Embracing an unusually light week of coursework, I backpacked from Dundee to Edinburgh to Glasgow and back on a journey from February 4th-8th.
Some aspects of my trip were constant: I wore the same pants, jacket, and shoes every day (even on Day 3’s run along the river). I actively recorded my thoughts in a journal. I read the section “A GOOD LIFE” from Garrison Keillor’s anthology Good Poems (a graduation present from my remarkably supportive mentor and teacher, Ed Nolan) daily.
Most moments were charged with entropy: I met a 35 year-old Scottish Engineer named Andrew on my train ride back to Dundee. Meeting a 49er’s fan in a candy shop in Edinburgh. My roommate got arrested on my first night in Glasgow.
I did my best to wrap up each day’s adventure and will be posting one blog each day beginning Monday February 10th. Cheers!
“A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.”
- Leisure by W.H. Davies
The Merchant City district in Glasgow, Scotland.
A Summary
Today was the first of two days with no pals adventuring alongside me. I haven’t faced this much true alone time in years, and was admittedly nervous that old anxieties would surface and take control—unraveling an extra dimension to already circular thought patterns.
Instead, today was healing. I accepted my thoughts as my own. I laughed at some of them, and stopped to ponder others. I took my free-will on a run through one of Glasgow’s many natural landscapes. I spoke my emotions through the poetry I read aloud from Good Poems as strangers were quietly attracted to the voice of a 21-year-old with a man-bun and an American accent tell stories. I laughed with my new Greek friend and roommate at the hostel.
This was such a good day that I had no negative energy to direct at my roommate when I walked into a room that wreaked of cigarettes. As I walked toward the bathroom, I saw him light a hand-rolled cigarette and blow a puff out the window.
Though I was upset at the thought of losing sleep because of this idiot’s nicotine dependence, more egregious social errors have been committed. So I moved on with my life and went back to work. I was in the common area for about 45 minutes before my other roommate (and new friend) stormed in:
“The police are here.”
“Where? In our room?”
“That’s right. They’re here from him.”
“Right now?”
“YES! He escaped from a mental hospital and when the officers asked him to stand up he refused! This is real life, man. This is our lives.”
Sirens started running far away, striking a poetic emphasis to his breaking news. I laughed them off as background noise. Then the police cars pulled up beside our hostel.
After fifteen minutes of slap-happy laughter, we saw the police cars pull away.
I went upstairs a few hours later. All that remained was the raw tobacco he left on the window sill.
The persistently ironic walls of Euro Hostel, Glasgow.
An Attempt to Make Use of my Creative Juices
My first day in Glasgow was packed tight with no plans.
So I persuaded the day to make way for my madness.
I got off the train determined to find my own way,
persecuted a Nespresso employee,
read poetry aloud at the top of the city’s steps,
engaged a social worker in conversation about poverty and human connection,
strolled lazily into my hostel—somehow both 2 hours late and 1 hour early.
I ran in my jeans along the River Clyde,
took a deep breath in a Mosque’s park, then Glasgow Green,
used the city maps to steer back toward home base,
went to a café, then another, then back to the first for the superior reading environment,
picked up pasta ingredients at Lidl,
called my mom,
started cooking at 9:30 ready to face the fire when the kitchen closed at 10.
I stayed up reading and researching and staring at sirens out the window until 1:30.
Then dared myself to head to bed, hoping for a bit more sun on my fourth day.
The view from steps at the top of Queen Street.