June 22^nd, 2016

STRANGE SHORE: Edinburgh, Scotland.

SUNDRY LAND: United Kingdom

WANDERING WAY: TIMBERYARD

Even before arriving in Edinburgh, I secured a table at TIMBERYARD [the caps are theirs, not mine] for the first evening of my trip. Why would I risk the ill effects of jetlag at a fancy-schmancy restaurant? Why? Simply because TIMBERYARD was completely booked up for every other evening of my stay, and it looked like one of the only restaurants to accommodate my multifarious and peculiar eating restrictions. Consequently, sampling its wares on my first night was a priority. 

For those not in the know, my eating restrictions are as follows:

NO meat (other than fish)

NO heavy dairy (such as cheese, creams, and yogurts)

NO chocolate

NO peanut butter

NO ice cream

YES to all kinds of fish, including shellfish

YES to eggs and small amounts of butter

YES to milk, if used sparingly.

It’s a health thing, not a moral thing. I’d explain, but the details are unsavory. All you need to know is that there was a surgery involved last year, and I’m not risking a relapse of my ailment, no way, no how. Therefore, finding pleasant places to dine has become a rather fraught challenge – a challenge that I’m more than willing meet in the dining wilds of the UK.

Let me set the scene: TIMBERYARD is located in a breathtaking space that looks for all the world like the lair of a supervillain who grew overly infatuated with the West Elm catalogue. Sculptures of oversized pigeons perched around the cavernous space, as if the little darlings had launched off in New York and migrated all the way to Scotland by way of Easter Island. These over-sized stone pigeons were joined by taxidermied owls and a plethora of old stumps, doubtlessly mass-produced at a more industrial point of history by the titular TIMBERYARD in question. I would’ve taken pictures, but TIMBERYARD is the sort of place where one expects the wait staff to tackle the tyro foolish enough to introduce a flashbulb into its austere atmosphere. Of course, as in any fancy-schmancy restaurant, the wait staff were uniformly good-looking…so I might try some amateur flash photography another time.

Long before my first amuse-bouche arrived, a medley of mushrooms splayed over a pile of birdseed (how appropriate), it was clear that I had been cast in the role of resident supervillain. Enthroned at the end of the long, long corridor, surrounded by spindly tapered candles, and seated with a panoramic view of the patrons (and other examples of local taxidermy), I found myself resisting a persistent impulse to steeple my fingertips and cackle, “MWAH, HA, HA! What fools these mortals be!” Like any single woman, I am used to being thrust in the back of dining establishments – occasionally, I’ll be mistaken for a food critic (and receive the most golden treatment available), but otherwise, it’s to the far, far back with me. It has been my observation that syrupy couples get seated in the front next to the windows. The presumption, I suppose, is that bystanders may walk by the restaurant and think, “Oh, look at those happy couples. If I go into that place to eat, I may fall in love, too,” instead of “Oh, look at that woman alone. How sad. That place must attract single people, the bane of our otherwise blissed-out and functional society.”

Don’t worry: there are considerable up-sides to being a supervillain!

Firstly, it’s hugely satisfying to give a hearty, “MWAH, HA HA!” Cathartic, as well. Try it right now, and I promise that you’ll instantly feel much better about whatever happens to be bothering you today.

Secondly, it gives you ample opportunities to mess with the wait staff – a singular delight of dining at fancy-schmancy restaurants, where, no matter what, the waiters are required to be polite AND where the serving sizes are so small that a disgruntled waiter’s sputum would be instantly detected in the froth or foam.

On this occasion at TIMBERYARD, I found myself rather thirsty, having just endured a transatlantic flight, and every time I drained my water glass, one of my FIVE waiters would have to tromp to the far end of the corridor to blithely fill my glass with filtered goodness. There are few sounds more satisfying that the echoing plods of your waiter as he forces himself down the candlelit cavern (and converted warehouse) yet again.

Moreover, I had lots of fun asking detailed questions about the menu’s inane dishes. For example, when the waiter explained that I’d be eating a “Hen’s Egg” that had been dappled by black truffles and hazelnuts, I asked him if there were any other kind of egg than a “Hen’s Egg”. After all, if the Scots had figured out how to make roosters (or in the local parlance, “cocks”) lay eggs, this discovery would surely be noteworthy. After making my inquiry about the egg’s origins, I smiled at him sweetly, and he looked down at me with a look of frustrated hatred. Now, this waiter mightn’t have been the sharpest bulb in the shed (so to speak) because he had two obvious choices:

1. Lie, explaining that the egg was the slain offspring of a local peahen or guinea hen named Mildred.

2. Fetch the chef (or manager) to lie, explaining that “Hens” are actually an endangered specious of proto-platypus unique to the lowlands of Scotland.

