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During our trip to Scotland, we were made aware (by some proud Scots) of the fact that the country prints its own currency. In fact, three major banks in Scotland all print bills: The Clydesdale Bank, The Royal Bank of Scotland, and the Bank of Scotland (un-Royal). For all intents and purposes, the Scottish bills should have the same value (and exchange rate) as the English pound-notes that are also accepted throughout Scotland.

I say should, because in practice things tend to be a bit different.

One of our Scottish hosts proudly displayed some bills to us (the source of the pride being that the bills were Scottish), explaining that on more than one occasion proprietors in England had attempted to refuse the currency.

Don’t let world spread about this, because there is no way that the red states would accept a Californey quarter if they thought they had a choice.

But let’s get down to what the heck is going on with Scotland and the U.K., shall we? I found the whole thing incredibly confusing, and when you find that Wikipedia is the best source on the subject, it’s time to curl up in a ball and admit that the whole thing is effed up.

Here’s my understanding of it. If anyone knows any more about the issue, please feel free to jump in. Let’s start with legal tender.

To quote Rand, “legal tender is not what you think it is.” Personally, I had thought that legal tender was, well, legal money. As long as you didn’t print it in your basement, and ol’ George doesn’t have the gout, I figured it was legal tender. Apparently, this isn’t the case.

In fact, legal tender actually has a very narrow definition that pertains to the settlement of debts. It is an offered payment that cannot be legally refused in the settlement of a debt. It really has very little do with whether or not a form of payment is against the law or not (for example, debit cards, credit cards, and personal checks are widely accepted everywhere, but according to this definition, they are not legal tender).

Scottish notes are also not considered legal tender anywhere in the U.K. Not even in Scotland. So they can’t be used to repay debts, apparently, but instead function more as a promissory note (i.e., I am giving you this bill, which has the value of 5 pounds sterling, or whatever). In fact, no banknotes (not even those from the Bank of England) are accepted as legal tender in Scotland. Which I imagine would make it very hard to repay a debt.

But just because the Scottish bills aren’t legal tender doesn’t mean they aren’t legal. The banks in Scotland that print their own notes  have the right to do so as dictated by Parliament. The money is legal – and while technically people can refuse it in payment of a debt, most don’t.

Here’s where it gets tricky: if you are buying something in the U.K., the store must accept Scottish bills as payment. But if you have already received services from an establishment (as in, they served you a meal or gave you a cab ride) and you are in debt to them, they can then refuse Scottish bills, as they are not legal tender.

Sounds ridiculous, right? But according to one of our Scottish hosts, this has happened to him, and he basically told the waitstaff that it was either Scottish money or they weren’t getting paid at all, and they eventually caved and took the bill. He said that he had encountered the same thing with cabbies.

When we got to London, Rand asked a cab driver if he would accept Scottish currency. He said that generally he would, but some drivers wouldn’t on the grounds that their other passengers wouldn’t accept it back in the form of change. So while they recognized it’s value, it still created problems.

Sigh. The worst part, though, was that we found that internationally some currency exchange places will give you a different (worse) rate for Scottish bills than for English ones.  The matter has understandably upset a lot of Scottish tourists overseas.

Bottom line? Scotland’s money has the same value as British money. It just isn’t always easy to convince people of it.

On that same note, how is it already 2010? I know I say this every week, but still, it’s true. Time is passing just too quickly – I’m sure if the earth were spinning at a normal rate, I would still be in high school … Though perhaps I should thank my lucky stars that sort of thing is far, far behind me, because it sounds like kids today are having a hell of a time. Behold:

Even princesses get the blues. Apparently Princess Aiko, the granddaughter of Japan’s emperor, is getting bullied in school. Just for the record, if princesses are having a hard time of it, the rest of us are screwed.

And speaking of … well …. Sigh. Just read this fascinating (and somewhat heart-breaking) article in the New York Times about Polish “Mall Girls” – teenagers who exchange sex for gifts and fancy dinners from wealthy older “sponsors” in Warsaw.

