Travel Pathology

Time for another “Where’s Kaylin?” 

Today, due to a series of recommendations, the kindred spirit of a friend and the goodwill of others, I am sitting in a breakfast bar found within an incredibly rainy village off the coast of the North Sea listening to “Aint no sunshine” and overhearing a conversation by some locals about which Prosecco is best in the morning. 

The couple in the corner, speaking with distinctively thick Scottish accents, graciously share their breakfast with their muzzled dog. This place is a haven for dog lovers, and it’s the most dog-friendly region I’ve come across. Dogs accompany their owners everywhere here, whether it’s in taverns, bars, cafes, ice cream parlors, on the streets, or even on boats. Interestingly, there seem to be more dogs with their owners than children with their parents. What’s striking in my observations is that British dog owners exude a unique sense of sophistication compared to their American counterparts. The leashed canine here appears as a prestigious and stylish accessory, perfectly complementing the trench coat and umbrella. These friendly, joyful, and well-behaved dogs are truly living the good life in this humble fishing community.

“Hey Gary.” I hear as a large man bundled up in rain gear makes his way into the cafe and begins rubbing his boots onto the welcome mat. 

“Hey Sean!” A chorus of very thick Scottish accents call back from behind the counter. John, one of the two baristas working this morning, just brought me a double cappuccino and enough time has passed that another couple with a different breed of dog has now taken over the previous couples spot and are perusing the menu.

It was a quest for coffee that started this whole thing. Someday I will go to great lengths writing down all the reasons Edinburgh is a capital for coffee shop hoppers but today I need to focus on this week’s many events, so that will be a later post. 

This week, I had the pleasure of hosting my friend from travel nursing, Rhyan. Our initial meeting took place during an assignment in Seattle, and our connection was so natural that I spontaneously invited her to join me for a glass of wine after work. It was at that moment when I reached for my phone to share the bar’s address that I realized I didn’t even know her name yet.

Rhyan had just wrapped up her Octoberfest festivities in Germany and was planning to hop over to Edinburgh for a short visit before heading back to her home in Canada. We reunited at the Victoria St tram station the evening of October 4th. My lack of cellular data has made daily events that I used to take for granted far more romantic. We had established while I was in the bubble of wifi found on my campus that her tram would arrive at the station 6:37pm. I made some serious time as I ran through the rain down the mound, past the Victoria street gardens arriving at 6:32 with five minutes to spare. Five minutes of cushion, to where nothing could go wrong right?

After the fourth tram pulled away at 6:41, I became quite anxious. Did she think it was a different tram station? Did it come early and I missed it? Where could she have gone? Should I risk leaving my post to visit “Black Sheep Coffee” down the road in order to access wifi and maybe contact her?

The theme of this week: wait.

Sure enough, the very next tram slid into place and Rhyan, with her multicolored over stuffed backpack came into view! Naturally, given the time, the first thing we did was snag some haggis in a pub, then found ourselves trying Ceilidh dancing at a nearby bar. 

The next morning, I finally had the opportunity to take my friend to a coffee shop, as I probably will for any of the rest of you who come and visit me. 

We were hiking up towards the castle when we found the little Hideout Coffee off of Victoria street, hidden up the stairs. At this point I knew I wanted to spend the weekend out of town. I hadn’t left Edinburgh since arriving in September and I didn’t like how little I have seen of the country so far. But due to being rather buried in articles assigned at random by my research course, I had no time to find a suitable location to whisk Rhyan away to. 

So I ended up spontaneously asking the some gentlemen at the Hideout Cafe where we should go for the weekend.

Which led me here, Anstruther.

While we had the most splendid time enjoying fish and chips and drinking in the taverns, it was both arriving and leaving here where we found the most adventure. 

Everything went rather smoothly leaving Waverley station Friday afternoon. Rhyan worked through her word search while I read more fascinating articles about the ethics of research. “I love a good word search.” Rhyan confessed. 

Google maps had us ride the 40 mins to Kirkcaldy where we would wait for our first bus scheduled to take us straight to Anstruther. When we arrived at the bus stop there was another gentleman patiently waiting.