Instead, this waiter gave the lame answer that TIMBERYARD employs multiple fowl, including guineas, to lay eggs. However, after further questioning, he couldn’t account for which species had lain my first course. I’m not quite sure why he couldn’t or wouldn’t fess up to the egg being the spawn of a local chicken (hen), but it was quite beyond him. Nevertheless, as the evening’s supervillain, you may be sure that I had quite the good time during the cross-examination.

But, as in any James Bond movie, the supervillain must be vanquished, and you may be assured that the last laugh was on me. Although I left TIMBERYARD hungry, the meal consisted of six discrete courses, which were spaced out over the two hours and forty-five minutes. I waited and waited and waited. TIMBERYARD couldn’t hold a candle to the longest meal of my life, an arduous four-and-a-half-hour slog at a hellhole called THE HERB FARM, but there was still a moment when I thought that I might faint from hypoglycemic meltdown before entrée ever arrived.

So what did I do? There I was, a jetlagged and testy supervillainess starving to death in one of the finest dining establishments in Edinburgh. The situation was dire. And yes, I called on the reserves, which meant rifling through my Kindle app and calling up the very last book in the Jackson Brodie series (“Started Early, Took My Dog”) by Kate Atkinson. Although this detective novel was published in 2010, I’d been saving it for an emergency. TIMBERYARD provided the alarming case of boredom that I’d been fearing for at least six years.

My desperation was plain. How could I? How could I start the last book in the series when I’m afraid there won’t be another? Ever since Ms. Atkinson found a loftier form of “Literary” (with a capital “L”) fame with the publication of “Life After Life” in 2013, she abandoned Jackson Brodie. To make it worse, “Life After Life” is the kind of book that someone suggests with a knowing smirk, as if to telegraph the message, “My book club is better than your book club.”  

I am my own book club, and I deem it a mini-tragedy. What a gloomy day it must have been when Kate Atkinson endured the apotheosis to the prim halls of Literary establishment. What will I do if she never deigns to descend to the depths of “genre” writing to revive Jackson Brodie? I just don’t know.

I fired up my Kindle and happily read while the other diners made awkward conversation as they, in turn, starved to death. In this fourth and last book (sigh), a happy coincidence occurred: Jackson Brodie (aged 50) drives through England, visiting ancient cathedrals as he ponders the existential crisis of middle-age, sick of his career and bored by his past, and I myself (aged 35) am travelling through the UK “midway upon the journey of our life” (Dante), wondering at career and relationship prospects while reviewing past choices. Might the fictional Brodie and I crisscross paths if I weren’t consigned to the plane of existence that so many call “Reality”? Doubtlessly, though I do doubt the heroic Brodie would be caught dead in TIMBERYARD.

June 22^nd, 2016, cont.

STRANGE SHORE: Edinburgh, Scotland.

SUNDRY LAND: United Kingdom

WANDERING WAY: Scottish Taxi Adventure

In short, my soul fled my body at TIMBERYARD. When a sympathetic waitress stopped long enough to notice the wraith floating in the faraway back-corner, it might’ve been my pallor, but then again, it might’ve been the way my head threatened to dip and fall straight into the after-dinner petit four that called for action. In any case, she took pity: “Would you like me to call you a taxi?” The enthusiasm of my answer might be judged by the speed with which she sprinted to the nearest phone.

In jetlag, slight misjudgments and mistakes that you wouldn’t make in any other frame of mind befall with ill-timed regularity, and it’s always the little things that matter. With that bare fact in mind, wouldn’t you forgive a jetlagged woman for the error of misremembering a street called Waverley Park as Waverley Place? Particularly if she corrected herself long before she ever set foot in your car, nearly begging to be driven home? Of course you would, but that is because you are not a Scottish taxi driver.

Sharon Fulton (me), stepping into the cab: “Actually, it’s Waverley Park. Sorry about that.”

Disgruntled Taxi Driver, not opening the door: “Waverley Park?”

SF: “Yes, sorry about that. Park, not Place. It’s 19 Waverley Park.”

DTD: “Waverley Park is not the same as Waverley Place.”

SF: “Is there any trouble going to Waverley Park instead?”

DTD: “No, but they’re not the same.”

SF: “Yes, I know that now. Thank you.”

DTD: “Waverley Park is different from Waverley Place.”

SF: “Yes, well, I’d like Waverley Park.”

DTD: “What number?”

SF: “19,” keeping her voice steady, “It’s 19 Waverley Park. It’s right behind Holyrood.”

DTD: “Yes, I know where Waverley Park is,” annoyed by the clarification.