In other “the end is nigh” news, earthquakes have rocked Chile and Taiwan in the last week (the Red Cross’s website is here if you are so inclined), and an unexpectedly huge wave crashed against a cruise ship off the coast of Spain, causing two deaths and numerous injuries.

Sigh.

The 2010 Olympic games also came to a close on Sunday, and my uncle managed to infuriate me by saying that the U.S. is the only country that counts overall medal count, and it was only golds that mattered. He went on to say that bronze medals were worthless, which seems a lofty claim for a man who prefers buying clothes in bulk from the Goodwill, and throwing out his old dirty ones, because it’s “cheaper than doing laundry”. Instead, I swallowed my rage and read this delightful “thank you” note to Canada from Brian Williams, who is apparently not only adorable and a solid journalist, but also funny to boot.

And just to add a little more happy to your day, appropos of nothing, here is a kitty giving a fox a tongue bath.

We took the train there, which cost the equivalent of $12 (U.S.) each, and walked through the town and up the hill to Stirling Castle.

It really is lush and green - but the cloudiness doesn't really reflect that.

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The town is really quite lovely.

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Oh, and did I mention it was friggin freezing? It was.

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At the top of the hill you’ll find Stirling Castle and, across the way, an old cemetery. For the record, I love old cemeteries, and this was had the added bonus of reminding me a lot of the one where Bod grew up in Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book (if you have not read it, do so immediately).

My husband, god bless him, is a good man. Despite the freezing cold he let me roam around the cemetery talking photos while he lost feeling in his fingers.

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It reminded me of the cemetery outside the haunted mansion at Disneyland, only real.

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Note the prerequisite creepy winding path

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I would also like to take a moment to note, before going on to the next few photos, that something was seriously effed up with my hair on this day. I’m not really sure what was going on, but I had decided to pin my fringe back, and, since I had my hood up for most of the time (as it was freezing) the result was something like a shorter, lighter version of Snooki’s hair from Jersey Shore. Behold:

My hair got worse, but more on that later.

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We then walked on to Stirling castle, and found that our timing had been perfect: we arrived just as a tour was starting with the most magical tour guide, ever.

He had a mullet, tartan pants, AND an unintelligible accent. Rand spent the rest of the afternoon trying to imitate it.

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Stirling Castle.

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Stirling Castle has been through a lot: the first records of it are from 1100, and since then it’s seen the coronation of Scottish Kings and Queens, including Mary, Queen of Scots, and played a key role in the Scottish Wars of Independence. There have been over a dozen battles and sieges that took place at Stirling Castle, and the Battle of Stirling Bridge (where William Wallace defeated English troops in 1296) took place nearby. The English would eventually lay claim to the castle again, a fact that’s obviously a sore spot with the Scots – they prefer to talk about the battles they did win than those they lost. Which is pretty understandable.

By the time we were done with the tour (which leaves you feeling a little ticked off at the English, whether rightly so or not), the day had cleared a bit, and the views from the castle are gorgeous.

Don't let the sun fool you: it was still freezing.

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And my hair managed to be normal for at least one photo! Whoo-hoo!

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We also walked around the gift ship and a few other little museums around the castle. We saw this portrait, which had me in absolute stitches:

He looks so dashing, but his knees are so damn dainty. I absolutely died.

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And this, which I really should have bought. I mean, I joke around that Sean Connery is a Scottish national hero, but to have it actually be true? Delightful.

He's sharing a cover with Robbie Burns. I think I need a minute.

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After all our milling about, we were sort of dying of hunger, so we stopped by the cafe near Stirling Castle. While the food is nothing to blog home about (and yet here I am), it was cheap and fast. The desserts were fantastic sugar-laden confections, and the pies weren’t too bad. Plus, the cafe has air vents in the floor that shoot up at you, so you feel a little bit like a super model while you are eating lunch:

I attempt to do "Blue Steel". Best leave this sort of thing to the professionals.

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"Blue Steel, Ferrari, Le Tigre? THEY'RE THE SAME FACE. I feel like I'm taking crazy pills."

