A Brontosaurus in Britain: Entry #20: Scotland at Last!

After a last few days in Devon that can only be described as turbulent, I have effectively waved goodbye to everything I knew in the UK and journeyed up the island. Writing to you from Glasgow!

Since I've known my plans for a few weeks now, you might think I'd be prepared for this move. You might think I'd be ready.

But if you know me, you know better. As far as organization goes, I'm afraid I could not be any worse.

If you're me, you wake up early because you haven't packed a single thing. After looking around the room at all there needs to be done, you promptly return to bed for another hour in despair.

If you're me, you want to bring all 16 books you have acquired over the summer, but have limited space and muscular power. You must donate at least 11.

If you're me, you finally half-heartedly begin to pack all your worldly possessions, hoping that your broken suitcase might last a final trip (the seam beneath the zipper has unraveled halfway around the perimeter, leaving a gaping mouth even when the suitcase is zipped up).

If you're me, you have no choice but to arrive at the inescapable conclusion that it will not.

If you're me, you run around Sidmouth on a brief goodbye tour and steel yourself to Not Under Any Circumstance Cry.

(But If you're me, you cry anyway. Just a bit).

Then, If you're me, you have thirty minutes to purchase a new-old suitcase, re-pack all of your belongings, and catch the coach out of town. Success!

Finally, at 4PM, I arrived in Bristol, lugging my new-old suitcase that had already broken (the long plastic handle simply pulled out of the suitcase, leaving two holes in the top and forcing me to drag it by the short cloth handle). I wanted badly to visit Bristol, but was impeded by this new-old monstrosity. There was nowhere for me to store it,and I couldn't drag it many distances. It's heavier than me, folks.

I had breakfast (long, long overdue) at a place called the Blue Pig Cafe. The man behind the counter was a Russian pastor, who took a liking to me, gave me a free sandwich, discussed the difficulties of construing a polyglot service, and blessed me on my journey.

I had a six-hour stopover,so I sat by a fountain of Neptune (Poseidon, not the planet) and cracked open my book, The God of Small Things. I had been reading for about five minutes when I glanced across the plaza and saw someone else reading the same book.

It's not that much of a coincidence- it did win the Booker Prize in 97- but still. That was almost 20 years ago. If you're me, you want to go rejoice over this coincidence.

And thus I had very pleasant company until my megabus arrived, playing ukulele and reciting lines from Bright Eyes monologues (I thought I was alone, guys).

I took a bus with beds! Bunk beds! Sort of like the Knight Bus, except without the disembodied head. It was cold, and not particularly comfortable, but I didn't mind because I was excited.

The next morning we pulled into overcast Glasgow, where my host kindly picked up my zombified self from the station and led me back to her flat. She has a kitty and a spacious, colourful apartment- such a stark contrast to my gloomy digs in Sidmouth! I am well.

Yesterday I decided to go to Pollok Park. It was 6K away, but I don't have a bus card yet, so I walked. The weather was beautiful. The leaves are crunchy and there are still blackberries in the bushes. There was an art museum (contaning Zola and even a Cezanne) amidst fields of Highland Cattle. Who came up with this idea? I like it.