Before we embark on our trip to Scotland, I check the weather there. I see clouds and a few drops, temperatures in the 50's. Hmmm, I'm thinking, I might just be spending my vacation in a colder place than the one I am in right now, Germany.
As we hop on the U-Bahn and later the S-Bahn to Rhein-Main International Airport in Frankfurt, the passengers are wondering why this guy is wearing a leather jacket on this perfectly warm day. I take the jacket off at the Hauptwache, stuff it in my backpack. There's no room for the jacket in the suitcase anymore; I made a decision, and I will have to live with it. It's the right decision, too, as time will confirm.
The Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt to Glasgow is a little more than one and a half hours, but that's Europe for you. Any destination is quickly within reach, especially from a major hub like Frankfurt. I read a book, have hardly completed ten pages when I look up and see the coastline beneath me. That would be The North Sea. We're already halfway there. Europe, man.
It's another few pages before the captain announces that we're starting to land, while the flight attendants hand out the entry forms we need to fill out. I look over the landscape and then the buildings as we approach. There's Glasgow. Right, there you go, people drive on the left side. This doesn't scare me, being that we have lived in two countries where this has been the case, among them Tanzania, where you not only had to drive on the opposite side, but with a bona fide obstacle course ahead of you with potholes and floodings and people who have just had their driver's licenses donated to them by their next of kin with no qualifications needed.
At the airport itself, I am greeted by a billboard featuring an army of Scotch bottles. Lovely, I'm thinking, what a way to make me feel at home. The immigration official who gathers our forms takes one look at Bash and asks him, "Ur yi hees fir rity ritty rit?" I am not kidding. Replace what I just wrote with Chinese signs, Sanskrit, or the Swedish cook from the Muppet Show, and you'll get the idea. In short, I have no clue what the man just said. People allegedly speak English here, but it might just be the Glaswegian (referring to Glasgow) twang I can't pick up. I didn't expect a Sir Walter Scott clone, but I was confident I understood the Scottish version of English until now.
Next, we're off to the rental car company. Right then and there, we realize we made a mistake with this company. Not only have we never heard of it before, but the insurance we purchased online is invalid, as is our entire reservation. Okay, then. What else can you guys (not) do for the customer?
But wait! There's less! So the contract states that the car is to be returned virtually on an empty tank. So that's how these people make money, we're thinking. Of course, Mr. Tourist returns the car with a quarter or half tank, and the company pockets (or more likely siphons off) the difference. Liebi and I decide these thugs will not get one drop of gasoline from us. If there is still any fuel left in the tank when we get back, we'll do donuts in the parking lot before handing the vehicle back with any fuel left.
We get a French car, a Citroen, with a stick shift. Love it. I like the handling of a vehicle with a stick shift, you don't have to abuse the brakes as much. So our first trip in Scotland...is to get some fuel first (thanks to the rental car company), see above. We get some gas, and then we're off for good...into a traffic jam for miles on the motorway leaving Glasgow. Great way to break in the stick shift. Welcome to Scotland, worldchump.
As we hop on the U-Bahn and later the S-Bahn to Rhein-Main International Airport in Frankfurt, the passengers are wondering why this guy is wearing a leather jacket on this perfectly warm day. I take the jacket off at the Hauptwache, stuff it in my backpack. There's no room for the jacket in the suitcase anymore; I made a decision, and I will have to live with it. It's the right decision, too, as time will confirm.
The Lufthansa flight from Frankfurt to Glasgow is a little more than one and a half hours, but that's Europe for you. Any destination is quickly within reach, especially from a major hub like Frankfurt. I read a book, have hardly completed ten pages when I look up and see the coastline beneath me. That would be The North Sea. We're already halfway there. Europe, man.
It's another few pages before the captain announces that we're starting to land, while the flight attendants hand out the entry forms we need to fill out. I look over the landscape and then the buildings as we approach. There's Glasgow. Right, there you go, people drive on the left side. This doesn't scare me, being that we have lived in two countries where this has been the case, among them Tanzania, where you not only had to drive on the opposite side, but with a bona fide obstacle course ahead of you with potholes and floodings and people who have just had their driver's licenses donated to them by their next of kin with no qualifications needed.
At the airport itself, I am greeted by a billboard featuring an army of Scotch bottles. Lovely, I'm thinking, what a way to make me feel at home. The immigration official who gathers our forms takes one look at Bash and asks him, "Ur yi hees fir rity ritty rit?" I am not kidding. Replace what I just wrote with Chinese signs, Sanskrit, or the Swedish cook from the Muppet Show, and you'll get the idea. In short, I have no clue what the man just said. People allegedly speak English here, but it might just be the Glaswegian (referring to Glasgow) twang I can't pick up. I didn't expect a Sir Walter Scott clone, but I was confident I understood the Scottish version of English until now.
Next, we're off to the rental car company. Right then and there, we realize we made a mistake with this company. Not only have we never heard of it before, but the insurance we purchased online is invalid, as is our entire reservation. Okay, then. What else can you guys (not) do for the customer?
But wait! There's less! So the contract states that the car is to be returned virtually on an empty tank. So that's how these people make money, we're thinking. Of course, Mr. Tourist returns the car with a quarter or half tank, and the company pockets (or more likely siphons off) the difference. Liebi and I decide these thugs will not get one drop of gasoline from us. If there is still any fuel left in the tank when we get back, we'll do donuts in the parking lot before handing the vehicle back with any fuel left.
We get a French car, a Citroen, with a stick shift. Love it. I like the handling of a vehicle with a stick shift, you don't have to abuse the brakes as much. So our first trip in Scotland...is to get some fuel first (thanks to the rental car company), see above. We get some gas, and then we're off for good...into a traffic jam for miles on the motorway leaving Glasgow. Great way to break in the stick shift. Welcome to Scotland, worldchump.
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