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All in all, a great day trip. I highly recommend putting on some warm clothes and comfortable shoes and visiting Stirling Castle. Unless you are starving, though, I’d skip the cafe. Because while affordable and convenient, any meal that starts with $5 pies will end with this:

I will spare you the mortifying exchange I had with the pharmacist while purchasing these.

But more on that (and our trip to Wallace Monument, just across the way from Stirling Castle) later.

I didn’t find haggis repellant: just for the record. It tastes like all other offal, like liver or kidneys, which I rather enjoy, even though my aunt describes them as “tasting of urine.” (Note: never tell her you love something she hates, because she will try to destroy it in your heart. She doesn’t mean to be evil … she just is.) Trube told, the hubby and I rather liked haggis. I wouldn’t eat it everyday, nor do I think it would make good hangover food. But as a bite here and there? Pretty fantastic.

All in all, Scottish food has a fairly bad reputation (especially stateside. Tell me the last time you visited a Scottish restaurant), but there are definitely some culinary bright spots during our trip to Glasgow.

1. Traditional Indian Cuisine. Glasgow is overloaded with some top-notch Indian restaurants. A colleague of Rand took us to Mr. Singh’s, as he knew the proprieter. The food was fantastic, and encompassed far more than the fried appetizer course you see pictured. However, as the meal progressed, I was too busy eating to take any other photos. So you’ll just have to use your imagination.
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   This appetizer was meant for 4 people. 6 of us barely put a dent in it.

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2. Indian/Scottish Fusion. No, I’m not kidding. How could I even make that up? Curry filled meat pies are becoming a common thing all over the U.K., but we also spotted haggis vindaloo, and sampled haggis pakoras (which were actually quite yummy, though heavier than dark matter):
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   Just don't try and think of all the stuff going on here. Really. Don't.

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3. Vending Machine Booze. While not necessarily unique to Scotland (in fact, I think I took this picture in London, though similar such machines could be found in our Glasgow hotel), and perhaps not really constituting “cuisine”, I nevertheless found the idea of buying booze from a vending machine fascinating. It suggests a lot of things: a more open approach to drinking that the one you can encounter in the U.S., a greater trust for a younger generation (and that they won’t abuse the machines and get loaded – something far less likely when you have a culture where people grow up with alcohol, and it’s not seen as a forbidden fruit), and perhaps a sign of widespread alcoholism (I’m not actually being cheeky. I’m quite serious). Nevertheless, it was nothing I had seen before:
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   The drinks and mixers were rubber-banded together. Also available: batteries, converters.

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4. Porridge and whiskey. When I was a kid, my relatives always referred to oatmeal as “porridge”, owing to the fact that the majority of them, including my mom and aunts, learned to speak English in England. At the time, I found it mortifying, because children can be embarassed by anything.

   Maybe if they had boozed up my breakfast, I’d have been a little more chill about things. We asked some Scots about the practice of adding whiskey to porridge, and they claim it’s just for tourists. I find that reply suspicious, at best, but Rand nevertheless tried it. Actually, I doubt there was any way I could have stopped him.
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   Notice the sign next to the whiskey reads "Porridge."

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   You just know he's up to no good.

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   Mmm ... boozefast! Heart healthy, AND it will get you drunk.

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5. Anything ethnic. In addition to a vibrant Indian restaurant scene, Scotland is a melting pot for other European and Asian cultures, resulting in some pretty solid cuisine. I mentioned the Greek place I visited near Kelvingrove Art Museum in an earlier post, and we also popped into an Italian place while roaming around downtown. Again, pretty solid (though if looking for authenticity, always choose Greek over Italian. Like Chinese food, the latter often suffers from a lack of quality due to its ubiquity).
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   Even Rand's "Take the damn photo so I can eat already" smile is still pretty darn cute.

We ended up eating quite well in Scotland – thanks to our hosts and our own willingness to try new things. The seafood (which sadly, I neglected to photograph at any point during our trip) is also extremely high-quality and very fresh. All in all, we had a great time, and the Scots really do get a bad wrap about their food. It’s not like the restaurant scene in Glasgow consists of a bunch of drunk guys eating whatever the hell they find on the ground or something …

I have no idea what this is about.