SF: “Good, that’s where I’d like to go. Thank you.”

DTD: --Silence--

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “GET OUT OF THE CAB! WALK HOME! This disgruntled Scottish bastard is obviously going to give you a hard time all the way to 19 Waverley Park. Run, Sharon, Run!”

Ah ha! Good idea! And yes, I’d normally agree. Walking home would obviously be the sensible thing to do, but you’ve forgotten about the jetlag. There was no version of my walking and not ending up somewhere in the Outer Hebrides. Plus, not only am I a hopeful traveler, but I am also an experienced traveler.

Since the year 2000, I have endured far too many passive aggressive conversations with British taxi drivers, who universally hate Americans (whom they usually refer to as “Yanks”) and women (who doubtlessly remind them of decades of rejection). For a paying passenger to be an American Woman, therefore, is tantamount to George W. Bush or Donald Trump sprouting boobs and plopping down with the express purpose of issuing orders and belittling everything held dear: Queen, Country, Manhood, Arsenal.

Mightn’t it be best if the disgruntled taxi driver didn’t discover that you’re American? Obviously, but the moment you open your mouth to say something innocuous like “Waverley Park”, there’s already blood in the water. No matter how many Canadians fly abroad and hail taxi cabs, the average British taxi driver hates Americans so much that any sound even vaguely reminiscent of an American accent will result in an aggressive diatribe about the evil empire across the pond. (I must ask some Canadian Woman how she deals – might she carry maple leaves or hockey sticks as proof?) Hence, the very moment an American Woman dares to articulate a British street address, a passive-aggressive war of wills begins.

Who will win? The Disgruntled Taxi Driver, of course. You’re on his turf, and he has the ability to drive the most circuitous route imaginable to an address only one street away, and then he might leave you at the wrong location anyway. You let the Disgruntled Taxi Driver win, and you never ever provoke him. Even if he suggests that American Women kill babies, serve Satan, and impale puppies, you let the disgruntled taxi driver win. Also, keep smiling.

But here’s the thing – this time, for the first time: I won! I did! I totally kung-fu’d the ass of that passive-aggressive Scottish ninja, and I didn’t even lose the high ground. I am the passive-aggressive heavyweight champ of the universe! And now, finally, all hush and quiet for Sharon Fulton v. Disgruntled Taxi Driver:

DTD, out of nowhere: “Americans shouldn’t stick their noses in our business.”

SF: “Hmmm?”

DTD: “Your president has his opinions, doesn’t he?”

SF: “Yes, he has those.”

DTD: “Getting on telly, and saying we shouldn’t vote for BREXIT?”

SF, pretending she hasn’t heard of anyone named the President of the United States or anything called BREXIT: “Hmmm?”

DTD: “What right does he have? Right nerve.”

SF, still not committing to the idea she has ever watched the news: “Huh.”

DTD, realizing he hasn’t hit a nerve and changing tacts: “I’m still not sure which way I’m voting.”

SF, still playing dumb, “Hmmm?”

DTD, hoping to shock: “Was going to vote for BREXIT…but then I heard something on the radio.”

SF: “Hmmm?”

DTD: “We haven’t had a war in Europe since the 40s”

SF: “Yes.”

DTD: “So maybe the European Union is working.”

SF, in a positive tone: “Mmmm,” but not committing to an opinion since he’s already stated Americans shouldn’t have ones.

DTD: But those immigrants steal jobs. Immigration is a real problem here.

SF: Non-committal silence, not daring to put her hat in that particular ring.

DTD, after a while: “I’ve never been to the States.”

SF: “Oh?”

DTD: “But I’d really like to go to Australia.”

SF, jumping on this more positive conversational shift: “Oh, I went to Australia in December. Australians are so friendly.” (Totally true, by the way.)

DTD, looking up to make sure that SF isn’t casting an aspersion on the relative (un)friendliness of the Scots and disappointed by SF’s bland expression before continuing: “A lot of Scots migrated to Australia. That’s why I want to go.”

SF, in the coup de grâce: “Oh, I’m a MacLennan. Four generations ago, my family’s land was stolen from them in the Highlands, near the Isle of Skye. So my family was forced to emigrate from Scotland. Actually, there are some MacLennans in New Zealand, but my part of the family was forced to immigrate to Prince Edward Island. They eventually ended up in Boston though.”

DTD, totally abashed: “Oh, I didn’t realize you were,” pausing before ending lamely, “Where’s Boston?”

SF: “North of New York City.”

Sharon Fulton: 1

Disgruntled Taxi Driver: 0

I hereby would like to thank my mother and Uncle Rick for relaying this ancestral information so vociferously at family dinners – it provided the perfect ammunition for silencing a particularly xenophobic genus of Disgruntled Taxi Driver, which is a very proud achievement for which I never dared to hope.

