The Plane (Edinburgh Part II)

A buddy of mine once told me about how he deals with his Range Rover.  Timbo, he said, “I have a tote bag in the back of the car.  As parts break off … door handles, tuning knobs, mirrors … I throw them in the bag.  When the bag is full I call the dealer and schedule service.”  Our friends at Boeing have developed a similar reputation in the flying community.  Their planes, at least recently, have a habit of falling to pieces.  It was in that context that I was about to lift off in a Boeing 767 for my trip back home from Edinburgh.

But before I get to the trip home, a little color on my stay in Edinburgh.  When I popped out of Waverly Station after the quick train ride from soggy Melrose, it was, not surprisingly, still soggy. Edinburgh is a great walking town, and my hotel was a short, wet stroll from the station.  In a medieval town like Edinburgh, the W Hotel is a bit of a shock.  It looks like a huge bronzy – gold hornets’ nest.  I fully expected the giant bees of Japanese monster movies to come flying out of hole on the fifth floor.  My room was across the plaza in an older building. I would sleep with one eye open for fear of being carried back to the hive.

Once settled in (quick aside – if a room is over $400 a night, why does the reception person feel the need to walk you to your room and explain things.  Yes that’s the shower, I got it), on to the most important job – clothes.  I needed shoes, shirts, and a rain jacket that actually kept me dry.  All this was easy except for the shoes.  My only current pair, the waterproof hiking shoes that were soaked through, had that smell you smell when you make a wrong turn and drive past the sewage plant.  The problem was compounded by the fact that the shoe smell had permeated my socks.  This would not be easy to finesse.

On the way over to the shopping area, I struck upon the solution – buy 2 pair and socks too.  Any self-respecting shoe salesman would send his mother into human bondage to sell 2 pair to the same guy – surely, he would overlook a little foul odor.  The first shop I hit advertised handmade English shoes.  I was greeted inside by the perfect stereotype of a UK salesman – garish double-breasted suit in a color not known in nature, and an equally outlandish shirt.  I commented to him that not everyone could pull off that look.  I swiftly picked out a couple of pairs, and asked if I could try some socks as well.  He grabbed the socks, and as he scurried off to get my size shoes, I deftly moved the stinky mess on my feet to a bag, to be shot at dawn.  The shoes were great, a list of restaurants I should try in town was volunteered (I think he wanted a date), and I was out the door with new kicks – mission accomplished. 

A review of the sites of Edinburgh can be read elsewhere.  I will comment on one item, the attire of the citizenry.  After Mass I decided to go for an English Sunday Roast, the traditional British family meal of Roast Beef, gravy, potatoes, vegetables and yes — Yorkshire pudding.  That fluffy, crispy, tasty bomb of cholesterol that my brother and I would fight over at our Sunday dinners.  I found what looked to me to be the fanciest place in town with Sunday Roast and booked a table.  Not much else to do, it was pouring out.  I dressed in what I deemed appropriate and shoved off.  The restaurant was indeed lovely, but I was appalled at how people were dressed.  Did they think the meal was to be served on a big table, like in an old swashbuckling movie, with Errol Flynn swinging from the chandelier, using only a single sharp knife to lop off a piece of meat.  They can’t be dressed for a nice Sunday dinner, can they?  When did this happen – everyone abandoning decent clothes? Anyway, the roast was great.  Back to my room to read until the rain stopped (hint: it never did and I have heard it is still raining there).

After seeing the sights in Edinburgh, I took a couple of quick side trips.  First, I went to St. Andrews, observing many tourists in golfing attire, discussing how they had handled the dogleg on fifteen.  I particularly enjoyed visiting the castle ruins on the coast.  Seems it was the ancient home of the archbishop, and back in the day he was living large.  When a rebellious protestant fellow put up a fuss over the Arch’s lifestyle, the Arch had him put to death.  The townspeople took offense and invaded the castle and returned the favor, a nice historical lesson for my priest friends.  I stopped for lunch at a small café and had a close encounter with the Scottish language.  Supposed to be English, I think.   The place was crowded so I shared a table with a lovely couple on a day trip from the interior.  She was perfectly intelligible, but him … my lord I only caught every fourth word.  I was going to pull out Googe translate but that seemed poor form … just nodded politely.

Another Day trip was to York in the North of England, All I knew of York was the scene in Braveheart where the messenger rushes in and tells the king that York has been sacked by William Wallace.  It is in fact a lovely walled city, with the impressive Gothic York Minster at its center.  And although I walked the wall and visited the Minster, my mission was much more targeted … I was in search of a famous Yorkshire meat pie.  A friend whose wife is from these parts directed me to just the place.  I found the address on a small side street, but it turned out to be a pub.  When I walked in it was clear to me that the fellows inside were as permanent as the stools they sat on.  They cheerfully informed me, in yet another derivative of the English language, that the meat pies were next door.  I popped over, picked up a few and found a table in the square.  My review – there is absolutely nothing good for you in these things, but they are delightful.  Three Fs – flakey, fatty and flavorful.  Again, mission accomplished, back to Edinburgh and pack for home.

Checked out of the hotel (How was your stay with us?  Fine, except for the bees.  You will be getting by email a 5000 question survey, would you please be so kind as to fill it out?  Not a chance.) and a quick trip to the airport.  There was a long line for a flight to Bologna on one of those European airlines that charge 89 cents a seat.  Based on the dress, it may have been the same folks that were at Sunday Roast.  I found my gate and in due time settled into business class, all very civilized.  We taxied out to the runway on time, should be a comfortable flight home.  The usual bells dinged, and lights flashed, the pilot hit the gas accelerated down the runway to near top speed, and then abruptly, suddenly, slammed on the brakes! If this were LaGuardia, we would have been in the bay.

The pilot pulled us off to the side, came on the loudspeaker, apologized and told us that a warning light had come on and they had to abort takeoff.  We moved across the tarmac to a holding area and waited for maintenance to appear.  Looking out the window as they pulled up, it was clear they had been summoned from the pub.  They rolled a stairway to the door and entered the plane to evaluate.  After a time, maintenance retreated, and the pilot informed us that the problem was with one of the wings.  Well, I said to myself, that sounds important.  The fellows on the ground were conferring as to what flavor of meat pie to order for lunch, but eventually one rotund fellow came back up the steps with a screwdriver.  To this day I am convinced he jammed that tool in some control panel to make the light go off, because in no time we were back on our way home.