Well, shit.

Maybe someone just lost a bet.

Hold on ... this seems like a good time to hit on the groom.

I’ve loads to tell you. I have a few more posts about Scotland I need to get out of my system, a couple on San Diego, and at least a half dozen on New Orleans (which might be one of my new favorite cities). Right now the trips are racking up faster than I can blog about them – and I’m well aware I shouldn’t complain. Blah, blah, blah, boo-hoo for me because my life is awesome.

But keep one thing in mind: I am a neurotic spazz. Several weeks ago, I had the sort of exchange with one of Rand’s colleagues that make you want to crawl into a cave, and never, ever come back. It was entirely unintentional, but without meaning to, I inadvertantly might have said that I presumed the guy didn’t wear the same size underwear as Rand, because he was clearly bigger than him.

I could explain more about the circumstances and the context, but really, I doubt it would make things better. I’m basing this on the fact that when I tried explaining myself in the moment, after having seen Rand et al’s faces, things only got worse.

“No, no, I just meant to say that you are longer than him … I MEAN TALLER! TALLER THAN HIM. Not longer. NO. Noooo … I don’t know how long you are.”

When I replay the scene in my head, it’s not unlike watching “Meet the Parents” – it would almost be funny if it weren’t quite so excruciating. The sort of thing that makes you cringe and squeeze your eyes shut. Where you just want to scream, “No, no, no!” in order to get yourself to stop talking.

That sort of thing happens to me all the time. 

Most recently, it happened on the night of my friends’ wedding in New Orleans. By the end of the night, I desperately wanted a cave in which to hide. Don’t get me wrong, the wedding was lovely, the food was exquisite, the bride and groom glowing, the company delightful (and consisting of many of our friends). The groom’s nearly-90 grandfather was there, and a few of us went to say hello to him.

He was a delightful old flirt, and hugged and planted kisses on the many girls, and the one he gave to me happened to land on my neck.

I was telling the groom about it later, while we were all having drinks in the hotel bar after the wedding.

“Your grandfather was adorable,” I said, tilting my head, and patting my neck. “Kissed me on my neck.”

At this the groom look mortified, which I thought was funny, because the old man was adorable and hadn’t offended me at all.

“Uh, isn’t that something your husband should do?” he asked.

I stared at him for a moment, surprised at his reaction. I figured he’d had found the whole thing funny.

“Well,” I said, “He does … Wait, what?”

“Shouldn’t your husband be doing that, and not me?”

“Wait … DID YOU THINK I WAS TELLING YOU TO KISS ME ON THE NECK?”

“Uh, yeah. Isn’t that what you said?”

“NO! I was saying your grandfather was adorable…. kissed me on the neck.” I said, trying to use the same cadence I did the first time, in an attempt to understand what where the confusion started.

“Yeah – you just said it again. It sounds like you said, ‘Kiss me on the neck.’”

“NO! I said your grandfather was adorable … kissed me on the neck!”

“There. You just said it again.”

“AAAAUGGGGHHHHHHH!”

I’m not sure what was more mortifying: that the groom thought I was asking him to kiss me on my neck moments after I had seen him get married (with my husband at my side), and that everyone around said that’s what it had sounded like – or that no one thought, “Well, that couldn’t have been what she said.”

Maybe I don’t enunciate enough. Maybe my Pacific Northwest accent doesn’t translate well. In either case, it’s mortifying and cringe worthy.

Sigh. Clearly I’m not ready to mingle with mainstream society, much less travel the world without risking international incident. If you need me, I’ll be in my cave.

Actual times may vary.

We woke up this morning, smack dab in the middle of our two months of mad travel, under the distinct impression that we were, for the first time ever, going to miss our flight.

Now, several hours later, we’re eating breakfast with my family, and I am doing my best not to ridicule my husband. Because, as my dear friend Lauren says about her boyfriend, “Well, at least he’s pretty to look at.”

