to emphatically believe in her existence is to be part of a select group of outsiders.  These individuals may be deemed unhinged or slightly deranged, and there would be no public outcry as a result of this ridicule.  

But if you were to make similar allegations about a believer in God, you are bound to ruffle some feathers.  Believers in God or some Creator of Life who goes by a different name comprise the norm, but believers in Nessie are minorities.  God simply has a bigger fan club, but the mechanics behind the belief are the same whether we are gazing up at the sky or staring into the depths of a lake.

I continued snacking on my meal and sipping a cold Irn Bru, Scotland’s most profitable soft drink.  (Coca-Cola and Pepsi do not reign supreme in the Kingdom of Scots.)  As I expected, I saw only the choppy waves of Loch Ness.  The view was beautiful, and it was free to look from the shore.  I could just as easily gawk at Lake Erie in Pennsylvania, so what was so different about this one in Scotland?  And why is a boat ticket so expensive?  Is the water purer?  Is the view more striking from the middle of the lake?

The price has nothing to do with the physical world, yet the Scottish government funneled millions of pounds into this monster search merely to heighten the craze over this money-making magical-being.  In 1984, spending for the Nessie hunt peaked during Operation Deep Scan.  However, a recent glitch in a 2013 Google Earth scan sparked interests once more.  If the satellites spotted a strange object, surely there must be hope for the creature’s existence.  Once again, tourists ate up these reports and became optimistic that they would lay their eyes on this seemingly immortal peculiarity.  

Part of me believes this legend continues to be revitalized in order to stimulate the economy.  Inverness, the nearby town, has capitalized on this Nessie craze by creating a Disney-esque park, which features docile dinosaur look-alikes with toothy grins.  This behavior isn’t new to Scotland, though.  

My tour guide told me that the folklore surrounding the Loch Ness monster originated in the Book of Kells, which dates back to the sixth century.  The text was written by Irish monks in Scotland.  One particular monk named Saint Columba was trying to spread Christianity to the country when he first encountered the beast.  He was bathing in the loch when he saw the monster and vanquished it with the holy cross.  

People back then didn’t have satellites, or even world maps that were accurate and finished.  Due to their lack of information, the masses were more easily scared by what they didn’t know, and, thus, they were more easily manipulated.  If Columba spread tales of a monster lurking in the lake, he might inspire fear in a few of his neighbors.  Conveniently, Columba knew the solution to combating the beast.  If the locals put their faith in a stranger named Jesus, their family would be spared from this aquatic killer.  Stories like this not only sell tickets, but Bibles as well.  

I didn’t want to believe this hoax was created to take advantage of gullible people.  I wanted to believe there was some other-worldly, pre-historic creature swimming under the surface.  I’ve preferred many fictional lands over my own.  The life I live in my head is often fuller than the one before my eyes.  It would be nice for reality to even the score.       

Most bodies of water make liars out of us.  Any fisherman could attest to that.  But his lake in particular holds great power over the imagination.  These waters have been scoured, and the depths have been probed numerous times.  If the monster truly exists, don’t you assume somebody would have found it by now?  

Despite this rationale, people still pay £13 for an opportunity to answer this question themselves.  But I wonder if tourists truly capitulate to these folk tales?  Do they really believe their naked eyes will prove superior to Google’s satellites?  Or are they merely stoking the fire and keeping the folklore alive?   

The Loch Ness monster captivates us because the belief in the creature can mentally transport us to times that no longer exist.  Michael Crichton conceived of a world that brought dinosaurs back to life.  There’s bound to be others who’d love to see that happen, even if their reasons are merely to see something exciting because there is so much banality in our surroundings.  Much of popular sight-seeing is mental archaeology:  a big game of pretend.  

Maybe if I stare hard enough at this lake, I can unearth the monster.  I can’t summon the creature to rise from the deep, but the image of Nessie bubbles to the surface of my mind.  Nessie is real if you want her to be.  She helped spread Christianity, and now she’s reviving the tourist industry in northern Scotland.  Like Santa Claus, the Loch Ness monster is a convenient construct created by humans.  She’s an imaginary friend who has made too real of a difference to her surroundings.      

Too Many Tourists

After breakfast at the hostel, I visited the National Museum of Scotland, eager to learn more about the country’s history.

The museum is humongous.  It would take you a week if you want to peruse everything thoroughly.  I soon learned to window-shop and inspect only the panels that really sparked my interest.  

The museum is divided into a few sections that cover a variety of topics.  The interactive science center, for example, features exhibits that explain the benefits of green energy.  This department also houses Dolly, the first cloned mammal, which was named after a famous country-singer’s large mammory glands.

I briefly browsed a room that catalogued the growth of devices dealing with communications:  radios, cameras, televisions, etc.  One panel about inventions that I read in particular stuck out to me.  It read something like this:  The environment dictates the product’s function.  Therefore, if the product changes, so does the environment.  

