600 Miles to the Garage

Urgh. Was it really only this morning that we left Raasay? We were the only car on that little ferry, although there were passengers on foot. It was raining, of course. We went to the town of Portree and found the shop that a young guy at Caroline's shop had told Deb about, where we could find a rolling duffel bag. Which is apparently called a "sports bag with wheels" here. Who knew?

Got the appropriate item, which was a huge relief. No way could I cram all of my crap into one single carry-on w/o a bigger suitcase. All is well.

Then went to a little cafe for coffee and something bread-y, a toasted tea cake. Mmmm.

We stopped at Skye Jewellery to shop for a commemorative bauble. I found a nice silver ring in a Celtic pattern associated w/Raasay, which fit my naked thumb perfectly. So, with the pinky thistle I bought in Edinburgh, all fingers are filled up. Anyway, the ring was expensive, but I am happy, b/c whenever I look at it I'll remember Roger and Caroline and their friendly, pretty island.

Deb of course dawdled quite a while, poring over which rings to buy. We had to jam, so I finally dragged her out of there. We decided to again take the bridge b/c the weather was so bad -- a longer drive but less fraught with chances. The rain was fairly relentless at times, but we (I) managed. Yay for the trusty Vauxhall. By this time, driving on the two-lane highways was easy. Still, it was kind of amazing how places we'd passed just a few days before, with little trickles of water flowing innocently, were now overrun by torrential cascades:



We wended our way back past Loch Lomond and through the Trossachs, stopped for tea in Luss. As we neared Glasgow, the sky cleared to a gorgeous summery blue, brilliant sun, fluffy white clouds ... a nice change.

Getting to the rental dropoff was somewhat unnerving; my city driving was much less assured. Or at least I felt way less confident about doing it. We made it there in one piece, and really without too much trouble. But my nerves were pretty ripped by then. Still, I was very chuffed to see I'd driven almost 600 miles (598, I think). Deb was like, "You're my hero!" and we hugged and jumped around in a circle like Merry and Pippin.

Here is a portrait of our trusty steed, parked outside the Raasay Hotel:



Glasgow accents are hard to crack. You really have to listen and process at once. The boys at the rental place were nice, called a cab for us and chatted a bit. We arrived at the Arthouse Hotel around 6:30, checked in, and hauled our stuff (via old-fashioned elevator with the door and cage-like gate) up to the third floor. We're sharing a bed, but it's more a queen than a double. The hotel is another old building, but renovated and done up quite artily (hence the name) ... best of all, it was warm in the room. Like, hanging-out-in-your-underwear warm. Definitely a switch.

It was our last night together in Scotland, and I wanted to go out somewhere. Anywhere. We quizzed the desk girls and finally decided to go check out this dance club called the Garage -- which we were led to believe was of mixed age but was really a 20something joint. We ate Chinese food beforehand, then ambled over to wait in line with the kidz, all decked out in their finest Friday-night hip gear, much of it hilariously '80s-throwback. The door guy was rather dubious upon our approach, goodnaturedly admonishing us about seeing a bunch of 20-year-olds getting their drink on. "That's OK, we're just going to look around," I told him. "We won't touch," Deb promised with surprising cheek, and we hurried past. We went up the steps and paid our 5 pounds, stepped to the bar for a drink. It was smoky as all hell -- more from the smoke machines than the cigs, and it was fairly early yet. The place was a maze of rooms, not too crowded yet, but lively. We were of course the oldest people in there. I didn't mind; it was all highly amusing. The biggest room was shadowy and smoky, with young folks packed on the seats around the perimeter of the giant dance floor, vid screens flashing the club's logo and ads. A gallery above that seemed mostly populated by boys. We stood under a blacklight that made our GTs glow almost blue, and I laughed b/c the kids were getting down to the Bee Gees! "Stayin' Alive," I think. OMG, most (all?) of them weren't even born when this was a hit.

So we moved on through other rooms, finally climbing more stairs to "the Attic," a smaller space, way less populated, where the music was more pop and with a bit of a mod bent (hence, perhaps, the target in the Attic logo?). Not much action here till the DJ played someone's cover of the Beatles' "We Can Work It Out." Hah-fucking-HAH!! The kids may be alright but they are definitely retro. Funny, too, that the boys tended to congregate on one side of the room, girls on the other. More drink, I suppose, needed to be consumed before mixing. I think I'm glad I'm old.

Eh, so it got boring quickly. I was ready to split, much to Deb's relief. She was a good sport about going along, although mainly I think she didn't want me going out alone. (B/c, y'know, I don't know the first thing about taking care of myself.) The scene on the street by this time was quite boisterous, although still early enough not to be turning ugly. We went back to the room. I took a shower (crappiest water pressure yet) and packed. Not too long after we got back, we heard a godawful howling of rage and banging on something metal -- maybe a dumpster? Must've been one of those drunk 20-year-olds, imbibed to incoherency. This went on for quite a while before we heard sirens, then silence. Whatever.

This little slice of a weekend night in Glasgow made a weird contrast to Edinburgh. The restaurant and the club we went to were in an area a bit like the Third Street Promenade, in that the street was blocked off at a certain point to make a pedestrian mall. But businesses leave their trash bagged on the street, in front of the buildings, thus right in the middle of all who strolled through. Not exactly a pristine vibe. While we were in line at the Garage, just after 11, some girl was already puking on the sidewalk. The effect in total was kinda grungy and edgy, like a situation poised to turn menacing on a dime. Eh, it was probably just a typical youth scene. Still, we saw on the BBC news a few days ago this report about how violent Scotland could be. It was surprising, b/c it seemed very far from our experiences; even during our nighttime jaunts in Edinburgh we never felt any kind of looming threat. I didn't really feel afraid on the streets of Glasgow, but definitely more watchful. The TV image of several young men brawling in Glasgow suddenly didn't seem so far-fetched.

On the other hand, I wish I had more time to spend here. My impression seems quite incomplete. Maybe next time.

Tomorrow (later on this morning, actually) I take leave of my sister and fly to London alone. I am excited and kind of scared -- very glad I have Boss to make contact with. I wonder if it will be raining.