We flew in from New Orleans last night, landing in San Diego to spend one last evening with my family before heading home (on a side note, I saw my brother for all of an hour before he pissed me off to the point where I stormed upstairs. But more on that later).  Before going to sleep (at midnight, which felt like 2 am on account of the time change between Louisiana and California) I asked Rand if he had set an alarm.

“Umm-hmm …” he said.

For future reference, answers given by your spouse when he or she is severely sleep deprived and laying in bed probably cannot be held up in court.

So when I woke up to a grey San Diego morning, and realized Rand hadn’t set an alarm (and had no recollection of me asking him to do so) I wasn’t that surprised. It would be fine, as long as we made it to our 10:30 am flight. Which was 2 hours away. And we weren’t packed.

I will say now: I have hauled ass like that only once, when I had roughly 20 minutes to shower, pack, and get myself and a colleague to the airport. Viewed from above, I imagine the scene was somewhat reminiscent of dropping a jolly rancher on an ant hill.

This morning was a little bit like that. At 9:15 am, having defied the laws of physics and space-time in order to get our bags packed, we ran downstairs.

“Time for a cup of tea?” my uncle asked.

“No, no, no! We’re super late.” I glanced at the kitchen clock, just to be sure.

It said. 7:15. I turned around at looked at the clock on the wall behind me. 7:15.

“Actually,” I said, putting down my bag. “We do have time for a cup of tea. We have plenty of time.” And then I started laughing, maniacally.

Rand turned and looked at me.

“Baby,” I said, sweetly. “When you forgot to set the alarm, did you also forget to change the time on your watch?”

The look on his face was priceless.

It was 7:15. And we had nearly 2 hours before we had to leave for the airport. So we’re now finishing a cup of tea, and spending some time with my family.

And while severely sleep-deprived, I’m still finding the whole scenario funny. But that’s probably a sign of exhaustion.

Actually, it’s probably that last one. Being confused about the time, the day, the month, and the year seem to be the by-product of all the travel we’ve been up to. I’m still writing up our Scotland and England trip, even though we’re now in San Diego, and tomorrow we’ll be off to New Orleans. It’s been a crazy few weeks for us.

But things were even crazier for an Arkansas woman who came home to find three cows had broken in and invaded her house. Rumor is at least two of them are better houseguests than my bro.

And speaking of natural disasters (I mean, cows invading your home would constitute that, right?) this photo retrospective of the 1910 Paris flood is nothing short of amazing.

Oh, and Michelle Higgins tackles the overweight passenger issue in The New York Times. While Southwest may have been a bit overzealous bumping off Kevin Smith, this is nevertheless a growing problem (no pun intended). I talked with a few friends this week, all of whom are frequent fliers. One described having to actually rest his arm on a woman’s flesh (after she gave him permission) because she was encroaching onto his seat. It was mortifying and hearbreaking, so you’ll forgive me for  trying to being tactful, just this once.

And in more heartbreaking news, Anthony Koenig (a.k.a. Richard “Boner” Stabone from “Growing Pains”) was found dead in Vancouver, presumably having taken his own life. The graduation episode, where Boner reveals that he had ”Boner” printed on his diploma, remains one of my favorite.  

Here’s hoping the week that comes will bring fewer bovine invasions and untimely deaths.

Because, clearly, I don’t know how to pace myself. I generally find it to be a bad idea to hit more than two museums in a day, especially if they’re big ones (fortunately the Hunterian was pretty small). I remember once Pinguina and I decided to the Uffizi and one other museum in the same day (which I barely remember, because I slept through it – maybe The Accademia?) and it was a bad, bad idea.

Consequently, you will have to forgive me if my coverage of the Hunterian Art Gallery and the Mackintosh house is spotty at best.

Located on the grounds of the University of Glasgow (which means that gorgeous college kids from all around Europe and even the U.S. are milling about) the Hunterian Gallery has blissfully free admission (and we all know how I feel about that). I wasn’t expecting much, owing to the size of the place, so when I wandered in and found room after room after room of Whistler’s work, I was floored. The collection is solid. No pics of the inside, of course, but the exterior is cool in an industrial sort of way.