TVs, for example, were created to bring the cinema into the home.  Since the invention of the television, the physical layout of the living room revolves around the TV.  Also, this in-home entertainment could potentially alter the inhabitants’ habits.

I tried to think of this dictum in terms of a solitary traveler in a foreign country. Humans are composed of both biological and sociological traits.  In some ways, a man is a product of his environment, whether that be his genetic make-up or his physical surroundings.  In either case, he is able to rise above his shortcomings, or he may even be able to ignore certain situational forces.  The environment inevitably affects his upbringing.  If he lives in northern Canada, he is prone to grow accustomed to cold temperatures.  If he grows up poor, he stands a good chance of learning the value of a dollar.  He may never graduate beyond manual labor, or he could work his way up to the top.  In any circumstance, the environment forces him to make decisions.  Will a child with uneducated parents seek an education?  Or will he follow the paths of his mother and father?  Ultimately, each person chooses his path, although some may be steeper than others.  Some people even get a head start.  Except during extreme periods of racial or religious hostility, no one is the victim of circumstances, unless one falls prey to this notion.

On the other hand, a person has the ability to change his environment.  Mayors can clean up decrepit neighborhoods just as vandals can destroy them once more.  

If both those statements are true——that a person both affects and is affected by his environment——then what happens when you displace one person to a different land?  Surely, one American tourist may do little to radically alter Italy, but many tourists visiting multiple places is bound to change the make-up of the world.  

There are some cities whose tourist population is greater than the native population.  On average, Venice welcomes 60,000 tourists per day, making the city more crowded with foreigners than residents.  The natives long dead and gone are the reason posterity visits their homelands.  These historical sites were once at their height of glory, but now they are merely storage units of historical monuments.  Many native Venetians are moving to get away from the overbearing tourist population, so, in a hundred years or so, what will Venice be remembered for?  Perhaps the city will be on par with Orlando, Florida.  

I encourage everyone to travel, but I also encourage everyone else to stay at home.  Someone needs to hold down the fort long enough to establish the difference between residents and visitors.  If everyone were nomads, there may be no unique architecture——only hotel chains.               

The Scottish Referendum

Upon my friend Maria’s advice, I went on this free walking tour of Edinburgh to gain some insight into the city. 

The tour guide’s name is Sabela, an energetic Spanish woman who spoke English with a mixture of Spanish and Scottish accents.  She doesn’t get paid by her company, she said.  Instead, she relies on tips from the tourists.  The guy who started this company called Sandeman Tours noticed he was overpaying for tours that weren’t so worthwhile, so he came up with a new idea.  Now, you see the product, and you can determine its worth.  If your tour sucks, you can dish out just a few pounds, but if your guide makes your day wonderful, you can give a little extra, just as you would over-tip a waitress you admire.

Sabela absolutely beamed with enthusiasm, which I find impressive because I’m sure she’s given this tour dozens of times.  It seems she’s conquered the monotony of the endless regurgitation of facts, as she wonderfully recounted tales of Scotland’s past.

Many, many years ago, when the Earth’s make-up was vastly different from today, Scotland and England were detached until they rammed into each other and formed the mountains that would later be known as the Highlands.

Fast-forwarding into the future, Scotland resisted the Romans for the most part, but they were always fighting against the English. The Scots instituted a monarchy, and the torch was always passed on to the successor as planned.  Then, one day, a child-less king was thrown off his horse, and he fell off a cliff and died.  As a result of his death and the lack of a true heir, there were thirteen candidates qualified to reign, but the Scots could not think of a fair way to elect a new leader.  I would’ve suggested a fight to the death a la Hunger Games, or, at the least, a vote. 

Sabela told us that Scottish history, particularly this chapter, heavily influenced A Game of Thrones.  Undramatically, the Scots opted for a bizarre solution:  they asked their English neighbors to choose a king for them.  The King of England wisely chose the weakest candidate so that he could more easily swindle him and his countrymen. 

Before embarking on my trip, I was uncertain how countries like Scotland operated under the United Kingdom, as it seems the British are the ones who established the rules.  Scotland is kind of a separate country, although it still retains its umbilical cord to its motherland.  Scotland obviously isn’t a state like New York is to the USA.  The country even has a separate flag, a separate identity, and they print their own version of the pound.  Scotland has all the makings of its own nation, yet it remains under the jurisdiction of the UK.

King James of Scotland became the first Scotsman to sit upon the English throne.  His coronation unified the two lands, and ever since they’ve been tied together.  This year of 2014, however, Scotland has a referendum of independence:  a chance to vote to become its own country. 

Later that evening at The Elephant House, I met a Scotsman named Will, who adamantly wants Scotland to secede from the United Kingdom. 

