{"id":705,"date":"2018-07-22T18:27:00","date_gmt":"2018-07-22T18:27:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/travelbeing.com\/?p=705"},"modified":"2018-07-27T12:51:59","modified_gmt":"2018-07-27T12:51:59","slug":"a-summer-fling","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/travelbeing.com\/?p=705","title":{"rendered":"A Summer Fling"},"content":{"rendered":"

In America, the Fourth of July is days away. In Scotland, Edinburgh is located on the Firth of Forth. There’s my connection, I go Forth.<\/p>\n

Edinburgh’s main railway station, Waverley (only one in the world to be named after a novel; quotes by the author, Sir Walter Scott, are written across the floors, windows, and walkways),<\/p>\n

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Down in the valley, Waverley<\/p><\/div>\n

is located in a valley between Old and New Town. At the station tourist centre, I ask a young man for a hotel suggestion in the neighborhood closest to the venues of the upcoming Jazz and Blues Festival. Liam suggests Hotel du Vin, near the University. “Hotel of Wine? That’s it. Please show me on the map me how to get there.” The student exclaims, “Wow.That was fast; you’re a good decision-maker; most tourists stand here for an hour going back and forth…impressive.” On the mile or so walk to the hotel, I ruminate: This trip is about more than trusting in the Universe, it’s about believing in self, isn’t it?<\/p>\n

Katya escorts me to my room and I ask her if the building has a wine-related history. She answers with a kind of shameful pride, “This used to be a lunatic asylum.” She pauses waiting for a response so I said, “I’m comfortable with crazy.” She continues, “You know the poet Robert Fergusson? (Not yet.) He fell down a staircase here and suffered a severe head injury. They moved him to a ‘hospital’ where he died…buried in a pauper’s grave. After the asylum, this building was used for “scientific study” forming her fingers as quotation marks. “But it was during the war, and the public knew that behind these doors they were conducting ‘medical experiments’ on vagrants.” (A maintenance man later confirmed this story.) Interesting, and disturbing. Next visit Katya, please tell your guests about the discovery of a rare Rothschilds’ found in a subterranean wine cellar.<\/p>\n

Within walking distance from the hotel is The Jazz Bar, hosting three live acts nightly from 6:30 until 2:30 a.m.<\/p>\n

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The Jazz Bar<\/p><\/div>\n

Guitarist John Hunt is playing his song, “Haunt You”. On a break, I buy him a drink at the bar and ask about the lyrics. “My dad still haunts me mum. She says he’s still a pain in her arse.” I’ve had a wee bit o’ wine me’self and philosophise, “What about the reverse? What if…the living haunt the dead? What if by thinking about them all the time, we’re haunting them…not giving them any peace?” He looks befuddled. Or spooked. “Where are you from?” he asks.”Mars.”<\/p>\n

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The Royal Mile<\/p><\/div>\n

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Old Town<\/p><\/div>\n

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Central Library<\/p><\/div>\n

Exploring Old Town, me in the masses move continuously like bloodflow through the city’s ancient arteries. Timeworn landmarks seem to whisper narratives of their past. Just off the Royal Mile in Lady Stair’s Close (alleyway),<\/p>\n

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Lady’s Stair Close<\/p><\/div>\n

is the small but impressive Writer’s Museum, featuring three ‘giants of Scottish literature’ : Robert Burns (Auld Lang Syne, Tam O’ Shanter), Robert Louis Stevenson (Treasure Island, The strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde), and Sir Walter Scott (Ivanhoe, The Waverley Novels). And you know how I like connections…turns out our man Burns was inspired by aforementioned Robert Fergussons’ gaelic poetry and erected a headstone in his name. A century later, Stevenson had it restored. In the museum, I’m getting lost in their stories\u2026<\/p>\n

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Lost in a good book<\/p><\/div>\n

Robert Burns:<\/p>\n

“For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.”<\/p>\n

“But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or, like the snow fall on the river, A moment white – then melts forever.”<\/p>\n

“Nae, man can tether time nor tide.”<\/p>\n

Robert Louis Stevenson:<\/p>\n

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”<\/p>\n

“To be honest, to be kind – to earn a little and to spend a little less, to make, upon the whole, a family happier for his presence, to renounce when that shall be necessary and not be embittered, to keep a few friends, but these without capitulation – above all, on the same grim condition, to keep friends with himself – here is a task for all that a man has of fortitude and delicacy.”<\/p>\n

Sir Walter Scott:<\/p>\n

“To see foreign parts gives I think more the feelings of youth to those of an advanced age than anything they can engage in.”<\/p>\n

“Good humour can spread a certain inexpressible charm over the plainest human countenance.”<\/p>\n

“I have rarely if ever found anyone out of whom I could not extract amusement or edification.”<\/p>\n

“A glass of good wine is a gracious creature.”<\/p>\n

On my way to the Museum of Childhood, I witness quintessential Scotland — a kilted piper playing the bagpipes, its distinctive drone lilting through the air.
\nNostalgia tickles my toes; in our childhood, my grandfather promised that if my twin Kurt took lessons in the bagpipes and I in Highland dancing, he would take us to Scotland. We did, he didn’t.
\nIn those tender teen years, I would not have done what I ‘m about to do…it would have been “too embarrassing”.
\nI’ve outgrown embarrassment. It limits the adventure. I find it much more playful (and character building), to laugh at Ego or Self. ‘Once you laugh at something it ceases to have power over you’.<\/p>\n

I spy him across the street, a white-bearded piper playing on a corner in front of a old sandstone building.<\/p>\n

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Piper Robert Murphy<\/p><\/div>\n

He sounds wonderful, but no one is gathered round. I keep on walking. I pause. I turn around and cross the street to stand in front of him and listen. I drop some sterling into his open case. Then, something gets a hold of me\u2026
\nI place my hands on my hips, legs together, feet in first position, and bow. “Do you know the Highland Fling?” He nods and segues into the familiar melody of my youth. I can’t remember the first step, so I begin with the fourth. Then to second,\u00a0 third and back to\u00a0 fourth again. I’m laughing aloud, my travel vest laden and flopping about, and my bulky Doc Martens’ shoes hindering any attempt at pointed toes and grace. After about a minute, I stop. “I can’t remember anymore!” He stops playing and after a warm hug of gratitude, we hear a crowd applauding from across the street. “You’ve got yourself an audience,” he said with a warm smile.
\nI thought I had outgrown embarrassment. I scurry away like a skittish, Scottish “Bonny” rabbit.
\nI wish I would have bowed, in play and appreciation.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

“So I turned myself to face me…<\/p>\n

Changes, turn and face the strange”\u00a0 – David Bowie<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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