Not pictured: beautiful hipster college kids who were handing out TopShop catalogs.

At the back of the Hunterian is a sculpture garden. I’m lukewarm on sculpture gardens. On the one hand, you can’t kill them as you can a regular garden. On the other, they are kind of creepy and occasionally rusty. They truly are the zombies of gardens.

You know, even wide awake I don't really appreciate this.

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And all this did was get me thinking about the glass elevator in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory."

I didn’t actually walk through the entire thing because, as I mentioned, I was tired and feeling grumpy. I’m rotten, I know. I bet Rick Steves never quit on something halfway through because he was a sleepyhead. Then again, I refuse to wear pleated chinos. So we’ve both got our virtues.

After the Hunterian, I actually paid an admission fee (I know, I know – but it was only 2 pounds, which is about $12. So not a huge deal, right?) to get in to see the Mackintosh House. While I am going to get this woefully wrong, my understanding is that Charles Rennie Mackintosh was an incredibly influential and prolific architect and artist in Glasgow in the late 1800s/ early 1900s. He designed numerous buildings (many of which can be seen on the Glasgow City Bus Tour) and sometime in the 1960s, his Glasgow home was meticulously recreated on the grounds of the university.

While not a huge fan of architecture or interior design (most people who see our apartment ask if we’ve just moved in, even if we’re been there for years) I was pretty floored by the Mackintosh house. Not to sound as though I have any idea what I am talking about, the place looks as though Mucha and Juan Miro were suddenly the head designers behind IKEA. It’s all incredibly trendy and modern, which is shocking when you consider that it was put together well over a hundred years ago. You can see the origins of so many familiar designs – I’m pretty sure I spotted my dining room chair’s great-great grandfather. If that sort of thing at all interests you, I suggest making a stop.

After visiting the Gallery and the Mackintosh house, I roamed around the university a bit, though I saw very little of it in total. I was shocked by how many American students I had encountered. I’d never even considered doing a semester abroad in college, and the idea that you can do so in an English-speaking country? Kind of a sweet deal. Lazy, but nevertheless sweet.

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All in all, I was glad I stopped, but had some regrets that I didn’t visit the Transport Museum instead. Apparently it’s amazing. Since I doubt I’d do the Hunterian or Mackintosh house again (they weren’t bad, but once is definitely enough) I may have to put it on my list for next time.

My first thought, while stepping inside, is that it’s one of the best family-oriented museums I’ve ever seen. And when I say family, I mean it – it’s not just a children’s museum, and it’s not just for adults, either. It’s geared at both, and it executes that balance rather brilliantly. My favorite example of this was two Monets hung about waist-high with a note that read: We’ve placed these paintings at a lower height so our younger patrons may enjoy them.

Don’t tell me that’s not awesome.

Oh, and did I mention that admission is free? Blissfully free. Though honestly, you’ll be so impressed with the place that you’ll probably end up leaving a hefty donation, as I did.

The museum is enormous and is a cross between an art and a natural history museum. I told Rand it was like the AMNH and The Met had a Scottish baby. There’s absolutely loads to see, but here were some of my favorite parts …

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Sir Roger the Elephant:

I love how much stuff was packed into this room.

Sir Roger was originally brought to Scotland around 1900 to be part of the Scottish Zoo. Presumably he had yet to be taxidermied. It’s a bit of a sad story, as Sir Roger became pretty pissed and aggressive in captivity (no shit. Scotland is cold), and had to be put down. His owner then sent him to the museum, where he’s resided ever since, surrounded by a menagerie of other random, taxidermied animals. As dark and sad as it is, it’s also kind of amazing, and reminiscent of a time when that sort of thing was commonplace.

Also, rather inexplicably, there’s a huge prop plane hanging from the ceiling just above :

I'm sure this giraffe never would have imagined this as his final resting place.

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Huge Glowing Spectacles:

These weren’t so much an installation as part of an interactive display that aims to teach kids how to look at art. But they reminded me of the eyes on Dr. T.J. Eckelburg’s sign, so I took a picture of it, thinking Rand would love  it. And he did. Because he is a literary dork, and I will indulge that for as long as I live.