“We are right on time!” I celebrated with Rhyan as we marked our spots underneath the bus stop. But this time, in similar fashion of the tram, not a single bus was in view at the anticipated time, nor 10 minutes after. Naturally, coming from North American backgrounds, Rhyan and I began to question the reliability of this bus system. I pardoned myself and asked the gentleman waiting beside us, “Sorry to bother you, but are you waiting for X60?” The gentleman nodded to my question. “Is it usually this late?” Rhyan inquired further. Another nod. “How long do you usually have to wait for the bus?” I diverted from the yes/no questions. The man checked his watch, “Oh abote half an hour.” He responded. Half an hour?? Rhyan and I exchanged looks. Our North American bones produced slight twitches. A public transportation system that wasn’t on time? But we had no choice. Kirkcaldy, while also seeming quaint, was a bit dry of entertainment and I already booked lodging in Anstruther. Eventually a bus arrived at the stop, but it was not our X60. I stepped on anyways asking the driver about getting to Anstruther. 

“Oh this bus goes noe where near there.” He explained. I shared our predicament that we has been waiting for nearly half an hour for the X60. He recommended we walk to the bus station and get connected to a bus there. I figured he was right. The professional has spoken; if he wouldn’t wait for a bus here, why should we. I stepped off the bus to rejoin Rhyan who overheard the conversation as the bus doors closed behind me and we started walking towards the city center. In the corner of my eye, I spotted a couple seated in the bus frantically shaking their hands. Unsure they could hear us through the bus window I mouthed “wait here?” The couple nodded “yes”. I checked with Rhyan that she interpreted the same message. “For X60?” I double checked. The man checked his watch and put up his hands signaling to wait and pointed at the bus stop where we had stood as the bus began to pull away. 

“I believe them.” Rhyan stated. 

So, trusting the local couples, we set up camp once again beneath the bus stop. Each of us began to read and pretty soon, I felt rather comfortable with the lounge I crafted using my backpack on the stone wall. 

After a little more than half an hour of anticipation, and following a conversation I had with Rhyan about some alternative options for our day, a yellow bus with the unmistakable “X60” emblazoned on its forehead appeared around the bend. We performed a celebratory dance unashamed and paid our fares having our choice of places to sit in the nearly empty bus.

After a twisty, and for reasons I could never know, air-conditioned journey (I have no idea why, it was literally 40 degrees Fahrenheit) we arrived at our destination. A little fishing village, which happened to be my debut Scottish escapade outside the lively streets of Edinburgh. Our time there was nothing short of whimsical, as we reveled in sipping libations in snug taverns and forging delightful connections with the colorful cast of local characters who embraced us as the only tourists found in the town.

We booked a room in the “Royal Hotel”, the cheapest booking available for the night. “You are our only booking for the night.” The front lady explained to us as she walked us up to our room.

Rhyan and I share a strict bedtime of 10pm. Anytime past that, and we simply cannot be bothered to participate. Thank you for that, Rhyan. So after drinking plenty of red wine and enjoying a lovely dinner comprised of soup, tacos, and pasta, we were ready to escape the cold and enjoy an entire nine hours of sleep. In content silence we washed our faces and brushed our teeth. With the window slightly cracked to increase the contrast of a cozy bed and the dark night, we bid each other goodnight and turned off the lights. A heavy rain was beginning outside, punctuating the coziness of the night, and I couldn’t help but notice a resting smile on by face as I pulled the blankets over my shoulder. 

It was the tapping that grabbed my attention and refused to let me fully slip into REM.

At precise 15 to 20-second intervals, a sharp, rhythmic tapping sound punctuated the otherwise silent room. I struggled to discern its origin. What could Rhyan be doing on the other side of the bed? Was she busy with her nails? And why was it taking so long? The tapping persisted, and I found myself analyzing every aspect of those intermittent sounds for what felt like ten minutes. Finally, I raised my head, determined to locate the source of this annoying noise.

As it turned out, Rhyan was also awake and shifting on her side of the bed. “Do you hear that tapping?” I asked her.

“Yes… where is it coming from?” She pointed towards the end of the bed.

I was about to argue that it couldn’t be coming from that side of the room for various reasons when I felt a wetness at the base of the bed. I cautiously explored, and soon enough, a water droplet splashed onto my hand.