 

I met my friend Maria at the café, and the two of us sat at a large circular table.  Will was on the other side, absorbed in a novel.  Will has a thick head of white-hair, but his face is devoid of wrinkles.  His facial features were deceptive and anachronistic, as though only fragments of his body aged.  I could imagine him sitting in this coffee shop decades before reading a book sitting with the same posture and wearing the same youthful grin.  I can only hope to age so well. 

After I had eaten another helping of haggis, the waiter needed the table for a large party, so he ushered the three of us to an empty table nearby and bestowed cookies upon us to reward us for our courteous gesture.  Will set his book upon the table and introduced himself to Maria and me.  Our proximity led to an intimate discussion of Scottish politics that began when Maria asked Will about the referendum.          

“This is not about politics or economics,” he said.  “Our desire is ideological.”

This man could talk endlessly, and quite well.  I could tell he has been mulling over these thoughts for years, and his words were very polished as though he ranted about his Scottish utopia to many ear-lenders before me.  Nonetheless, I was eager to soak up his words as I gradually grew accustomed to his thick accent.  Eventually my ears clearly perceived his syllables as recognizable strings of English.  Since Maria’s primary language is Spanish, interpreting English through thick accents is like slurping a frozen milkshake through a straw.  Comprehension comes slowly, and only a few words at a time.  Sometimes I had to “translate” his Scottish English into a more basic and easily understood form. 

Will would stride onward with his passionate rant and pause when he ran out of steam.  I don’t know if he realized how much time had passed since he started speaking, but he implored us to respond.  Since I was not well-versed in Scottish history, I was ill-prepared with questions and still recovering from the awe of listening.  Nothing I could say was of equal caliber to his thoughts on the subject, and, besides, I am not often a quick thinker. I require time to reflect and subconsciously ruminate on previous discussions to pluck out relevant questions and further areas to explore.  Will’s face flushed, and I could tell he was uncomfortable with the silence.  During the gaps in the conversation, Maria would often smile and then turn toward me.

“What did he say?” she would ask quietly. 

And so I would repeat and summarize. 

Since the Scots live in such harsh conditions given the temperamental weather, they can readily adapt to new changes, and they care deeply about their neighbors. 

“I don’t want to use the word socialism,” Will said, pointing to me, “because I know the Americans don’t care for that word...”

If he were in charge of the new Scotland, ideally, they wouldn’t be so capitalistic.  They would share the wealth because, for years, they were not fairly represented in Parliament.  By the United Kingdom’s standards, Scotland seems wealthy, but the numbers may seem fudged because London accrues so many riches to negate poverty elsewhere in the four countries of which the nation is comprised. 

“Imagine that Canada claimed the U.S. and said, ‘Now you are part of Canada.’ How would you feel?” Will asked me.

“I wouldn’t mind,” I said.  “I like Canada.”

Looking back on this moment, I wish I hadn’t offered such a playful and joking response.  Clearly, this wasn’t what Will wanted to hear, and my comment briefly tarnished the serious tone of the conversation.  In my defense, at the time I was ignorantly scorning my home country.  My anti-American angst stemmed from my disgust with our obese population and our shallow popular culture that is poisoning the rest of the world.  Europe has old buildings and intellectuals, I thought at the time.  And we have Duck Dynasty.  Canada, at least, was fitter, and their air is cleaner. 

To make me understand the British take-over of Scotland, Will offered me another metaphor:  “Say I was a beggar, and you were a millionaire,” he pointed to me again.  “Together, we would both be half-millionaires, but really I’m poor and you’re rich.” 

His example was meant to stand in for Scotland and England.  If Scotland is to secede, they may become poorer because the country relies a lot on the wealth of England.  Scotland, however, is by no means a poor country.  Edinburgh is a financial hub for banking.  Scotland has plenty of oil and gas reserves, and, if all else fails, they can scrape by on whiskey exports.  Despite its potential for autonomy, some believe that Scotland’s economy would suffer after severing ties with the United Kingdom.  They would have to abandon the pound in exchange for the weaker euro.  But as Will mentioned before, many Scots are more concerned with nationalistic pride than with commercial profits.  Even so, Will has several solutions to improve his homeland should they be given autonomous rule.

“To build a great nation,” he began, “You need a few things.  You need a solid education system so that the youth can get jobs rather than waste the nation’s welfare getting into trouble.  You need infrastructure.”

Apparently, Scotland doesn’t have many roads to reach its northern areas.  Speaking from experience, many of the roads that meander through the Highlands are one-lane highways meant to be shared by traffic traveling in opposing directions.  Both Edinburgh and Glasgow are in the southern part of the nation, where most of the residents live.  Much of the country consists of islands and isles, and many of its small towns do not flourish because they are not heavily trafficked areas.  The natural terrain both attracts and dissuades visitors from venturing far north into Scotland. 