June 24^th, 2016

STRANGE SHORE: Edinburgh, Scotland.

SUNDRY LAND: United Kingdom

WANDERING WAY: BREXIT Hangover and The Writers’ Museum

In skipping over the events of June 23^rd, I’m leaving out a detailed description of a delightful dinner at “The Garderner’s Cottage,” which should render all sorts of (accurate) visions of delicate buds and hearty sous chefs. Except for one important detail, it was an entirely satisfactory experience – I even had a nice chat with another American couple (Sarah and Chad) who were braving the ire of the Scottish taxi drivers to honeymoon away from their boring(!?) abode in Fresno, California. All I can say, it must be tough out there in Fresno.

“So what’s the important detail?” you’re wondering. It’s really two details – two words:

WINE PAIRING.

If you’re ever sitting down to an eight-course meal in Scotland and thinking to yourself, “Hey, how nice, maybe I’ll get the WINE PAIRING to go with my meal,” think again.

Now, yes, I know. It should’ve been obvious. Choosing the WINE PAIRING was really my fault, but what a deal! Four glasses of wine for the price of two, and how could I know that the Scots would be such generous pourers? (I should’ve guessed.) Moreover, how could I have known that a sparkling wine, Nyetimber Classic Cuvée 2010, from the West Sussex (for heaven’s sake) or a syrah named “Consolation Wild Boar 2014” would warrant extensive appreciation? I couldn’t have. I didn’t even know that they made sparkling wine in the Southern England. It’s a reality far beyond the farthest reaches of my imagination.

Fast forward past the moment when a little buzz descended after the second glass of wine, and let’s pass over all the enthusiastic texts I sent to friends back in the US about traveling in Europe, setting up a blog, and yes, even missing home (only the tiniest bit though). Let’s even pass over the pleasant taxi ride home with a driver who preferred to keep his existential ennui to himself. That night, I went to bed feeling at heartfelt peace with the world, alight with the high expectation that this floaty, happy high would last forever.

Then, at 11:23am (oh yes, I was sleeping in), the first text arrived: “WHOA THE BREXIT!” Popping my aching head out from under the sheets for the barest moment, I wondered what it could mean. The UK couldn’t have voted to leave the European Union. No, of course not. I went back to sleep.

By the time that I was resolving to never to use the words WINE or PAIR again – not even in sentences like, “Do you like my new PAIR of bunny slippers?” or “Do you bottle WINE in Fresno?” – the cold truth came to light. Yes, the United Kingdom, or more accurately the dunderheads living in regions of the United Kingdom located outside of London, Scotland, and Northern Ireland, had actually voted to leave the European Union. As I pictured those same winemakers down in West Sussex voting for economic suicide, I wondered if I had just sampled the very last good bottle Nyetimber Classic Cuvée ever to be produced.

Eventually, I managed to shower, dress my shuddering body, and walk out into a disorienting day. What was the word on the street? How did the average resident of Edinburgh (who apparently hates being called an Edinburgher) react? What did the shell-shocked population have to say? Everyone I passed was exploding with some variation of “What the fuck?” (My apologies to readers with sensitive sensibilities allergic to the word “fuck”, but occasionally, no other word will do.)

“WTF just happened?”

“WTF did David Cameron do?”

“WTF were they thinking?”

“WhenTF are we declaring independence?”

As for me, I held on quite tightly to my American passport, realizing how much more valuable it had become overnight; otherwise, I had little energy to do anything but wander. Where did I wander? Into two of the most charming museums: The Writers’ Museum and The Scottish National Gallery. By my reckoning, when a democracy decides to self-immolate, it’s best to take time and appreciate cultural institutions before the government gets around to cutting funding for the arts.

At The Writers’ Museum, I was so touched by this installation in honor of Robert Louis Stevenson that I nearly named this blog, “The Hopeful Traveler”:

Unfortunately, as a great writer, Stevenson’s inspired countless others, and there are already a few travel blogs called, “The Hopeful Traveler”. “Wither Wander” and “Nimble Spirit” are also popular choices. What’s a travel blogger to do? Turn to Chaucer, obviously.

Now, I understand that everyone is waiting with bated breath to devour my account of visiting the “Inspiring Impression: Daubigny, Monet, Van Gogh” exhibit at The Scottish National Gallery, but I’m afraid it must wait. I sampled two more art exhibitions today (June 25^th, 2016), and I’m all tuckered out. Tomorrow will be all art, all the time. As usual, I’m running about a day late, even with my very own travel blog. And so it goes.