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Heads by Sophie Cave:

This installation made my jaw drop. If you consider that Scotland’s population is just over 5 million, it’s really humbling that they’ve got so many talented artists. I assume it’s all made possible through generous grants from wealthy benefactors.

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Motherless:

This title refers to the heartbreaking sculpture by Scottish artist George Lawson, of a widower holding his young daughter. It does not refer to the reason why the girl in the background was able to leave her house in the freezing cold with her stomach exposed. Although I suspect if her mother knew, she’d be pretty darn upset.

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Entire exhibitions dedicated to The Highlander:

I think that Mario van Peebles wore the coat on the left.

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I'm pretty sure the painting at right is of Sean Connery.

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I just realized the plot of that movie is really dumb. Yeah. JUST realized it.

At least, that’s what I think they were about. There was lots of tartan and weapons and stuff. And I think there were portraits of Sean Connery. I might be misremembering a few things, but I doubt it. Also, I now have that song by Queen stuck in my head.

There’s loads more to see in the Kelvingrove Art Musuem than what I’ve covered here. Some amazing paintings by The Glasgow Boys (I didn’t take any pictures of these paintings, because that’s just not something I’m willing to do), and countless other artifacts and sculptures.

After spending a good chunk of time roaming around the museum, and not wanting to venture into their cafeteria (which was overrun by tiny Scottish children, all of whom sound like Sean Connery after he’s huffed some helium. One even tried to shoot at me, pretending his hand was a gun. The little shit.), I left in search of food.

I walked over to the next tour bus stop, and found a restaurant just adjacent: Konaki Greek Taverna. They had a few notes in the window, stating that they had been voted Glasgow’s best something or other, so I decided to stop in. The food was solid and inexpensive. Whenever I want comfort food in a foreign city, I notice I tend to go for Greek: it’s warm and familiar, and hummus is always hummus, no matter where you are in the world (usually).

I ended up getting the two course lunch special for 8 pounds. I got the hummus starter (of course) and a lamb souvlaki with rice and salad as an entree. It wasn’t mind-blowing or fantastic, but it was good, and came out to my table quickly, and the restaurant itself was clean and uncrowded. Really, it was all I could have asked for.

The pita bread served along side it had a slightly charred (but not unpleasant taste), a result, I think of being cooked on a grill.

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The meat was nicely spiced, and I'm glad I spent the extra pound to get lamb instead of beef or chicken.

There’s a few other restaurants and coffee shops in the area. I didn’t have time to pop into any of them, but I suspect that a lot of them might be decent. Despite being so close to the museum, the area didn’t strike me as terribly touristy. It’s definitely worth a visit (especially if you choose the convenience of the Glasgow bus tour to get you there). Just be prepared to spend a few hours roaming around, and, if you have time, it might help to know something of Scottish culture outside of what you’ve gathered from Fat Bastard and Scrooge McDuck.

But that’s clearly optional.

This week’s lesson? If you’re catching a sightseeing bus tour in Scotland, you have to act like you want. I mean, really, really want it. Make a banner saying, “PLEASE STOP!” or “NAUGHTY CATHOLIC GIRL TRYING TO UPSET HER PARENTS” or “FREE WHISKEY” or something to that effect. Show some leg, and possibly some other body part. Jump up and down like a moron. Anything to get the driver to stop.

Otherwise, that tour bus will pass you right by.

We were staying at the Hilton Glasgow, and a local (a dear follower of my husband’s blog, who we had never met before but offered to pick us up from the airport and take us to dinner) suggested that I take the Glasgow City Sightseeing bus tour around the city. He explained that it was only 10 pounds or so to ride it, that it took you all around town to 20-odd stops, and that you could hop on and off at any of the stops at your leisure. The buses came every 30 minutes, so you had as much time as you wanted to explore the city. The stops were at major landmarks, museums, and shopping districts, so really, the whole idea is brilliant.

… in theory.