During travel writer Bill Bryson’s trek through the United Kingdom from London to John o’Groats, he comments on the barren landscape: 

“You really are on the edge of a great deal of emptiness when you reach the far north of Scotland.  Only twenty-seven thousand people live in the whole of Caithness, an area considerably larger than most English counties.  More than half of that population is accounted for by just two towns, Thurso and Wick, and none of it by John o’Groats, since John o’Groats isn’t a community at all but just a place to stop and buy postcards and ice cream.”

Another mountainous country, Switzerland is an ideal model to learn from if Scotland is given the opportunity to create their own country.  According to Will, before Switzerland really established their nation, they researched countries like America and Britain to create an idyllic setting.  Despite its mountainous terrain, Switzerland is easily navigated.  And, of course, the Swiss understand how to manage money.

I assume that Will meant Scotland may have a similar opportunity to tour the world and learn how to build a great nation.  If the referendum proves successful, I would nominate Will for the job, a sort of student/tourist who analyzes the cogs that keep nations running. 

But if the referendum doesn’t work out, the tour guide Sabela told me the Scots can still look forward to their future.  In a few million years, Scotland is destined to detach from England.  As they drift out to sea, finally the Scots will have their independence.        

J.K. and María

After getting stuck in the rain, I sought refuge in a café called The Elephant House.  

A sign posted outside announced that J.K. Rowling worked on the Harry Potter series there, but the truth is that she worked on The Sorcerer’s Stone at a nearby coffee shop owned by her brother-in-law, but the original spot has since run out of business.  The story is that Rowling frequented this haunt to save money on her heating bill, which would be exorbitant considering she lives in frigid Scotland and the currency is the British pound.  

The Elephant House may not be the true birthplace of The Boy Who Lived, but J.K. Rowling did enjoy writing the fantasy series near the view of the Edinburgh Castle which can be seen the café’s rear windows.  Since the series have become an international sensation, Rowling probably can't write in public anymore, so Harry Potter fans are now the ones carrying that tradition in The Elephant House, even in the bathroom.

I sat down at the counter next to a tan woman absorbed in her tablet.  I ordered haggis, neeps, and tatties, a traditional Scottish dish consisting of a savory pudding of mashed sheep’s heart, liver, lungs along with onions and oatmeal.  Neeps refer to turnips, which are also mashed.  Tatties are potatoes, once again mashed.

Although the meal looked like pre-chewed food for senior citizens, it was delicious.  A pot of Scottish Breakfast Blend tea warmed me up from my travels in the rain. 

When I finished my meal, the lady next to me asked for her bill.  I was worried my money was no good here.  Inside a donation bin inside a church, I saw a ten pound sterling note with a label that said The Royal Bank of Scotland, but I had none of those in my wallet.  Were Scottish pounds different than British pounds?  Wasn’t this Kingdom, after all, united?  Is Scotland really another country?  It still waves the English flag, above its own.  I wasn’t really sure what to believe, so I asked Google.  Apparently, Scotland prints its own pound, but also accepts the Great Britain Pound.

I asked the lady next to me if you tip in Scotland.  She wasn’t sure.  She’s not from here. 

“Where are you from?” she asked me.

“America,” I said.

“Me too.  South America.”

I hadn’t ever thought of her neighbors to the south in that way.  Usually Americans from the U.S.A. stake claim to that name, but the title is shared.  Canadians, Mexicans, Argentineans, Americans.  Technically, we are all Americans.

“I’m from the States,” I clarified. 

“Me——Argentina.”

Her name is Maria, and she was traveling alone for the first time in Europe.  She already went to Italy, France, Britain, and now Scotland.  Before heading back home, she was stopping in Ireland.  She decided to book all of her hotels, trains, and planes in advance.  She adhered to a tight schedule because she was anxious about traveling alone. 

“Do you like traveling alone?” I asked.

“Yes.  I love it,” she replied.

“But isn’t it difficult? Lonely?”

“No. I think of my friends, my family all of the time.  They are with me always, but I don’t miss them.  I know I will return home to them soon enough.”

“It’s funny,” I began, “The farther you travel, the more you can appreciate where you come from.”

She works at the customs in Argentina and speaks four languages in addition to her native Spanish.  She’s in her mid-thirties and wishes she would’ve traveled sooner.

“Anyone can do this if they really want to,” I said, “I don’t make that much money.”

“Neither do I,” she said.  “But sometimes you find a relationship, and you can’t.  It is not easy.”

We chatted about our future travels, where we wanted to go.  She wants to go to the United States.  I want to go to South America.

“When you travel,” Maria told me, “You are never truly alone.  You can make friends.  You meet people.”

When you travel, the destination is not always important as the people you bump into.  Landscapes are pretty to look at and easy to describe.  But they do not fill you up like human experiences do.  Getting to know a complete stranger in a café can be much more thrilling than a jaunt through a medieval castle.