“I think it’s coming from the roof,” I said. We switched on the lights, revealing water droplets gathering above us, coalescing into a large enough mass to break free from the plastered ceiling and fall directly onto our bed.

In theory, it sounded like a problem I should have attempted to address – maybe by contacting the hostess or requesting a room change, but that would mean delaying my bedtime. The best I could come up with was to place a towel at the targeted point of the bed. Call me “Mr. Fix it”. Satisfied with my problem solving skills, I crawled back into bed. Rhyan made minimal efforts to address the situation, remaining in her sleeping position without signs of concern. At this point, it was far beyond our bedtime, close to 10:45 pm. Falling back asleep, I had an epiphany. “Wait….you felt something tap your foot in an old hotel and you simply continued to try and go back to sleep?” I asked Rhyan. She chuckled in response. “Ya I figured it was a cricket or something, so I just moved my foot and it went away.” I joined her in the laughter, “You were okay with crickets in our bed?!”

“I just wanna sleep, girl.”

“You could not be bothered.” I laughed. She’s right, we don’t care. If the leak is bad enough to wake us up in the middle of the night because the current has swept away our blankets and the water level has reached above our heads, then we will ask to switch rooms. Until then, it’s bed time. 

The next morning, Rhyan eventually joined me at the breakfast bar, and together we discussed our plan to catch the 12:47 bus to St. Andrews, from where we would then take a train back to Edinburgh. That would put us back in Edinburgh at the reasonable hour of 3 pm and we could have the whole afternoon to make pasta and watch a movie in my flat before a whole day of walking the city tomorrow. Before leaving the cafe we thought it would be a good idea to clarify with the local cafe owner what to expect from the bus system in this area. Apparently, buses are often late but they cannot leave any station “early”. If it is scheduled to leave at 12:47, then even if it arrives early at the station, it must remain there until the time has passed before moving on. With this tidbit, we decided to give the bus system another go this afternoon.

The bus was a mere 2 minutes past its scheduled time. Feeling fortunate that we did not have to wait half an hour in the rain, Rhyan and I climbed onto the bus feeling a new sense of optimism. If this bus stays on track, then we should have no trouble making our train in St. Andrews. 

The bus then zoomed through the narrow rustic roads between sheep herds dramatically splashing through the puddles on the side of the road. I started to get a sense of why this bus was on time, despite the weather. 

Arriving at the train station, Rhyan and I praised our luck for the day. It’s no simple thing to have public transport do what it says it will. 

This euphoria lasted right up until we saw in large bold letters 1332 EDINBURGH CANCELLED.

Excuse me, the train is canceled? How? Why?

The kind lady working the ticket office anticipated our questions as we stepped inside the station. She explained that the whole day had gone to s*** due to “extreme weather”.

“They are all canceled.” She shrugged her shoulders. She went on to explain that the toilets here weren’t working and the vending machines were out of order. 

“Is there any chance of getting to Edinburgh today?” We asked the kind martyr of Scotland’s train system. 

“There is one scheduled to come from Dundee in a couple of hours. If I were you, I’d take the train headed to Dundee coming through here in about 20 minutes and board the train to Edinburgh from there. It’s the same train coming back through here, but at least there are toilets and food at the train station in Dundee.”

Rhyan and I thanked the woman, and despite needing to go south, we boarded the train headed north. “I would like to know what the ‘severe’ weather they are talking about is, because it can’t be this.” Rhyan gestured at the foggy skies and light rain. I had to chuckle in agreement. I would feel like Scotsmen would power through this weather in the same manner our bus driver did this afternoon, unfazed, business as usual. I know nothing about trains, but surely it takes more than a persistent drizzle to stop them.

We found ourselves in Dundee, grabbing large hot chocolates and breakfast burritos from Costa Coffee. And now, I am snuggled in a very overcrowded train (the only train left headed to Edinburgh from the north) scheduled to arrive in Edinburgh at half past five. Rhyan is trying to take a nap. Apparently, the word search book wasn’t as entertaining this trip. And I have all the time in the world to type out all the happenings of the last couple of days.