One of the stops was conveniently located not too far from my hotel, and since it was set to come at a littler after 10am, I decided to leave a bit early. I got to the stop at about 9:4oish am, and waited patiently in the cool morning air. There was nothing really around me – no coffee shops, no place to sit down. The hotel was a good 15 minute walk back.

After about 10 minutes of waiting, I saw one of the red tour buses approaching. Funny, as it was (according to the schedule) about 20 minutes early. I stood up, walked to the curb, and then watched as it zoomed past me. The driver didn’t slow down or glance in my direction, and didn’t even move into the curbside lane. It was this last bit that convinced me he wasn’t the bus I was looking for. After all, the schedule said the bus stopped at all designated stops, and this guy wasn’t even in the right lane.

So I waited. And I waited. And soon, the scheduled time for the bus to arrive came and went and I realized: the bus that had arrived 20 minutes early and had no intention of stopping? That was my bus.

The fucker.

So I stood in the cold, contemplating what to do. Since the buses weren’t at regular intervals, it seemed a bad time to go anywhere: I couldn’t be sure when the next one would arrive, or if it would even stop. But I decided to wait. And that freezing cold half hour that I sat there was filled with self-doubt and worry.

Was I wasting my time? Why hadn’t he stopped? Had I done something wrong? If I had a child, would they be cold or angry or fed-up by now? Was a bad mother before even having children?

These were the thoughts that preoccupied me until the next bus finally approached, 10 minutes after the schedule said it should have arrived. This time, he was in the curbside lane, and I stood, waved  my ticket frantically, and looked ready to break into a sprint.

Apparently that last bit was a good instinct, because again, he drove right passed me.

And I ran after him like a woman possessed.

About a hundred feet past me he stopped, and I was able to finally – FINALLY – climb aboard. I stared at him, breathless and cold, my hands shaking.

“Sorry,” he said, looking bored. “You didn’t look like you wanted it.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I had stood, flapping my arms like a bird in heat, and I didn’t look like I wanted it?

Next time I’m making a banner.

As for the bus tour itself, if you manage to actually hop on the damn thing, I highly recommend it. It’s only 10 pounds to get on (and I happened to have a coupon for 1 pound off) but make sure you have cash and that you hang on to your ticket. And despite the two crazy drivers that I managed to find, all the other bus drivers seemed to make their designated stops, and on time to boot. Plus, it’s an amazing way to see the city, and you can choose to listen to audio giving you information about all the places at which you’ll stop.

View from the top tier of the bus, looking forward.

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The top rear of the bus is uncovered, which would be rotten on a crappy day, but happened to be lovely when I went.

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This is the Kelvingrove Museum, which is amazing - more on that tomorrow.

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I only hopped off the bus twice – at the Kelvingrove Museum, and once at the University of Glasgow (more about those in later post). Though I’m sure there were lots of other places worth seeing, I highly recommend those two stops. Frankly, I was too exhausted to do much else, so when I hopped back on the bus for the third and final time, I decided to just stay there until the tour ended.

And I might have fallen asleep, opening my eyes now and then to take a  few crooked, out-of-context photos. Consequently, I have no idea what this building is:

But it's pretty, right?

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Though I might have misunderstood (I was asleep, remember?) I think that the following photos are of Glasgow Green where, apparently, residents of Glasgow have the right to hang their laundry to dry and let their sheep graze. Though no one seems to do either. There are even poles onto which you can string your clotheslines. While there’s a good chance your clothing will get stolen, it’s definitely something I want to try someday (with, you know, oversized novelty underwear). And apparently I’m not the only one.

Not pictured: laundry, sheep.

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I should apologize for the quality of these photos, but I'm just impressed that I woke up long enough to take them.

If you ride the bus straight out (without hopping off) it takes about 75 minutes to see all the stops. Like I said, I stopped twice, and walked around a bit, got lunch, and took some photos, so it turned into a rather exhausting 5+ hour excursion, but was still entirely worth it.  Just make sure that, in the event you have to run after the bus screaming like a lunatic, you have your running shoes on. Just in case.