The rich literary nonfiction tradition of the travelogue goes back to the first and second centuries - ancient texts such as Pausanias’ Description of Greece, which apparently does what it says on the box and offers descriptions of the nation of Greece from none other than Pausanias. I believe the name Pausanias comes from a combination of the Greek words pausus, which means “one who is searching for” and aniasis, which means “an easy topic for a blog”. His revolutionary discovery of the concept of walking around somewhere and writing down your dumbass observations has paved the way for so many of us desperate to get a decent word count, and I am proud to continue his grand tradition.

Believe it or not, though I am so worldly and debonaire, until recently I had never been to Europe, or really out of the country, save for a lovely boyhood day trip to Niagara Falls, which began with my father actually making good on the threat to turn the car around if we didn’t behave ourselves. Traveling overseas was something I had set my sights on for the last five or six years, but various financial and global pandemic related obstacles presented themselves, so I had to wait.

Then, last year, two dear friends of mine determined that their wedding would take place in Scotland, so now I had a great excuse to make a full vacation out of the international excursion. I decided to poke about in and around Edinburgh after the wedding and then, being so close to the ancestral homeland of the O’Tooles, take a solo jaunt across Ireland. I set my itinerary and the excitement grew.

I arrive at JFK praying that my recently acquired TSA Pre-Check status actually gets me through security quicker than usual. This being JFK, I am not optimistic. True to form, a large section of us in the Pre-Check line are instructed to follow an airport employee holding up a sign on the end of a pole saying “This Way to Pre-Check”, not unlike the sign carried through the floor of Trader Joe’s indicating where you should queue up to get to the register. We follow this fellow through a bustling, crowded terminal like the Pied Piper and I am stressed because there is ample opportunity for the line to break into chaos as people cross our path. We make it down one or two floors to a different security line. It is 9/11 so there is a moment of silence and work stoppage scheduled by the TSA to honor and remember those lost in the attacks. I hear some lady behind me complaining loudly about this which, come on, but also what do you expect? Even with a premium add-on like Pre-Check or Clear, why would you expect things to go smoothly when we as a society have been on a solid 15 year run of every aspect of life becoming more expensive and shitty?

I am not exactly fresh as a daisy, having just returned that afternoon from a 3 day work retreat where I slept in a bunk bed in a cabin at a children’s summer camp in Pennsylvania. The flight is overnight-ish, departing at 9:30 EST and landing at 9:00 AM Edinburgh time, which is effectively 4:00 AM for my internal clock. I have several episodes of ER downloaded on my iPad, a sleep mask, ear plugs, a neck pillow, and generic pharmacy brand Klonopin to lull me into a state of airplane sleep. It is worth noting that I have a prescription for the Klonopin and I was in fact nervous about flying over an ocean. Vulnerable to admit!

The medication works as I planned - ensconced in my wearable sleep aids, I let the tablet dissolve in my mouth and promptly conk out. Because this is the first dreamless sleep I have had in years, there is a time warp effect to my slumber, so when I abruptly wake up to the flight attendant asking if I wanted anything from the coffee service I am disoriented. Confused, but trying to be polite, I say that I’m fine, but when I realize that she was offering me coffee and that it is for all intents and purposes “The Morning”, I meekly go to the rear of the aircraft to beg off a cup of joe.

Customs is surprisingly a breeze. I hop on the tram to the city center to pick up my rental kilt for the weekend. We pass a big box retail area and I note that TJ Maxx seems to be called TK Maxx over here, which I find oddly disconcerting. It seems that the mascot for the Edinburgh Tram is a Scottie dog named Toto wearing a bow tie, which is excellent! I am just tired and giddy enough that everything is a delight; we pass some heather and I think “Wow, they have tall grass here too!”

As we progress into Edinburgh proper, I have what I imagine to be a very American experience, which is marveling at how old these buildings are. We’re approaching 250 years in the U.S of A (where things are going great!) so I am appropriately floored by stuff that has been around for at least twice as long as that. And there is even older shit in other parts of the world! The Coliseum is still around!

I get a coffee and hang around until the kilt joint opens up. I ordered the “Irish Pride” tartan, but the one they pulled does not fit me so I have to go with another one. I take this as a slight against the Irish people, though the new tartan pattern looks better with the jacket I have selected. The train station is a short walk away and I am angry at how nice it is. “But Rod,” you say, “Moynihan Train Hall in New York is new, and isn’t that nice?” Joke’s on you, idiot, if we were speaking in person you would have just triggered my little lecture about hostile architecture and how there is nowhere to sit in Moynihan.

The train ride offers stunning views of the coast and as further entertainment, one of the only other passengers in my car is a woman a few years younger than me having several loud phone conversations with someone who hangs up on her at least once. Based on the one side of this conversation I am hearing, this lady’s life is a mess. I think she is talking to a friend or relative who seems to have had enough of her bullshit. Whoever it is, they don’t seem particularly sympathetic to the latest of what seems to have been several breakups with the same guy that my traveling companion has just had, and they don’t seem at all interested in the pending results of her STI test. The woman cannot seem to get a clear answer as to who is going to pick her up when she gets to Inverness. In between these phone arguments, she stares blankly out the window and breathes through her mouth.

Arriving in Perth, I am faced with the only snag in my travels thus far which is the 5 minutes of torrential downpour that happens on my 10 minute walk to the hotel. Sopping and tired, I look forward to taking a load off for a minute when I am reminded at the front desk that check-in is not until 3. Fair enough, off to the pub then. I leave my luggage at the desk and then have a steak sandwich and a Guinness at what is effectively 9 in the morning for me. I meet some friends for a wee pint or two nearby and eventually check into the hotel and take a 40 minute nap.

We convene later at a place appropriately and confusingly called The Venue for the welcome drinks, which is an interesting establishment in that seems to be three connected bars. By this point I have noticed that every pub I’ve been to has these handsome, backlit, ovular signs on their taps displaying the logo of the beer. Its a nice touch, I am charmed and I talk about how I love these little logo signs to approximately 17 different people at this party. Back at the hotel, I sleep for 12 hours, then wake up and eat a breakfast sandwich with black pudding on it, which I find restorative.

The wedding is spectacular. The venue, ceremony, company - every element is a delight and my heart is filled. Everyone looks great (especially those of us wearing kilts!), I make myself familiar with the scotch offerings, and try to play the Irish tin whistle for my friends around a bonfire. Because I am not very good and because I really made myself familiar with the scotch offerings, I keep giggling which impedes my ability to play through the hobbit theme from The Lord of the Rings. I think maybe I can play it successfully if I stand apart from the group, so I walk 60 feet away and titter and toot out some broken notes while we all laugh. In the dim light, I look like a spirit appearing on the shittiest ghost tour you’ve ever booked. We’re all having a blast.

I make it my mission to be friendly with every old Scottish man in attendance, and I know that I have succeeded when, by the end of the night, I am offered a menthol cigarette by one of the old men while we stand around the aforementioned bonfire. I manage not to cough my way through it and ruin our conversation about golf.

To be continued.